Monologue 1

To write like you think. To just do it. To breathe. To be. To ignore the parasites who permanently try to feast on you, like a baby suckling on it's mother's breast, a teat, it's lifeline. So here it comes. Some kind of overflowing pot, bubbling, spoiling the peace and tranquility. Who knows where they go?  Kto wie. Monologue. Don't stop. Let it all out. The people, swimming, drowning, throwing vicious words and weapons, acid tongues wagging. They know nothing. Of the heart. Nothing at all. They never remove a mask. No fresh soul water. No drinking here. The toxins the body must cope with, the mind must fight off. A constant war. No end in sight.

...and the city loves but the country doesn't. Me and my things. You love it or hate it and you throw it all here. At the wall, at the mask, at the feeding mouths, and the suffering thoughts. Like devil clockwork, liquid perfection. Out there somewhere they wait. For a death, perhaps mine. I can already see how they feed on the carcass. Oh, it wouldn't last long. Your newfound hunger would consume you completely. Vulture vulture you. I know peace is greater, beautiful and white. Delightful. Ecstasy and bliss. For us. There are no acts, just ill thought out acts. I commiserate your shadow, having to follow you around all day. Poor dear!

All these crazy cats, infestations of the streets. Some kind of demented plague. Oh, they make the other end of the spectrum so compellingly charming. No one without the other. They light it all up. The monologue. The monologue. Release them there blues. That there menace. God, I will never give you up.

I'm dying. I'm dying here. Faster than you know. Yeah, you damage me too. You take great joy. Take her. take her with you. Everywhere you go. If that is satisfaction to you I must congratulate you. I hope, simply, one day you will be filled with love, and able to share it. To abandon your destructive words and selfish behaviour, child, and communicate.

Oh, rabbits. Ones with red eyes, soft fur, gentle hearts, beating inside my hands, scurrying across the floor, wanting something, even nothing.

The songs we are singing. It makes me wonder about the ones we aren't singing, writing, creating. Well, where are they exactly? And love, shouldn't we put it into everything, all we do? I can't see it everywhere. I am unsure how to do anything without it though. Passion, flexibility, growth, constant fire and golden evolution. Beckon me.

The doctor doesn't know. The book is waiting for my attention. It's never happy. It craves being collected up in my arms, opened by hands and feasted on my eyes. It received all that attention in being thought up, written, accepted, published, praised, and still it wants more. Just like a person. A fluttering human being.

The light bulb syndrome, the derelict ones, the perforated hearts, irreparably damaged.

...and there is only one kind of person who would reach the end of this blog - one who loves me (and that is one who loves me).

You are one who loves.