Sang

I.
This is the breath of wind across the sky.
"Sang"it breathes, "Sang"
Every face turns to the ground
and watches the world spin.
Every day on the calendar falls
off
and drowns in the night's
wine
                                -Leaving no days,
                                weeks,
                                months,
                                even years-
                                                        Only white,
                                                White that was once glossy,
                                Painted with the lips of a dancer,
                And scribbled upon with a no. 2 sorrow.
Only white remains.
And even that will peel,
as the wind whispers:
                                                    "Sang"
II.
She holds a palm out to feed the birds,
not noticing
the sudden blackness
of
the unpainted sky,
the
static
                in her eyes,
in a slump against the pillar of dead words,
she does not see that she, too,
is made of dead words,
of the body and the sang.
                So she feeds the birds
                with the false nectar lying inside her hand,
that suicidal nectar,
begging, like she, for the birds to come,
                                                                but the painter will not come
                                                                and rush black lines
against the canvas of
                                                    broken bones,
                                                dead words,
                                        sang,
                                and the sky.
The static grows.
Her toes point, pretending to fall downwards
into the pavement that is
                left blank
and unpainted, colorless, formless,
a path of dead words and forgotten gestures
that no-one bothered to build or paint.
                So she feeds the birds,
                her veins fake nectar,
                her hand plastic,
and she is made of dead words, blending
                                                                        into the
                                                                        pillar,
failing to hold up the world -
                  for what can this sang of dead words do,
                        but feed the birds?
III.
-waiting for the rain to come again.
I am no rain,
I am no sun,
and I have forgotten who I came from –
                I forget my beige color until I look,
and I forget that the sky is blank and white
                                                                  until I look
-and I realize that we are all a mirage,
waiting for the rain to come again,
and seeing the water in our hair,
our skin, wanting
it so much that we begin
devouring myself, or ourselves,
or yourself?
                                -How did this sentence even start?
                      And what color is the sky,
                oh yeah, blank white.
IV.
It spreads across the floor,
which was mottled before it
began its transformation.
                It sparkles.
                It sparkles red.
Sang.  Sang.  Sang.
The world speaks it as a curse,
                                    a greeting,
                                    a blessing,
                                    a prayer.
Sang.
It draws closer to all who watch,
and it draws further from all recollection.
                Sang.  Sang.
No-one can say that they've seen such a substance before
                                -hot, sticky sang-
which is not due to its attempts to erase all memory of it.
                                                Rather,
                                        no-one can say
                                anything.
                      The wind is caught in their wind pipes.
                When they gag, they cough out
        sang.  The substance, the word-
Sang.
The sky buzzes white.

V.
"I'll look into your soul,
I am that hole,
I've destroyed and will again,
and your demise will soon begin"
                      Says the nursery-rhyme girl in the
                Shirt that dances the polka-
                                                                        dot,
giggling,
                sitting quietly on a pillar of dead words.
                                She watches
                                a falling star come down
                                and destroy Hiroshima-
                                She watches a bucket of paint
                                spill into Indonesia-
                                She watches the future, and mixes
                                vinegar and baking powder
                                in the middle of the united states-
                                                She sees not the stain
                                      Across the world,
                                The rosy-glassed stain,
                      The destroyer
                That she is.
                    She causes bones to crack,
                                                words to die,
                                                and sang to spill,
She sings her nursery rhyme.

VI.
I sparkle red.
Eyes sparkle, dead.
The sky flickers.
The sky quivers.
The life goes.
The knife slows.
Slow the knife!
                -blow off your life-
Go the light!
                -flow, slow, flicker this light-
Cry quivering!
                -die whimpering-
Flicker my sky!
                -the quicker we can fly-
Dead eyes sparkle!
                -a lying red-
Sparkle red!
                -forever we're dead.


VII.
Ennui strikes.
A life tries to die.
The sky is white, so white

Lie down now.
I'm your brother.
Very white, but why?
Every step we take.

Died red.
Real fast now.
In your dreams, kid.
Never was your bro.
Kid, this is all a lie.

Look!
It's red.
Very sanguine.
Every step.
Live to drink the sang.
You're just a little kid.
VIII.
The sign peels of sang.
Half the words are blotted out.
Burnt beige is the sang.

IX.
There are tears in his eyes.
The bystander.  Byleaner.
He sees all and speaks none, the wind
caught in
his throat.
                A dramatic gesture
                to the sang
                spreading across the ground.
This is what he sees,
the man across him -
who believes that abled is
one step away
from disabled-
                laughs a breath of sang,
                hot, sticky sang,
                sticky like the sweat of the swampnight air,
                and sticky like the malaise,
                                            malicious
                                            malfeasance,
                                            malaria
                                            the mosquitoes
                                        bring,
                                  feasting
                            on sang,
                      hot, sticky sang,
          sticky like the sweat of
    the swampnight air.
Laughing.  For the bystander
knows that the static means
nothing to
him.  As well as himself.
                  and yourself,
                  and ourselves,
                  and myself.
We are all a sweaty
breath in the air
of sang.
X.
excilium exclaim exhilarate excite exclude excalibur elixir.
Sweet elixir on my arms!
How I pretend at this game,
how indifferent the world is to my
      indifference!
I lick the elixir,
lickily licking my false lillipads
                        false nectar
                        begging for death.
The breath of life
                      is the stench of death.
excilium exclaim exhilarate excite exclude excalibur elixir.
For this is elixir,
my false nectar
that turns out to be oh-so-true
And, bro, I am not a kid.
                                Never will be with this
-excilium exclaim exhilarate excite exclude excalibur-
                                              elixir.  Ambrosia.
                                                              Or, should I say,
                                                                                      sang?
                                                Every step we take.
                                                Or should I say that I never,
                                                ever,
                                                was your brother, kid?
I am the one with the
-excilium exclaim exhilarate excite exclude excalibur-
elixir.
XI.
I am the ghost in the imagined mirror.
                                                                                        -she is the ghost in
                                                                                        the imagined mirror-
Let me sing my song
                                that I have sung,
                                we all have secretly
                                sang in the dark
                        corners of
                                                        life,
                                where there are only
                                failing pillars of dead words,
                                falling
                                and catching wind
                                in our lungs,
                      suffocating us,
            because we
have forgotten how to breathe
anything but sang.
-But where was I?
I am only a ghost in the imagined mirror.
                                                                                          -she is the ghost in
                                                                                          the imagined mirror-
Waiting for the rain to come,
singing a long-sung song of sang.
XII.
No rain will come
when all there is
is static white and
dust.
        The painter has once
        again forgotten to brush
        the sky with
        light-
                Or is this
                just a product
                of far too much
                light-
                        Too much for the world
                        or the sky to handle,
                        to contain, this murderous
                        light-
                                It creates
                                only static,
                                such a
                                light-
that does not end.
I have once again forgotten
the color of the sky.
              -static white.
XII.
"Sang"
Sing a song sung many times
Upon a pillar of dead words.
                This is how
                the earth
                falls apart.
                                Into white lies
                                and white skies.
                                I'll create
                                        a world where the rain will come.
                                                                I'm just the ghost,
                                                                just the ghost,
                                                                in an imagined mirror.
Red is the color of the ground,
contrasting against a white sky.
                I am the girl with static in her eyes,
                I am no rain,
                I am no sun,
                I am that hate dancing the polka-dot,
                I am the wind caught in your wind pipes,
                I am the ennui that strikes,
                I am a sweaty breath in the air of sang,
                I am sang, the elixir,
                and I sparkle red,
even if just in your eyes.
Fear me.  Love me.
                              Speak me as a curse,
                                                    a greeting,
                                                    a blessing,
                                                  a prayer.
                                                      For you know
                                        that I am caught in your throat,
                        enwrapping my meaning around you
          in the color of a rosy glass,
                                                the red,
                                                the red once scribbled in no. 2 sorrow,
                                                the red the false nectar would like to be,
                                                the forgotten color
                                                of malaise malaria
                                      carried through what
                                but me?
Abled is one step away from disabled,
and I am that step,
that horrifying yet satisfying footstep
                                  spreading across the floor.
                              -and of course flickering
                                across the sky,
                                a blank white,
                                an unpainted canvas,
                  that can only be painted with me.
As the boy always said,
-excilium exclaim exhilarate excite exclude excalibur elixir,
                                                the faint drop of life
                                                brought only by death,
                                the breath across the sky
                                that makes the world spin.
So I will sing my song sung many times.
            "Sang,"
                      the wind in your throat breathes,
                                                                            "Sang."