I always cry at endings.*

*Belle and Sebastian If you're feeling Sinister

-The Test and the Beginning-

Greetings from Life on Earth
by: dwa9


Here again, we're down and empty in war-torn District 13--Cyberpunk City
It's pitch black and the stars are out and there's a congregation of faces veiled in clouds of dust
These magician's clouds appear with faces hidden, plastered on walls of infamous villainy
If it's the cathode ray tubes that shone a light and framed the wanted--I've the unwanted

Only in legends and only there did heroes reside--we've got every fake and phony
So we're led down twin boulevards of different names and spellings, in parade. Charade!
Into a corner of black, musky odor--the corridor and vagrant's refuge only to find a cul de sac
And alleyways studded with shut doors and wane glowing--nothing but faces in clouds of dust

Praise and adulation rained upon this free nation, ruled by chosen lords wearing tidy neckties
Ever pleased to meet the killers with viper's eyes, shimmering behind warm tidy collars
Them murderers walk in line; suave, sly, saunter--their knives are arcing and kissers smiling
I was running past clubs and cabarets, along droves of ghost car trolleys, running only to stop

Look up only to be lost in walls and walls of buildings, architecture, & streets-murals of sky & air
I'm the surrealist. I'm the upstanding citizen with some pocket change and an expensive cigar
It's a ghost town down here--But need no despair, the monolith at the center carries the moon
A candle stands in the skyline and its light points in the direction of stolen cars, follow!

Whilst I thought I was on my way and the papers I held spontaneous combust, burnt to lint
Senseless, it's information and data and information and data and data and--brilliance!
Storyteller tells history in a tale of mice in a maze, well-groomed and wearing white lab coats.
I'm deaf. Experimental. Test tube bottle rocket, case study: a hooker getting fucked in the ear.

But time is unrelenting and past. I do not doubt my dreary days that passed me one October
On through my doleful December next. I pull my red baseball cap down to hide my weary eyes
My salty eyes, I'll not cry as long as I can still see, mother--I'm convinced & eyes I'll deceive
They're sweating, mother and in the cold. I'm afraid as long as I can still see, mother.

So all those who've survived: street musicians, fools and fugitives walking by
Wearing them old, shriveled, black plastic bags over those silly little heads; always murmuring
My heart is marching slow and marching with the fellow cadavers drifting in black disguise
Holding steady, hand in hand with her dead Siamese twin who died in alabaster youth & beauty-

Answer me, dear Siamese friend as we wait besides the engine's long tired road,
Smile for me, with sweet cotton candy melting against his Rosy cheeks atop his snow white skin
So I dressed him in winter clothes--he giggles and smiles with his lovely, ghost face
Why leave our secrets hidden & in between-hidden in beautiful broken hands, in tiny fingernails

I pull my red baseball cap down to hide--If I cannot see you, you cannot see me
And walked on over to join the lonely folk who stood in long, perfect straight lines waiting
Like sweet Jewish families in 1945 with brothers and sisters and a father and mother too
A chain that linked over a wide expanse--a wonderful snowy landscape of slopes and hills

That's what I see papa, that's what I see in that little city trapped inside an eternal winter
In that tiny snow globe--papa did not answer, he slept with his pipe on his red scarf
On a park bench, he slept with his mouth agape, like an infant with fat, silly fingers.
He slept, with clouds over and up shielding the sun and prophesies after death.

We had our promises pen-scratched and wrapped in our sweaty palms.
Promises carved into the hearts of trees--the ones kept inside pockets so deep.
They were skin-mapped with tiny bridges and narrow roads; all besides little rivers
Only a fool wears red in winter, stands idly and kicks repeatedly at his own feet.

Childhood friend, I know. She's the one that's got paperclips in her bosom--holding us back
Come meet me alone by the sea, at the foot of magnificent Pharos: the lost lighthouse
Here it is, atop a wind-swept cliff; the last outpost of man shines like a beacon forever
Pay close attention and listen, as the stone monolith gives in and simmers its final flicker

I hold my right index like a single candle to the tip of my nose as if to caution my lips
And then whisper to think: I will make her my sweet, lovely mistress dressed in ribbons
She will be my young bride, mother with child and we shall live under the sheets--
Far away from the scary monsters living in darkness and underneath our beds

In God's tower, He holds the bloody sun on one and the starless moon on the other
He is the watcher and observer. He is arbiter resigned. He is my lover and confidant
Read this letter to the well-loved, well-meaning, well-to-do, well-wishers
Tell them ghosts, demons, and devils--do not disturb our naked soul-less bones

And so finally I've disappeared-a solitary signpost remains holding tenuous its' red flag
Hello my old friend holding hands with foolish ghosts, smiling demons and mischievous devils
A hearty laugh escapes along with a heavy pat, pardon necrophilia's momentary sin of a kiss
Lovers need no apologies and she's waiting and gone--we've both missed the engine's call

(Last Edited:12/27/2006)