THE END

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

THE END


By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

Wish I had a guillotine to chase away the blues.
Quick and painless.
No more dealing with vicious crazies.
I could dress up like Marie Antoinette,
Complete with a foot high mauve powdered wig.

Get a friend to videotape my dramatic exit.
No. Better do it myself.
Don’t want anyone to be charged as an accessory.

Oh, Goddess.
Help me out of this pus-filled snake pit.
Try to think of Paris,
The beautiful young men and La Tour Eiffel.

Climb out of this bricked-in tomb.
I thought painting would ease the pain.
Instead, I’m staring at my glaring, gaping limitations, all over again.

The glass isn’t half full.
It’s smashed on the floor in a pool of human sewage.
I drilled through the Koran.
Hung it from a lamp post by a rusty chain.

I’m climbing up the gallows stairs.
My head fits snugly in the cold slot.
The blade comes down and … splat!
Plop!
Nice and easy.
No rent to pay.
No credit card debt.
No difficult artists to deal with,
(Or am I the volatile one?)
But it’s all in my head, if you’ll pardon the pun.
Still crawling over broken glass in the desert of my life.

Snap out of it!
Dream of flying erections and pretty blonds with curly hair.
Cherubic faces gazing up at you when you first meet.
A long, wet sloppy kiss
With tongues and groping and rubbing,
Crotch to crotch.

Sometimes, it’s hard to fly.
It can be icy up there, all by yourself,
With no one to catch you when you fall.

The Naysayer is pushing me over the cliff.
I’m holding on with my bloody fingernails.
Try to think of the sensual sensation
Of bright acrylic paint oozing onto bumpy Arches paper.
Layer upon layer of gooey wet colours,
Like shaving foam being spread onto the chiselled jaw
Of a hot male fashion model.
Red Liquitex paint, ebbing and flowing against a bed of Iridescent Gold.

Sex isn’t everything but it’s better than nothing.
Give me Cathy Petch and her sexy poems and loopy musical saw.
That will put a smile on my face.
Lick my forbidden zones.
Put some cold hard cash in my bank account,
With rows and rows of zeroes.
Please don’t send me nasty emails
With embarrassing cc’s to my best friends.

I sent the guillotine back to Wal-Mart,
(Or should I just hide it in the closet?)
I ache all over.

Just give me something, anything, to ease the pain.
A bottle of Scotch.
A pen and notebook.
A pill.
A syringe full of heroin.
An intelligent beauty lying naked on my bed,
Waiting for me with open arms.
An uplifting message from the Great Beyond.
A miniature silver guillotine hanging on a chain around my swollen neck.

Close the door, please.
It’s cold.
Fuck you, asshole!