issue 7 home | broken news | criticual urgencies | cyber bag | ec chair | ficciones | gallery
letters | reviews | secret agents | serials | stage and screen

HomeArchivesSubmitCorpse CafeCorpse MallOur GangHot SitesSearch
28 Years in a Thousand Words
by Nicholas Morgan

Inspiration looming in a malodorous mind dwelling thought, loose bleeding faces; convulsing image, clutching hearts, he cut the cord of sanity, I drink to you, my loss, gone away, still tenacious memory, the remains of a dead friend's essence.

If smiles could be bottled up and sold with a fancy label, if only death was like a smile.

Blocking out his expression was like trying to peel my skin off, not impossible, yet inconceivable.

I should have gone to your funeral, I should have done this, and could have said that, but I'll remember your laughter, and the sizzling times of euphoria we shed together, a part of ourselves, I moved on, as did you, in another fashion, a new dimension.

Wish you were here, some day I'll be there. Driving through that crappy ghetto ridden part of town, with skinny pregnant women, flashing leg, with us both fiending like middle class rich boys gone wrong, with a wallet full of bills, and a street corner of bugged out eyeballs.

That kid we talked about, tugging on his addicted Mom's shirt. "I'm hungry ma."

We wanted to quit after that, probably should have.

Smelling the Fixation of our only escape, playing that perilous game, we never knew how dangerous, but it's hard for me to think of you in those last moments, they say an impending feeling of doom, when the heart flips out, I could only imagine the fear, the panic, the last thought.

I like to now fixate on the virtuous times, yet the blues sometimes consumes me, you always did do too much, it's incredible you made it this long I suppose, it's like the time I said, "I could never get enough," those thoughts haunt me, cause I never had enough to be in your shoes.

So many things left unsaid, I don't even have a picture of you, except for the one implanted in my brain, the one that will never fade or get lost, the one that wakes me up from dreams.

The first time we met: "You like to smoke this Boo yaa," your eyes grinning.

Without a word.
I knew the answer.
Automatic friends
Twin like addictions
Automatic speed
In deed in deed
In death, in life
I rest alone
As did you

Your lectures on how bad the stuff was, is, and shall ever be, wish you listened to yourself.

You helping me when I thought I was overdosing, and I almost wish I was there to save you, but one can never save one who's bent on self destruction. Least you finally quit, guess you had no choice, since you're no longer breathing.

Now that I think
Of what you said
It's like you knew
All along
Your destiny
Wish prophecy
I'd like to take back
The hurtful things
But the clock
With your last
Needle prick
You prick
You were
I thought.

The time your car broke down on our way home from scoring, we walked 20 miles, it was freezing outside, and we found an open scary bar before having hypothermia, "Louie's Pub" as the locals sneered at us, and you won their depression with your wit, after fixing in the bathroom.

Member the time we got so high we thought there was someone in the basement creeping around. I took my baseball bat, as we went down to see the cat litter smelling empty paranoia of our own craziness.

"I'll pay you back when I get my tax returns," you said.

"Don't worry about it, I just enjoy your company, wish we could sample this moment infinitely."

I only knew you for a good year, but it was like we were childhood friends, or were destined to meet, both at 28.

Conversations felt like they always should have.

Abnormal ventricular paced voices wishing we had more.

Your bent eyes, bent style, bending around me.

The drawn out boisterously entertaining jokes you could tell at the drop of a hat, to make me come up, from coming down, you had the brilliant persona-fed illusion of a total original character--egocentric artist, making something from nothing.

You had that special walk, that cool guy talk, like an aura-filled cabalistic gloom about you.

You bastard. I loved you like the brother I never had.

The time you stayed up all night reading my dirty comic books, and you slept all day, losing your job for never showing up.

Spitting images, I spit on this, that I write, it's been brewing, it has to come out, to leave a bewildered stain for the unfortunate onlookers.

Experienced distortion, you hit those drums like a man with a mission, with true energy-fed aggression. Junkies tried to pawn your car and drum set when you left; reality can really piss me off.

Just thought you might like to know. Your parents hired private detectives to find the culprits, the dealers, they couldn't understand you wrote your own death certificate. No one likes to be blamed.

We could see what others could not, feel what each other thought, push the buttons that spew with rot.

You showing up on my door step saying, "Guess what I got?"

"Please, come in, come in," chuckles.

"Death is a part of life, most people don't like to deal with it, or think about it, but if you accept it, you'll live a fuller life," you told me that night, as we discussed every topic we could blabber about.

You lurked beyond.

It's good to get this out in tiny doses, but only in miniature taste tests, as we both ate like kings, overloading on the expensive cheese.

Where's the time machine my friend?

I must move on, somehow, tears only cause wanting, when wanting is never enough, as you know, it's just never enough. It's not a pretty place, but it's gone for now.

Thanks for the warning of my life, old pal. When will it end my friend?

issue 7 home | broken news | criticual urgencies | cyber bag | ec chair | ficciones | gallery
letters | reviews | secret agents | serials | stage and screen

HomeArchivesSubmitCorpse CafeCorpse MallOur GangHot SitesSearch

Exquisite Corpse Mailing List Subscribe Unsubscribe

©1999-2002 Exquisite Corpse - If you experience difficulties with this site, please contact the webmistress.