8 Cups Vesta Sphinx

(Hmmm... mysteriously, interior-fire day this. And yesterday was Lugh-Phoenix, while Saturday was Hermes-Fairy. I got myself all aroundgeturned.)

GRIEF

I. Gabriel's Voice

He doesn't stop to think about it.
He gets up, he does his morning
routine, he walks out the door--
is he ready for the day? Never
really quite sure what that niggle
is that crawls around underneath
the skin of his chest. Somehow
he gets to the door of That Building
that houses his daily amnesic draft.
Other people drink, some eat, some others
have compulsive sex to medicate
that maw, that hole in the soul.
He used to partake--they don't work
anymore, so he must attend to that raw
emptiness he chooses not to name. (It's
all right, I've named it for him--Angel
of mercy that I am, I have clear eyes
to d.x. the civilization disease.)
He types, he faxes. He takes messages.
He stares off into space. He takes in
work, revises that which is not his own,
that he can not own, nor wishes
to take on for himself. He eats lunch.
A brief respite, whatever the weather.
He returns to That Building, and repeats
his morning. He connects sproadcially, he
squapes his true Self haphazardly
affixing a persona off a random trademarked
rack of masks approved for the enslaved
class. Then at some point, this Lethe
fog lifts and there he is again, walking home.
His cat is there. His boyfriend has his own
place, unable to tolerate teh accretions
of an unliving existence (and its reminders
of whatever the love is not doing) to be respon-
sible for his own life-force suppuration. Feeds
cat, calls boyfriend--"Hi, bye, love"--makes
dinner, muses about death. Ethylly-deathel
death, bat man, bat man, he sing-songs.
Wondering what a life might be like
post-collapse of all decrepit and old-old-old.
Nostalgia for necros and apocalypse
arrive as the two true loves of his life. A pipe
dream? Perhaps. Only the oil-clock knows
for sure. Even so, he takes off his clothes,
thinks about a clothing-optional town, dreams up
public fucking and jerks out a couple white
ribbons o'cum. Wipes the viscous away and
turns over, determined not to feel what then
washes over him in the land of Morphic Renaissance.