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About Literature / Hobbyist Member professional potted plantOther/Antarctica Group :iconelocutionists: Elocutionists
Artists of the Spoken Word
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Deviant for 3 Years
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come on kid
let's go to sleep

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It’s night.

The car exhaust runs warm in my ears nose and throat, but the smoke’s too wild to see up the pipe. I guess it doesn’t matter too much, really, except for it smells almost exactly like the way that buildings breathe when they’re on fire (boxed-out, stories-tall steel dragons without all the teeth) and I’m half-wondering  if one of them’s hiding in there too, burning up the engine box all sneaky and secret. So I’m squatting there in the winter darkness, quiet as I’ll ever be, with my nose at the butt of my dad’s ‘78 Cadillac—The Blue Moon, we call her—as it sputters slowly to life with a spare set of keys stuffed down the gullet of its keyhole.

Okay, so admittedly I don’t know much about cars—only what I’ve picked up from the manuals my dad reads me sometimes when I wake up at 2AM and can’t fall back asleep.

Which brings me full-circling back to where I am now:

It’s night.

I think I told you that part already, actually. But in my head I keep saying it and saying it over again, because I’m eight-and-a-half years old and slowly edging open the drivers’ seat door like it’ll bite me at the first wrong move and I’m touching the steering wheel like a ghost that breaks things for a living and I’m sitting on the edge of the fuzzy red seat and it’s night.

I feel more eighteen than eight, when I say it like that.

The car’s warmed up inside now, but it’s so big and so dark. I have to squint around to see all the levers and buttons; not that any of them mean much to me. It’s a miracle I managed to turn the thing on in the first place.

With a slip and a smile, I drive myself down on the gas pedal, elbows just under the dash, hands pushing at the bottom of the wheel. The car inches forward, rocking like it’s got legs of its own to tumble over. It’s slow at first, but I crane my neck up to get a view and there’s a good long road in front of me so I press at the pedal again—longer this time—looking for a thrill, and it goes real, real fast.

I hear the vroom vroom from inside the seatbox like an echo in my teeth. It’s a whole hell of a lot, and the end of the street with all the trees is coming up way faster than it should be. I reach my toes for the brake pedal but everything is white noise and shaking. Or maybe that’s just me.

This is bad.

When the hood first wraps around the tree trunk I feel it rattle under my skin, but there’s not as much sound to squeeze out as you might think. Then something mumbles and bursts, and there’s a bunch of that crazy thick smokestuff spilling out the tangled bumper, too. It takes less than five minutes for the windshield to go black.

This is bad, I think again. Only this time I say it out my mouth too.

“This is bad.”

I feel more eighty than eighteen, when I say it like that.

The door won’t open and the engine spits and spews and sputter-shuts off. The warmth goes away after a while, and the metal lying up against my hip gets cold like the ocean. When I twist or squirm it jabs me in the thigh—I snarl, and I holler, and I can’t get the door open, and I can’t move. It hurts like I’m bleeding but I can’t see one thing, not a single damn thing.

The wreckage is in everything around me now, even though I can’t see it. It’s hiding. I close my eyes and think of buildings’ breath and secret steel dragons.

But all that shoving in tight metal spaces can take a lot out of you, y’know? So I get real tired real fast. It’s late already and I’ve got school in the morning. Sleep comes speedy and shallow, floating in on the sound and the smell of The Blue Moon burning. It’s not real sleep, I guess; everything gets fuzzy but it doesn’t quite go black.

Hours pass in teeny tiny expanses, and when I wake up my dad is yelling and my mom is cursing and they’re using this giant set of pliers the size of my whole entire leg to pry open the metal of the door. I start crying then, for some reason, because I guess it felt weird to do it before when no one was around to hear, or maybe because I didn’t have the energy. The pain’s barely a scratch now, and mostly I’m just freaking out for no reason.

The sun is starting to rise but everything’s too dark to be shining yet, so it’s that weird new-bruise dawn color all around me, and I’m not scared the way I should be. Dad hoists me from the bent-out drivers’ side, and I can see the smoke trilling off the open engine under The Blue Moon’s hood. My mom mentions something about how Thank god nothing blew up. I laugh but she doesn’t think it’s funny.

My eyes get all squinty like I can’t see my feet dangling from my dad’s arms, because it’s so dark and quiet and moony outside. But then I realize, it isn’t really. That’s just more fakey-fake stuff in my head. The stars are fading out into daylight, and there’s an ambulance moaning down the road.

It’s not night anymore.
Blue Moon Burning
i didn't mean to.

(i don't know what i meant.)
by spring’s inverse―an april snow―
my mind has long since left me
waiting by the roadside
shaking my hat like a hussy
while the rest of me
puddles under pitch
and the weight boxes flowers
low into the ground, dizzy with color
and snaps my neck just the same

but i pay it no mind;
would not even if i’d one to give
while the snow greens the earth
where i look to what i’ve taken
to drain myself of dark
and cure all else which ails me

but i’m okay with it, really,
deep under all the shiver-shaking
i’m not even that cold anymore
man, no, i’ve got this
i’m on top of it like a bull rider

and i can’t stop thinking
of the voices like wads of wet paper
slick-stuck in the air
daring me to take the edge off
like “today is a good day to die”
isn’t that just the most retarded fucking thing?

i mean, the flowers say it’s springtime
but i won’t take off my coat just yet.
*cries piss* i think i'm dead a little bit. w/evs yo. just spent my entire day in the company of porn and poetry, so i guess i'm good. i am in my element.
  • Mood: Neutral
  • Listening to: grand theft intermission- amanda palmer
  • Reading: pass the bitch chicken
  • Watching: kaiba
  • Eating: ikura


MindlessThinker's Profile Picture
professional potted plant
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature

hello there i am a gay anxiety baby here is things 'bout me:

i am almost always very tired.
i am almost always nauseous.
i am sixteen-ish.
i am multilingual.
i write poorly and infrequently.
i'm actually really dumb and boring no lie.

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fleetofgypsies Featured By Owner Aug 22, 2014  Student General Artist
thanks for faving collages... it is your (and others)_ ongoing support that makes me want to do more.. love, fog.
MindlessThinker Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
no problem!! you're one of my favorite artists here, thank you for continuing to create! (p.s. sorry i don't really comment....i'm shy and tend to fave-and-run even when i really like things. it's a bad habit.)
fleetofgypsies Featured By Owner Aug 24, 2014  Student General Artist
:thumbsup: :heart:  :sprint:
xlntwtch Featured By Owner May 12, 2014   Writer
:iconblinkthanksfavplz: ... :)
ckp Featured By Owner Feb 14, 2014

thanks for the fav and the feed-back - witness

halesette Featured By Owner Dec 8, 2013  Hobbyist Digital Artist
your writing is really beautiful. i love the style
CactussKate Featured By Owner Nov 21, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
-screech- If I needed a reason to come back to dA, your writing is it. =D
MindlessThinker Featured By Owner Nov 22, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
toxic-nebulae Featured By Owner Nov 14, 2013  Student Writer
happy birthday!
Aquilonn Featured By Owner Nov 14, 2013
Many hippy pappy returns for the day :iconbrohugplz:

There are no words for how much I love every single thing you write, and I hope you have a great year!
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