I knelt at his feet
soaked his shoes with my tears
And prayed that he’d hear
My thoughts and my fears

“Guitar man, you see,
This world was a gas
But it’s going to shit
And I fear I won’t last

My hands are too soft
My intestines, they bleed
But I swear I am stronger
Than these pigs full of greed

They rape and they lie
They cheat and they steal
And these are the men
In charge of the deal?

The air is too dirty
The sidewalks are cracked
We’ll all melt the world
If we don’t take it back

If there is a hell
And it’s awful and hot,
That’s where they’ll go
When the world’s fucking shot”

I steadied my feet
And continued along
But kind eyes met mine
He resumed his song

But none of this happened
I cannot lie
I just fixed my head forward
And passed him by.

All the way home
Thoughts shot through my head
I wondered incessantly,
What would Guitar Man have said?

Yes, I’ll just minimize
Curl up
And idealize
Concoct a world
of meaning
within

And while I am resting
Dream leaves
Are nesting
Swirling my home
Out at
Sea

As I wait on the beach,
Cool swells
Just out of reach,
I sigh,
“What a
life it is”

And a life indeed,
dreams wishing
“Godspeed,”
I could lay here
until
I die.

This dark gray veil
is the brain’s
holy grail,
and I will not
dare open
my eyes.

There was an eerie silence fuzzing in her ears, which were wet with sweat and blood. The sun was setting on the barrens. Still no survivors were found.

She dropped to her knees. The dusty ground shaved into them, but the pain was welcome. It was nice to feel something that wasn’t thirst. Her pores were raised and chilled from the day’s sweat. Temperatures will plummet soon, she thought.

She glanced to the smoldering brush to her right and saw a man lying prone near a stump. Clearly dead. His burnt brains spilled out of his head in stopped motion. They looked like goopy red putty.

She rose to her feet, which were fortunately clad with leather boots. She approached the man carefully, but loudly — though she could hear no sound. She was unarmed.

She flipped the body over mercilessly. The man’s face was haunting. His eyes were opened wide in agony, and his mouth looked to be in mid-breath. She knelt beside him and, without pity, looted his body. A Jackhammer Mk3A1 was slung across his back. Poor thing, she thought. Some motherfucker got in a cheap shot. She took it. Nine rounds.

She pulled the man out of his jacket, which was splattered with his brains. A nice touch, she thought.

She managed to scrounge up a few more things the man wouldn’t be needing: a few bucks, a key to something, and a canteen filled with nothing.

She didn’t know what lied beyond the barrens, or even if it was worth seeing how the rest of the world looked. But she didn’t give a shit. She was suffering, but she did not want a better world for the others.

In fact, she wanted to inflict her suffering on them.

“My hysterical symptoms disappeared one by one, as by enchantment. I became master again of my laughter, of my smile, and of my gestures. A new health, fresh as a rose, began to grow in the centre of my spirit.”

It is time I seek truth in the Light.

“But Desiderata,” the antiquated man frowned, “you cannot yet enter. You have not yet been tainted by ugliness and old age. It is in loss that one suffers, not in death. Beauty is pain and youth is strife only when these gifts are forsaken. Life is struggle. Death is a blessing, but you may not bless yourself. Now go.”

Ashamed to leave the underworld with her flesh still strangling her, she raised her head and sobbed. Her eyes were dark and solid, and the floodgates of her tear ducts were breaking. When she turned away, Charon continued.

“But what you must do, my dear,” he said slowly, “is live your life with the glory of death. Dare. Love. Lose. Risk. But always — and you must do this always — know there must be struggle on your journey to Elysium. Now return to your kings and queens; honour your gods. And become a god of man and the living, before you dare come to the underworld again with your youth and beauty and deem it struggle! How foolish! Your struggle has just begun, my beautiful dove. You must wait for Elysium. And Elysium wants your wings clipped, legs broken, and plumes tattered. Wear the curse of life well, my darling, and you will be rewarded.”