I'm on TV, Bitch!

What really waits for us when we shed our mortal coil?
The afterlife has the cognisants of a child
You can only find out the answer after you stop questioning.

I wonder how tight are the locks on the gates of heaven?
How slippery must a tongue be to loosen the negative volitions of Gabriel?
If energy is never created nor destroyed perhaps we simply surf the ether
Our consciousness the wind, trapped in a supernatural sailboat

Perhaps we simply dream.
No quest for an end.
Invariably wrapped in a perpetual fantasy
With a seemingly inherent meaning and purpose we never question

Does desire disappear?
It is hard for me to picture a nirvana for my spirit
That doesn’t cater to the needs of my flesh…
Food, sensuality, abandon…

Even joy seems like an intangible indulgence when comparing it to the great scheme
What can happiness consist of if not
The love of family, the touch of others, gratification and pleasure…?

Maybe there is simply a void.
No light. No family.
No thought. No lesson. No progress.
No memory. No God. No aura. No pets.
…How bleak.

Maybe it is a series of sensations… throbbings
A series of emotional waves consistent with the hair standing up on the back of your neck,
The chill of of an open window,
Or the feeling you have when you think someone has walked in the room but you can’t see them.

I hope for understanding, I picture a light surging through your body and soul, spilling out of your pores like egg yolks in a breakfast or a light akin to a comet crossing paths with a meteor till a climax is reached to make the sun’s rays jealous it didn’t make love to Arora
Borealis so that it could give birth to a wonder as beautiful and as bright as my evolution in the afterlife.

Or at least just weed and bj’s.

You know, whatever works.

– Malcolm Barrett

You are picturesque.
Each moment of motion captured in my lens
While simultaneously moving without skipping a beat.
You are stop-motion photography.
Body perfect, you’ve only ever been airbrushed by the wind.

My teeth like prison bars
My mouth a faulty Alcatraz, words escapes me.
You are my silent movie and I am your Charlie Chaplin,
Let me be inside you so I can show you what I can do without uttering a word
Our sex approved by Marcel Marceu but dubbed over by Mr Marcus.

Let’s make a movie.

Starring only you.

Your smile is the opening credits.

Your mind is the plot.

Your body must be the special effect Avatar was aiming towards.

You stand out without 3-D glasses what does technology have that you don’t.

The very idea of you should have already won an Oscar.

No theater can contain you so I play the memory of you over and over in my head like an old film.

Your walk an action sequence, I can not handle the excitement of the curves.

So I just watch.

With some popcorn.

And some butter.

And hope this Never-ending story lives up to it’s name.

– Malcolm Barrett