Wrecked Reflection

I took off all of my clothes and stood behind my bed. I looked into
the mirror and thought about myself; how top-heavy I looked, like a
match. I ran my hands through my dark thicket of pubes, examined my
sallow, drooping bollocks and my odd teenage body. I'd wrecked myself,
I knew it. There I was, thin-hipped and thick-chested wearing nothing
but my ankh and my glasses and my matchstick hair. All wank and no
swank. I stepped in front of my sister's bed to get a full view of
myself in the cupboard door mirror, soccer legs and all. Unashamedly, I
turned, and noticed the old view in a second mirror positioned on
another wall, above the dresser. Sly old thing. I held an L-stance and
noted how unusual I looked. Here I was, in the thick and thin, out of
proportion gold held mightily by nothing but sheer bone. My average
irregular feet stuck out at clownish angles, roots to my foolish tree -
an easy target to be turned up for axe-meat, chopped asunder by angry
men no doubt.
My lank hair brooded thickly over my face, framing my ambiguous
features: Hendrix lips filtrummed up to an upturned 50s road nose,
Mexican afro glasses rimming hazy rainy day grey eyes atop hilly hidden
hollow cheeks, a risky face in profile with its mad angled nail chin,
and though I never broke smile in mirror, I've been told I've the grin
of a travelling salesman's movie star cousin, breeding twins everywhere
it's flashed.
My spiderous, palmy hands agressed by my sides being as they were,
only half-brothers, contrarily placed, copying each other innacurately.
Their spans differentiate wildly like my feet's crazy lengths. My
individual limbs hang, logs assembled by different lumberjacks with
grudges against each other, plaid played against other by an
odd-sounding businessman with an unusual proposition.
Besides these, my lower torso sits, held like a ripe young thing atop
a director's chair, an egg waiting to be king or die. Inside this, or
on top, a crown for the egg, my heart momentarily ticked and boomed,
jewel in a sea chest exploding + being reborn I could go on, at great
length about the lid of this odd box, but I feel it would be covering
irrelevant ground. Meanwhile, I slipped on my pyjamas and got
writing.

Later in the evening, I sit now writing this on the balcony. My sister
sleeps inside, to Queens of the Stone Age.
The stars look cute tonight, I turn my chair to face them. They too
are mirrored by the floor lights here on earth, a tiny, tinny
replication, a sad planet looking to find itself in space.
I think about the great sense of direction its hopeless people are
instilled with; everyone's getting up, going down, stepping out, coming
in, doing things right, leaving and being left. Even staying still they
are 'sitting DOWN' and 'standing UP'. Yet everyone goes to and fro and
ends up in the same place, in their heads, and who's to think any less
of them for that?
The earth spins but I don't see it, yet I capture it all with mad eyes
and write it down with my locomotive fingers. I capture it all: the
beach towels waiting for dawn and the breakfasts sitting unmade in the
kitchens. I capture it all, the maids sleeping and the maids awake, the
sandy dusty used crooked tile beneath my stoic and rough foot, I
capture it all. I capture it all and yet I see so little and even if
you add on all I hear and taste and smell, feel, it still doesn't
account for the immense gaping blueness that impends, intrudes on us,
watching, seeing and hearing, none of these and all.
I wonder about the other night people out there on the walls, too gone
to sleep or perhaps not gone enough. I can see none but I don't really
look. I don't feel them and I certainly don't fear them as I do not
fear the stars or trees or anything this night; this night I am
invincible.
Only shouts and shadows can retrieve my hallucinations, and I quell
them with hollows.
In I go, not to sleep but to read, aye, there's the rub.