Mummy went away.

My dear I don't know what to do.
Every vein was cold and blue, till
Mummy went away,
She went away.

Then the old world came back to play, so tired
was I of this ritualized hell, the same four
walls and ceiling, two cats that cry for feeding
I opened up my bottle by closing the one I was given
and for three or four days descended. Scared but living
and whenever I got most afraid, that's when I became
the most brave; it was magical, it still is
but I'm so cold that I'm burning through my skin
just wanted to feel again, this is so cathartic
crying at every pinprick of emotional garbage
and notes of songs raze the mountains that bound me
and motes of dust blaze like meteors all around me
the wide angled world is so much larger than life
and just a little more than disorienting.
I see endless black voids between my thoughts
where I have to tiptoe lightly, and the lattice
upon which I walk sears stripes of coal and goldleaf into
the bottoms of my feet and I can't hear a drop of sound
without convulsing and sensing the whole of it surround me
breaking me down and then the entire thing pulses
and I'm wound into harsh tears that hurt with such pleasure
something like steel wire and wide open, hopeful eyes
no morphine trance anymore to keep them shut tight
no draperied spaces where I walk - the sun is full
even in the middle of the night, but I'm cold and
I can't stop shaking. Because I'm lucid now, I'm out,
I couldn't have imagined this two days ago
rolling in sweat through several twilights
became the sweetest reality in high def depth
everything was crisp and electrifying and electrocuting
every time I moved I felt the texture of reality flow
with me, and it twisted all that was inside of me into
tears in every case, sometimes jolting and cringing
so fucking afraid, and almost reaching for the opaque
brown bottle to bottle up inside of again, moth-eaten,
but then the light got in, and chords literally shook out
the opening stanzas to the creation of the heavens
and I couldn't remember ever feeling so completely alive
since I was just a child, or maybe in my teenage years
and now I know what wings I had then and how I've faded down
the long slow path to uncaring and plastic-wrapped faces
a gauzy aloofness born from being made out of nothing,
the moon just a flat white ball, the sun just a flat
whiter ball, and the stars splashed onto the flat velvet night
were like distant dreams of faded lights and in any case
no business of mine. I could go back to living like this,
maybe, dearest one, I don't know what the hell to do.
Now I know why drug addicts do what they do,
it's to try to recapture something so on-fire
and so personal and so ineffable, they explode
chasing it straight into the heart of the atom's light
and I've got that pinpoint inside me now, trembling
with Brownian motion, still-captured black and white slides
have leapt into an ocean of color and time has started up again;
when I was five or eighteen or ten, it was like this then
and I don't know how much saltwater two human eyes can
produce within the space of an hour but I'm testing that now
and I can't fathom why people would ever sleepwalk through it
but I'm trying not to think of even thinking to going back to it
and yet I know somehow I'd follow those addicts into
the hellish heart of that sun loving every minute of the pain
if I stay too long for a teeth clenching tan beneath
its living rays, and if man were meant to feel hazy or crazed,
which should it be? I'm still burning with crazy energy
some part knows this is the way life is supposed to be
for those with eyes that see, ears that can move musical
mountains into the deep heart and blast it to pieces and then
put the shattered thing into a shiny toy all over again
and it feels new and hard and polished all over again, and good,
and if I cry, it's cascades of shaking thankfulness for
throwing up all this experience I've woolgathered, locked deep inside
and never let myself ride through with the violence of wind in my face,
never tasted snowflakes. Never laughed so hard with so flimsy
a reason, never trusted myself so much to deal with any
situation, even real fear, never died because dying is a lie they
tell the dying, dear. I'm the grand king of the mountain today
whispers the voice of the Present that's got me moving so fast
to taste everything again and smell divinity in a flower
and to suck cold clean air into my lungs at last!
and hear the brutal power of music stretching on for hours
pushing my sticks and bones around the four corners of this room
which was a sick room, I see that I was living in a place
of great illness alone, the kind you have when you are pale
and hopeless for no earthly reason and you just have to cope
so you build little nests to move to from hour to hour
and you wish the clock would wind around faster, or some disaster
would strike, 'cause what does it matter? I see this from on high
towering out into the darkness like a bird taken flight
for the first time in its lucky life, or a caged thing who's
convinced itself that flight is not was it is cracked to be
and who's stopped believing, if not quite entirely...
but I'm afraid of freedom too, because it makes my head spin
and I've never really learned the proper things one should do
in subtle given situations, I tend to overshoot by miles
smiling until I hit the side of a building, killed by
my own wish to escape from my vial. Life can be vile stuff,
suck everything you have from you and make you think you
are soaring in ecstasy, when you're just Icarus heading
into the sun, and the people they go away and leave you,
either way, and real scariness hurts my guts and shreds me,
leaves me like crushed twigs after a boulder has rolled
over cold and shouting blindly how it can finally see...

My dear, I don't know what to do
Every vein runs hot and true, now.
Mummy went away,
She went away.