Mush

This is a fun one, and completely nonsensical (unless you were in my head before that filter I apply to everything, that filter that discourages meaning from the final product, that filter that hides what I'm trying to say for God-knows-why).  Characters--  Apparently Resolution, Mush, a garbage truck.  Three parts, too.  And ending with a schizophrenic, babbling prose-ish thing.  I have no idea about this.  I do, however, remember where and when I wrote this.  But that's neither here no there.  Oh, and these are all the same piece, I just don't have an overarching title.  MPD, perhaps?  DID?  Just remember...  There is always a gap between author and work.  If I was my writing, I would be depressed all the time and probably suffering from a very serious mental illness.  At least, that's what I think, heh.  (Oh, and it's not all that nonsensical)

The Mush

The eggshell early morning euphoria,

Each car comes into town with a new shine,

Even the garbage truck glints pre-dawn like a sly wink.

Garbage truck, this is the part where things go wrong,

Why wink and so confident?

Mush, I promise friend, only bad comes when you want.

Why want when cold is no longer opposite comfort,

When darkness doesn’t hold back shine?

Ah, I know friend that when

Garbage truck voice

Goes back to rumble machinery

And its shine dissipates with fading eyes

And the big shake of dawning day ruptures

The fragility of early morning euphoria

Those words may still hold

Gloved hands from cold the skeleton

Of slain revelations.

The Alpha

Make no saint

Of twisted fake mind,

His sutras

Of morning euphoria

Are twisted false

Lights,

Lying stars in

A nothing sheet universe

Thrown up to

Cover the true cold

Steel sky.

But I know you’ll listen.

So, my friend,

The truce is off—

As that

Covered sky slips

Free from its

Masquerade

And the garbage truck

Shows true stain

Rust under new frozen

Lights,

Do not look for me

To spur you on,

My bone-face grin,

All bloody passion,

And shuffle-crush

Gait, each step

Shockwave anger,

Has left you,

Mere puddle. Good luck.

The Act

The truce is off?
Then time to shed

Old brother face,

That wicked dumb

Smile, harlequin

Shivering mask left

Dead the jaw muscles

And ugly taste

In mouth.

Free reign

The others have—

And so do I,

So do not hide

Fetal behind my

Friendly hated

Dance.

The Resolution

They’re all just aspects, ghosts-of-self and, therefore, none complete, none real beyond the realness of total self, fragments weak alone. They’ve fled, sure, and declared the truce to be null, but what can they do without Resolution to give their motives body, to give their thoughts voice? Hidden so long, powerful in their shadow movements, Resolution confused by the tugging of strings by unseen hands, now they have been revealed, now they have lost the ability to move unknown, unnoticed, to trick Resolution into thinking he has committed acts out of character. The Act, playing at sincere advisor, can no longer spread his toothy lies, the jokes unbefitting of tired soul. The Alpha, passion on the precipice of danger, will not be there to push Resolution over the edge, his brooding unpredictability curbed by his departure. Even sweet Mush, the poet suicide, cannot spread his insane lonely sadness, even if he spices it with truth and beauty. His eyes were the blindest of all.

Resolution knows what they will, why they have called off the truce. But they do not know that lowering that deep-seated barrier has more than one outcome. Their plan will backfire.