PINS AND NEEDLES, ZOMBIES AND YOU
Dear Yama-kun from Lake Titicaca,
No matter how I dream of you, I cannot evoke you. You contaminate me, then gush out, like black blood from the wound. I have scars of you, inextinguishable scars. I am thirsty for you…! Let me knead my tear-stained pillows while you gently haunt the peatbog near the willows. Love me, love my phlegm. Never neuter your love, my love.
—I
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Dear Yama-kun from Gaborone,
You've met your muse… that cretin, scumbag, cocksucking slut! You stab me twice, thrice, again, again, again. I roast on a spit, now a bomb ticking sideways unto the deluded stars. Look at them all, so otherworldly, yet so translucent! And they too must go off someday… off the radar and roll down as shit-smeared dwarves! The ether daubs me with that kind of stardom, appropriating me, moulding me murderously, their machine, mannequin… moving among the mass market of music, mutation. Still… your bankruptcy will not be mine.
—XOXOXO
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Dear Yama-kun from Nagasaki,
My spore withers too now, much like the heart, much like my star. The eagle pecks out the tiger's eye, and the tiger can no longer hunt, so it suffocates, it succumbs to its earth and master. You…! …No, not you. I am not the eagle. I am a tiger. There pauses friction atop the pins and needles in my veins, the gasoline at my fingertips, on the lip of my tongue. Might I at last spark the affricate lest I disengage the soft palate from westernization! Nothing makes sense anymore, my love… all I see is voodoo. The Americans are abound. The cannons, the missiles, the rifles are a vaudeville comedy pounding on floorboards, planks, tiles on my callused crest. And in time, my memory too must wither. Farewell. Sayonara! …No, not you. Vanity cannot damn me! I will never forget what I've just endured; it sings to the stars. Bankruptcy will not be mine, no, it will not be mine!
Yes.
There are broken bodies… everywhere. All at once, in the blink of a moment, life has changed so much. I feel selfish, Yama-kun. All I wanted was to be desirable. Much too quickly has that richly shaded flower passed on… what I want to tell you is that all colour has gone from the earth. Now take a look at the men, Yama-kun; all of them, take one long look at all those soldiers! Don't you see? They're dead. They've been blown to smithereens. No blood left to remind us that once, they were men. Once.
No.
Words infringe upon their duty to capture this madness well.
I was sitting by a hill, Yama-kun, doing vocal exercises, arpeggios. I wanted to reach F#4 today. The sun was bejeweled, but then elusive… when the bomb detonated. It was a rude screech, more like an orgasm than an expression of ego, of rectitude, of retaliation. This was war; this is war, it really is war! The stage is hollow now, for humankind is a private Holocaust… and no, I shall not, shall never play pretend when punctured intestines are real! I want to be real, my love, why don't you make me real?! Listen to me! Make me real! I dare not try to hold back!
I love you, Yama-kun… and… I know you still love me too, somehow. I know. But my soul is sore; it is frozen. I can only cry when I wish to sleep. I wait for pictures and words to play with my pigtails and fettuccine to fall from the skies. I was immature and silly, and itched to piece the world together, my world of phantoms at an opera. When reality sets fire to the soul, the monsoon is over, and it is time to awaken… love must prevail, now and well after death. In the interim, I swear to nurse my baritone harmonies.
Flesh rots. Zombies are real, Yama-kun.
Did you know that?
—True love
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NOTE: Happy tenth anniversary to me. I can hardly believe that... well, that ten years have come and perished. Anyway, which of the other original seven Chosen Children do you suppose would write these sorts of letters to Yamato? Here's a tip (perhaps a secret): it's entirely up to you to decide!