Art As Escapism

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Will Beale

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Close the curtains
Make tea
When it starts, you won't have time
If firefighters fought the sun, every lake would be ammunition
Load your glass with brimming bullets
Doctor calls them cluster headaches, careful not to commit and say suicide headaches
Siri, why do they call them suicide headaches?
No time
Tears don't start for seven and a half minutes
Not crying
Real men don't cry
It's just this plank in my eye
I'm a hypocrite
Turn to Matthew 7:3
"Why do you look at the speck in your brothers eye?"
I read about this in a book once
Man had 11 fingers, forged passports and snorted cocaine so hard, the ambulance calls his mouth the sun
The drugs, his lake
Been extinguishing himself for years
It's easy to become the boy who calls fire
The sun is the right side of my brain, solar flares from neck to eyelid
It's Matthew 7:3 and the 11-fingered man is my brother
The sun in my eye is too bright to finish the book
I can't remember if he kills himself in the end

You learn that if they say "This won't hurt a bit," it will
But if they say nothing, it means they don't have words for this pain
A stoic stumbling of time and sleep becomes an art form
Fingers brushstroke wet pillows
It's easy to make a masterpiece when you can only see it under moonlight
Matthew, it's 7:30 at night
And the beam in my eye keeps opening and closing
And every time I hear you in orbit, the beam grows like Pinnochio
Am I lying to myself?
Is this how the mad feel?
Sometimes you can't hear yourself screaming
Sometimes this is a better omen

Doctor describes it, "a daemon paying your brain a visit"
In Ancient Greece, a daemon paying you a visit is a good omen
Sleep is an art form and the pain is my muse
It comes and goes
It will leave when it wants to
I think I'll leave the door open, but the next morning it brings its friends

Siri, what is the opposite of eudaimonia?
Siri, how do I extinguish the sun?
Siri, what floor am I on?
Siri?
How many floors does it take?
Jump out the window
Rappel down into a garden of guitars and watch a melody grow in the back of my bouquet
I'm okay

I'm okay
I've been doing this for years
I am an expert in escapism
I can close my eyes and watch patterned butterflies swoop in and become night owls
It's not every day you can fly into the sun
There are so many things we don't know
Where does inspiration come from?
How does everybody's expectations turn into bodily pain?
Why does our body begin to kill us after 23 years?
This slow suicide
I wake up in the middle of the night
The beam in my eye, a twig
Owl swoops in, calls my eyes rats, catches them with talons
Have you ever had your bed catch you?
Has every migraine ever given you a cold sweat?
Siri, where is the nearest hospital?
Siri, how many more hours until sunset?
Siri, I'm sorry I can't look at you
The sun is in my eyes
My brother is whispering powder into my ear
That it's all in my head
It's all in my head

But on good days
On good days, I wake up
The sun is shining
The lakes are all full
The owl sits on my desk watching me, and it's 7:30 in the morning

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