Syndics Calling

(This is a poem I'm actually very attached to.)

(Note: “The Syndics of the Drapers’ Guild” is an oil painting by artist Rembrandt – a portrait of six syndics.)

Position. Angle. Slide.

A simple movement, really.

I should be done within the hour.

The room smells unmistakably

of varnish and freshly-dried pigment.

I take a deep breath

and exhale through the mouth.

Position. Angle. Slide

I feel the marble tiles

pushing a cloud of coldness into me.

Occupying my soul,

obscuring my reality.

I feel the tears coming, but they are frozen.

I am a reservoir of ice.

Position. Angle. Slide.

My room is fairly empty.

3 paintings – Rembrandts – all fake.

Connected, by freshly woven cobweb.

The Syndics gaze at me relentlessly

my devils incarnated in paint

communicating thoughts through silver thread.

Then they gnaw open the canvas.

Stand before me,

glitching,

rupturing my illusion

and my reality. I see not six,

but eighteen.

They open their mouths to speak, I hear them

in my head:

Life is irrational

repetitive

monotonous

purposeless.

Irrational

repetitive

monotonous

purposeless.

Nothing is certain,

but Death.

Position. Angle. Slide.

I am a nihilist

And life is nonsensical.

I am an absurdist

And life is absurd.

I would rather free myself

than be freed.

No uncertainty. For nothing is certain,

but Death.

Position. Angle. Slide.

The knife is setting into a rhythm.

Grooving to the beat

of its tip slithering across my hand

thrusting darkness into me

devouring me salaciously.

Red oozes out

and splatters to the floor.

The marble will need re-polishing.

Tik-tok tik-tok tik-tok

The hour is up.

Maybe the clock will anchor my spinning thoughts.

The sandy gold hands chime

Footprints on the sands of time.

But there are no footprints,

and I have no time.

For every step forward

Is a step closer to death and

I am desperate,

to escape.

Slide. Slide. Slide.

I flirt with death.

I am desperate,

To escape

For blissful freedom to pervade.

And as the Syndics fade

into the corner of my eye

As my hand falls away

like the dry mud on my thigh

My heart tumbles

like an autumn leaf yearning for the ground

And the life spills out of me,

Time halts with a screeching sound

And I think

free of the Syndics in my head

maybe

I don’t want to be dead.