You are currently viewing It Tastes Like Fall by Eris Victoria Aldrich

It Tastes Like Fall by Eris Victoria Aldrich

daybreak. horrendous. just fucking murder, a heart of twisted nails beating against your breast. you crumple to the fridge, impetuous bottle in fist, and just guzzle. like you’re filling up a car. gulp gulp gulp agh, swallow hard and the light goes out in your eyes. immediate relief. you wipe your chin.

no wonder you’re so abrasive, so outspoken, so irrepressibly bitter and flat in your whispered hysterics: there’s no continuity to this pain. it surfaces and it subsides, true to its own internal logic, but all the while roiling nameless inside you… edging out every hurt, grotesquely magnifying every slight. innocent overtures translate into paranoid inside-jokes; the unintelligible nattering of those in your midst is definitely about you, the dirty look they throw insinuates what they dare not speak. every comment, uttered in gravitas or jest, is fodder for altercation now; you learn to thrive in meaningless conflict, soak up intrigue and develop an enviable cache of dirty secrets. just in case–after all, everyone is a potential opportunist, everyone will exploit every angle, everyone will take everything they can.

the worldbuilding aspect of schizophrenia succeeds your in-born cosmic rootlessness: gradually, and then all at once, what held no deeper meaning is now rich with allusion. everything is connected! but this seminal epiphany does not liberate, on the contrary, it’s a huge tax on your conscience. to know, to see, to have at once elucidated the subtle disconnect between what people say and what you know they really think–! the disillusionment with human relationships is total; so ersatz and genuine affection are treated indiscriminately, in either case the result tends to be lackluster and enervating. you become a confirmed buy-sexual and chase after whores, hoping to get at last your money’s worth, but it’s an exercise in futility because passion cripples judgment, always. to want, to need, something sentient, with wants and needs of its own…? you can’t possess a person like you possess a television set.


lose you up my sleeve,
honey split open your veins
& show us what you stole.


forever and whatever have become deeply interchangable, to me.
so i love you whatever.


deep set in estranged thicket where cars cannot be seen, heard, smelled;
it’s a quarter to three in the morning and the whole forest is enswathed in a thick, dreamy fog;
here you are a nomad in every one of your bones…

content to slowly dance and perish
in gothic retreat outside the cold angle of time.

words are foreign to this place and make no appearance
in your breast.
the gloom is alive and yearns hidden in your throat.


nothing is felt, not even the frost.

(the last great enemy of reason is our love-affair with misery.)

they’re nightdriving im night riding on ketamine and valium. amused by trails. on the nod. highway-hypnosis; everything in slow-motion. lovely stretch of road, where is my eject button. absorbed in reverie. smoking out the window, a very sophisticated deathwish. weaving in and out of lanes, tempted lost bored confused incognito: the epitome of a gypsy. i missed my holocaust i mean i missed my turn-off. face hot with tears, what is it now? yes, we’re passing each other. so what. this is a very long commute; i am driving to my End. i was early to the party. Are We There Yet? are we ever! the nausea is building now. Ava Adore just came on. “IN YOU I CRASH CARS”. outgunning my slurry thoughts, this is what it’s come to and i’m not going to regret this. i’m notgoingttoregretthisss.