I won’t make any excuses, I don’t claim any immunity, and i don’t care to be special! I truth I wish you were all like me! I don’t wanna be a rebel, I dont wanna be a freak! Yes i have accepted mtself for what I am but that was never a destination. A goal, I wanted to be normal, I wanted to be like you, I wanted to be good at sports and confident in the face of woman. Shit didn’t happen for me. I asked too many questions. thought too much didn’t treat womwn like things! Smoked cigarettes but never inhaled. I am a false badass, an armored cunt! I don’t care anymore, the school house labels fall away and leave only naked ageing flesh! Here i can wax poetic here I can be myself, Finally and at long last people have the experience to “get ” me. Finally I can speak to the generation and remain, Alone. To unaccesable to to feel love, to injured to know, the mask hides it all pain, longing, lust. play it cool, play it blank, they will come to you. they will follow the lie.
Author Archive for Danse Mcabre
The Lie
Note to self
Lay back, feel the pain, let the blood flow, let it pool on the floor. Don’t numb it, don’t medicate, no alcahol, no drugs. just let it wash over you let the blood clot and the wound heal. You can do this, you’ve felt this pain before. Close to the heart is risky but it’s no reason not to try. Get some sleep tomorrow it’ll feel better.
Impressions of a blunt
A spark followed by a flame, not a very bright flame but a cheap flame and effective. The dimness of the room was illuminated briefly and i could see where I was. It was a shitty apartment full of old cloths and donut boxes, a battered acoustic guitar with three strings leaned morosely against a chipped coffee table. The only light was from cracks in the black drapes and a small glow in the dark mushroom with a single tea light on top.
Ahh the first hit I’m smokin now he’s a rough looking punk rocker with lether chains tattoo’s peircings and the stench of sweat and old booze thick on his yellow fingers. Yet he is incredibly soft spoken and gentle. he passes me to the girl on the left of him. She’s young probably too young to be in this crowd her appearence is that of transition her long blond hair is pulled up in a black scrunchi and only the traditional two earrings peirce her ears she is wearing a dark blue t-shirt with a high school logo. pinned to this shirt is an emily the strange button. A medum size pentagram hangs around her neck still shiney and new looking like she had purchased it last weekend. her pants were clean and she was wearing trainers. she smoked clumsly coughing before the smoke had really had a chance to take affect. Again I travelled left, this time a skinny boy about seventeen with thick glasses he smoked like he was drownding and the smoke was his life’s breath. he wore baggy skater cloths and I could see his board in the corner. he exhaled slowly inhaling the second hand smoke through his nose “here” he said passing me across the table to a dark corpse like figure. he was dressed all in black a black trenchcoat covered most of him. he wore a cannible corpse shirt and knee high combat boots. his face was white not painted but just bleached out and un healthy looking he wore eyeliner smuged extra wide so it looked when he close his eyes like the empty sockets of a skull. he smiled as he took me not a happy or friendly smile but a ghastly malicious smile full of hate and hurt. he smoked like the skater full of the pleasure of the smoke and the rebellion it represented. to the left again A small waifish girl with plain black hair and a plain black dress it was her eyes that were most strikeing, huge green orbs full of wonder and innosence yet darkened somehow like they had seen pain and suffering that was not ment for a soul as pure as this. she took a very small hit just enough to be accepted by the circle and passed me back to the punk rocker he took a long drag and I was cashed. He took my remains and put them in a plastic baggy with the remains of my brothers and took his leave.
Little Umbrella
Under a bare bulb, sinking slowly into blank pages and white walls, Talk along the wireless phone line. Come get me tonight, the lights of the city becon bright with filthy ferocious radience, reflected by rainwater crowned by rainbow oil slicks cascadeing down through sewer grates. To escape the peeling white walls and walk free on cracked concrete, the night calls with the shreiking laughter of chemically enhanced bar patrons. To join them, standing shoulder to shoulder at the corner while the man pours dreams into a glass with ice. The little umbrella, thats the best part.
Christmas story.
Freeze frame
The music cut out suddenly, at the same instant there was a pause in the conversation. The buzz of the neon sign became audible for a moment in time. Someone coughed, the spell broke, the jukebox roared back to life and the night continued. Still I wonder, what if…
Finishing last.
Nice guys finish last. Thats the adage, the folklore of the day. See what happens is girls say they want a nice guy, but all they date are assholes. Why, you ask? Beacuse assholes have confidence and the balls to ask girls out. Nice guys stand at a distance, passively trying to get girls to notice them. The girls seem easily taken by the bravado of assholes and for the most part they are. There is a grim satisfaction nice guys take from the current divorce rate too. As a nice guy myself I have tried to teach myself to act like an asshole but it’s a false skin and is easily penetrated. Lies make poor armor. It’s strange to me that girls are so confused by a man who doesn’t try to fuck them on a first date. It’s like the modern generation is programmed to be whores and pimps. I was trained different, by my mother mostly but also by the women I respected in my life. I come from a family of feisty women who when pushed are absolutely savage. So as a youth I learned a healthy respect for women. It’s odd now to be in a culture where women do not expect much less demand that level of respect. Hence the nice guy who knows how to treat a woman is left out in the cold. After all girls have been programmed to think that if a guy doesn’t try to score on the first night he must not be into them. It’s a sad state of affairs (literally). So here I sit twice tonight girls I know have asked for a hero or to be saved. Not knowing that I would love nothing more than to save them but also knowing they have no idea what exactly they are asking for. Most women have no idea how to be feminine and most men have absolutely no control of their libido. We have reached the point prophesied in Trainspotting. There are no men or women anymore there are just wankers. Lust crazed individuals who have absolutely no understanding of love or intimacy. Hence those of us who are tragically “old school” are rejected as being pussies or just plain weird. I am a hapless romantic, and I refuse to compromise this in misguided attempts at getting laid. Sex means nothing without love and is not worth the trouble. Love is really the only thing I’m after and it has little to do with sex. So here I am finishing last but when I do finish it will be worth so much more.
Romance of the road
The romance of the road, lonliness, longing drinking. Scotch from a plastic cup in a hotel near an airport. Everything is temporary here, just enough to get by, everything is disposable, even friends. The open road the love hate relationship with a spiteful mistress. One moment she’s alluring with the promise of new sensation, the next emptiness sets in. Nothing lasts, everything is a cheap thrill. But it’s enough to live for, enough to make a person get up each morning and look toward the sunset with hope, enough to get one through the day, and another day always looking for the next thrill. The end of the road is not even a thought. It’s not the destination thats the goal it’s the journey, the experience. Life lived with zeal and vigor amassing wealth in knowledge gained not through books, but by doing, by living. The goal of every true traveller is to travel. Not to arrive.
The Rain Came Through The Window
The rain came through the window, spattered on papers left carelessly stacked on the dusty desk. half formed words and forgotton concepts run like tears down the page. Writing turns to painting transformed by primeary elements. Nothing is lost this is what it was created for, the incomplete attempts completed by the forces of nature, by act of God. Destroyed but perfected in the same moment like those heroes born out of trajedy. Intent and pourpose washed away, the simple act of being.
She took a train to New York city. Rain fell hard on the hotel sign. A weak cup of coffee and some gasoliene. Crowded diners filled with the smoke and steam and smells of the working class. Time slows down on the road. Or speeds up. Either way it dosnt matter like it used to. Lost in transit. One more stop. The dead letter office.
