The Lie

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.

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.

Moved to town, bout six months ago. Couple aquaintences masquearding as friends. Theyre gone today, got the apartment to myself. Walk against the whind down the deserted street, buy a case of cheap beer from the forign clerk. He dos’nt comp…rehend what he’s missing. His state is the more gracious. The sweet caress of alcahol on the walk home. Nothing here for me now, presents and family are too many miles away, too far gone to matter. I tell myself it’s just another day, same as the day before it. Same sun rises as the sun that sets on any other day. I feel so lonely I wanna drown in it, So sad I wanna die. The little tricks aren’t working I can’t convince myself that it’s all ok. Step out into the cold for a cigarette, take a short walk down the street. I’m just trying not to remember what about this day I regret. She stepped out on to the porch, I assumed she was having a smoke like me. “Hey Kid, Wanna beer?” I was stunned, Must have misheard, “what”? “want a beer?” She asked again. “Oh fuck Yes!” I replied. She tossed me a 16oz can of Pabst and wished me a merry Christmas. That one small Gesture made my entire day. I have no great love for christmas, I have no great sentimentality for this season. But If I ever understood charity it was at that moment. That odd point where humanity seemed less bleak, and a cheap beer solved all my problems.

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…

She took a train to New York city.

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.

Addiction/attention

Clandestine, leave the beer on the window sill outside and walk in the front door, drive drunk to the gas station and pick up a couple 22s. nothing extravagant just a little to see ya through, tough times? nah not so much just board and uninspired. The spark is dim almost burnt out. Gotta add fuel to the fire, gotta add spice to the life. A little misdemeanor here and there nothing big, nothing life threatening. The secrete keeps us sharp, the sneaking around, the stealth. whats the worse thing that can happen? We get caught and are forced to admit we have a problem, the sympathy play, the addict gambit. Yeah it always works, pour on the pathetic and trust that they will save us. Get the attention, that’s what it’s all about, that warm fuzzy feeling, like people care. Walk the line, step in time, till theyre used to it, till the good shit stops coming, then BAM relapse, build the trust bask in the glow, be special all over again. it’s a life cycle like plants have birth, death, rebirth, over and over again. Tea or booze, Coca-Cola or heroine it doesn’t matter its all part of the plan man enjoy your addiction while you can! Be special, out of synch, negative creep yielding positive results. Go ahead, enable me, or better yet just pity me. it’s all the same it;s all a lie addiction is an attention cry.

The Dance

Dark nights in downtown bars,
the neon rainbow, the congregation speaks in tongues.
the mating ritual reduced to the brusk one-liner,
cackling laughter of witches covens huddled over long island iced teas.
The incessant bellowing of the jukebox adds desperation to an atmosphere already thick with smoke and shattered dreams.
I love the pop of a match struck from a paper book,
The eulogies of dead souls carved deep into stained tables.
the table is bathed in blood red from the sign in the corner.
and in the corner I sit.
Peering out on the circus in front of me
clowns in gay colors dancing to the discordant tune of vice and lust!
Happy depression, the mock life of the tragic soul, dancing in death and flittering fairy lights.
like Hunter Thompson said “buy the ticket, take the ride” Were all just passengers here. The driver left, went out for a smoke and never came back.
The lunatics run the asylum, an isolated patch of anarchy designed to provide controlled pressure realese so the inmates can return to the asylum compliant and complacent.
Nothing matters here because there is no memory. No consequence except the hangover.
So my friends, dance on, forget about yesterday and tomorrow, only now matters, and right now I need a drink!

A scuicide note.

Desire, lust, longing, feinding, thirst, hunger, desire, Call it what you will. Call it addiction and it sounds clinical. Call it a drinking problem and it sounds quaint. Call it alcoholism and it sounds like a religion. (not far off really) Aquae Vitalis, the water of life. Liquid spirit, the amplifier, the magnifier. A cocktail of life and poison! I want it, I long for it, in the night I cry out for it, my medicine, my sanity relies on this crutch. I feel, too much input, too much pain, too many garbled transmissions and flashing images! Too much color and sound. I want to be numb, I want to let the haze cover my eyes and the poison calm my heart. Its beating to hard and fast, it’s going to explode! I’m afraid and it makes me angry. I want to tear down the walls, I want to paint in blood, I wanna lie drunk and naked on the floor babbling to myself like a crazy person rocking back and forth in agonies and extacies. Letting pure uncut emotion leak from every pore. To die and be reborn from the experience of death. I feel I can’t live like this for much longer, sooner or later I have to die. And if one dies sober, and by dying I mean losing myself, is there any coming back? Or will I just be lost? At this point I have no idea but the explorer inside wants to find out so I’ll turn this rage into resolve and walk purposefully into oblivion!