Fallen men dance with treasured souls in our dance halls. The content and criminals burn through floors while the painters and soldiers loop-de-doo. We are the haven of shattered dreams brewed and seeped in desperate pleas to find something beautiful and true. The sense nonsensical and boring baseline a barely contained titillation over flowing with fantastic cries and moans of ecstasy.
I am Slick Dex Ick. Me is who that I am. Not doubt, therefor way is infinity of translation and transmution chemistry love. Fire neurons left who there is now? How the fuck am I supposed to know? Slick Dex Ick I am holeass.
Time stops as the moon strikes midnight
heralding notes forged from musical mice.
The Lost wander wondering if their second sight has guided right.
Blank, the lake reflecting with shimmers of the night’s chimes
sending shivers down a million fear locked spines:
caught in the trap of night, dark enveloping twisting sheets of nothing
wrapped in fog though alleyways down and across their minds.
bars on one side but they never need to leave
find in the blindness something akin to reprieve,
the selection of redemption though justice eyes are tied tight
and her twisted son striking painted blind, so:
through a splash in reality water drips down to be
caught in lashes tied tight with daylight,
unable to perceive the world around it in need;
taking steps to nowhere never able to leave.
They take up mantles of crusaders lost in dank caves,
and as the fog hits ocean rolling back from the beach
carries with it the hopes and dreams of children who see:
a world they are left to inherit if any of them can bear it
we’ll have a new generation of lost wanderers with white eyes.
You fill my heart with darkest desires, they mute the future bright with lights at the top of the spire-- spiral staircase winds up to the top I wind up wound up toppled down broken from the height--drops to the bottom broken spoken of in the past tense
humpty dumpty on the fence can’t decide to smile wide or deride tries related to the little boys and girls in fairy tales waiting to escape and grow up
they come near but they fear the egg man coo coo catcho the egg shell white reflects the eyes reflects the lies told by parents to unsuspecting youth that someday it will all be ok
the fairy tale creatures wail and lament, not meant to find the happy ending promised by parents who ripped the last pages out so---the children would never realize even their story picture book characters get hooked and fall down
down, crack, the egg lands and thwack little bo peep and a murderous flock of sheep lock and load because mommy cries at night with every knock knock knock that the bad people anonymous in character description--but specific in their torturous insanity might be back, back to the end:
thwack the kings horses and all the kings men couldn’t defend like the egg could defend, his reflection kept the kids seeing the world they were told was true, not the worries they accrue or the debts now past due
The story book crumbles and fades as the paper degrades, perhaps the story will continue--- grow up and achieve actuality
Perhaps the little boys and foxes and fairies will make their story come true, their happy ending fought though the pages read in the whites of aging parents eyes, determined if they lie they’ll never have to tell their children why everything must live and cry, suffer find joy and die
It's silently slipping, that nonsensical something of ephemeral beauty and fear. Slipping down a drain made of rusted iron irate its life lost leaking dripping down through the ceiling below to an equally empty apartment. Rent reaffirms nature: natural selection pits stayers and goers, hold downers and throwers to the wind of perceived wrongs and rights preached from the pulpits of television and masters of media. Yet the master media is not merely alive but live, three feet in front two steps back and willing to slap you silly if you step out of line.
My sister says I need to join alcoholics anonymous. I tell her everyone knows I’m a goddamned alcoholic, so it’s not very anonymous. My sister is a bitch. And I don’t say this because she wants me to join a program. I say this because she acts like bitch. She has made fun of me every thanksgiving since she could talk. I only come home on thanksgiving because there’s enough food to keep me sober and my mother is a saint of a woman who doesn’t mind that I’m a degenerate drunk who’s only kept alive because you make money off my depressed ramblings. At least I think you make money off these, otherwise this would be a little creepy. Though I’ve never seen these published in a magazine. Though I haven’t read a magazine except for “highlight” and “pregnant today” at the free clinic. Soooo. I hate being too drunk to be poor. Wait. Too poor to be drunk. Though I suppose it goes both ways. Like the fat man who eats because he’s depressed and fat because he eats. Though I’m not fat and it doesn’t depress me that I drink. If I didn’t drink I think I’d go insane. They say alcohol drives people crazy but that’s obviously a lie. People drink to keep from going insane, the people that drink know they’re going insane anyway and they might as well forget about it for a few hours. I gleaned this information from a meeting outside an AA meeting my sister dropped me off at in exchange for forty bucks. She doesn’t care if I drink; she just likes to scare her kids with what might happen to them if they ever drink a single drop of alcohol. Of course they’ll go insane in college the first drink they have will somehow become 8 and they’ll wind up blowing a fellow drunk freshman behind the dorms. At least Billy will, that kid is gayer than a Liberace Elton John swirl. And his moronic mother is in denial, luckily for him I gave him the “be whoever the fuck you want to be speech” and I think that maybe next year when he gets into middle school it’ll sink in. Gay is the new black. People playing at something they’re not for social status and personal freedom knowing they can pretend for a few minutes without having to deal with the rest of their lives. And if I were sober enough to see the numbers on the word count I’d have proof this is enough for a case of ramen and three handles of plastic bottle gin. Hell, if you throw in a bonus I might even get a jug of pop to drink it with.
You know what I hate? Writing. And you. I hate you a lot, but you pay me to write. And if you remember, I also hate writing. This puts me in quite a conundrum, as I really need money. I’m two months behind on rent, I ran out of gas in my car, and I’m eating animal grade tuna. I don’t know why you pay me for this, but I stopped caring. So I’ll give you a paragraph and get enough cash for a pack of cigarettes and people food.
I became a writer so I could be my own boss. Unfortunately, I’m a pretty crappy boss. The fact that I rarely work is probably the least of my innumerable and debilitating leadership dis-qualities. My laptop works for about 12 minutes, while plugged in, then runs out of batteries. It is slower than an opium addled sloth and functions slightly better than FDR’s legs. My mild alcoholism doesn’t react well with my bitter an eeyore –esqe personality, but it keeps me grounded. At home. On the floor. But if I’m on the couch hung over at least I’m not writing which is, as my Elmer glue filled joints will attest, the death of me which takes more years off my life than any bender I can afford. When I write the money hits me like hot leather seat on my thighs, comforting at first but never worth the pain. Usually it gets deposited in the Super Cheeps liquor store down the block. They started double knotting the bag they put it in so I wouldn’t keep drinking in the parking lot. 40 ouncers and me and public don’t mix well. Me and public don’t mix well, but the malt liquor adds an edge, an edge that usually involves my fighting with skateboarders, yelling at cops, or falling asleep on top of other people cars. So I come home with half my salary in a few plastic bags, stare at the dark tv that hasn’t had cable in years, and start drinking my way into a place that I’m finally relaxed. Unfortunately I’m blacked out, so I don’t remember much about the place. But that’s still better than the dump I live in. I used to have a dog, but he ran off in the park one day. Or maybe that was my wife. They run off together? No, one of them was hit by a van. It was a long time ago. I’m not callous, just happened a long time ago. And I’m drunk. Drunk. At least a quarter of the first bag drunk. I don’t drink absinthe. My liver starts talking with me when I drink absinthe. And it only ever wants to talk politics. I don’t mind talking politics, but my liver is a real jerk and just yells at me about socializing the dance clubs and the speaker’s job in the senate. I used to watch C-Span. Bunch of ugly people running the country. We need more hot senators. Then more people would watch c-span. Politics should be more like telemundo. I don’t get telemundo, but my Cuban neighbors do, now I can count to five in Spanish and know the word for goal is the same as in English. At least it’s pronounced the same. Soccer is a funny game, funny in that if you watch it drunk enough it doesn’t make you depressed. Basketball and football and hockey are depressing. Bunch of rich buff people who endorse toxic coffee and bubble gum. But soccer players are just trying to win so their home town doesn’t riot. I hate the taste of my mouth after waking up from being blacked out. I once drank ajax thinking it was powdered coffee. I don’t remember why drinking powdered coffee seemed like a good idea, but at least I didn’t pour boiling water in my mouth. But I think the ajax made my teeth into wax. They keep moving. I didn’t want to become a writer, but I can write with my eyes closed. So I didn’t have to look at the other kids looking back at me, mother staring and seeing I wasn’t going to make it. Didn’t have to see my dad throwing the television into the pool when he got fired. Which, by the way, when you throw a tv in the pool it doesn’t work afterwards. Didn’t see the fire started by my old neighbor’s kid. Ex neighbors. Ex kid. But I heard it all. And I can’t write what I heard, though those sounds are clear as vision now. Still my memories in sound don’t include the dirty carpet I sleep on, can’t translate the pounding of base guitar into words. Pounding. Base guitars don’t pound. I pound. The dog pound. The dog found Jack and Jill rolling down a hill. I met them once. Nice people. Got married and own a ranch in Montana. Read about their ranch. No animals, only corn. Corn can’t bite you. Hope it can’t bite you. Haven’t ever seen live corn. On the stalk, maybe it bites. What the hell do I know.
This is where it all begins, the beginning of the end, of the beginning. If that makes sense to you you're either way smarter or more stoned than I. Probably not both.
This site is a Place for Stuff, semi arbitrarily and semi reverently placed here by me, some person on the interweb. I'm not your random friend from high school, I'm not a famous person, and I'm not drunk. Probably.
I have a deep love for the beauty of the absurd, playing with kittens (but not pictures, that's like looking at a picture of beer), not finishing sentences, sex, irony, and
If I knew where I was going, I'd tell you. Maybe. You've got shifty eyes. Are you that person in my bushes? Okay, that was a cat, or you're a weird little fuzzy person eating my cat's food. (dick)
A Place of Stuff and Blogs and Musings and ,,,
I am the person who writes in the blog space to the left. I guess I do all the place of stuff stuff...