These are the new white pages. I meant “Dark Ages.” I meant “tone it done, Johnny.” I meant……"freedom really is the cage you think it is.”
WRITE, PUSSY on the wall; a command, a plea, a reminder, the two things that cause most pain and delusion in this world. HAHA is the invisible underline. The secret magical underwear tailored to fit each fat-ass like a glorious sling.
“Sit, sit,” she….asked? told? Begged? What matters most important? The meaning? The intention? The inflection? The subtext? The language of bodies? Nothing?
I’m sure you know my answer, and thus therein “lies” the rub. A scheming, petulant little shit intent on dismantling any pretense of giving a shit. Oh wow. Oh whoa. O Lord.
Years will flash by in a blink. No grand cinema played out before your eyes. No This Is Your Life. No maliciously grinning host, too-white teeth blinking at you conspiratorially. Oh well now that’s too bad. We want someone to notice, don’t we? Even those who spend hours/days indeterminable amounts resting in darkness, like an unsolved equation, floating in a sea of its own blackness, the BLACKBOArd.
“Fuck if I know,” he whispers in the parking lot, under his breath, even though there is no one around. “Fuck if I know, man.”
A brief few months where the obsession of buying something permeates. A motorbike? A new shower mat? A stick of deodarant? The Canary Islands? The soul of a deceased infant? Oh come now.
Let’s get one thing straight: There is no other without you. You are the dichotomy. Yes, it’s true, even your worthless existence measures out to some degree. On what chart, who knows, who cares, really. Can’t you just be happy that it’s “there?” Impossible. You are an impossibility. Flip.
HE PARKED HIS CAR, CHECKED THE BLADE ON HIS KNIFE, AND JUST WALKED OFF INTO THE DESERT.
Chastity Perkins keeps calling. The wind like lashes, snap. Everything has a “mournful” sound to you. Ugh. Oh ugh.
“She was alone when her husband died.”
This breaks your heart. These women carrying death around with them. She was pregnant with death, a shroud she treated as a security blanket. The old childhood tropes. Coming home to roost.
Squawk squawk. Your words in her ear. “No, dear,” this last dripping with sarcasm, modern venom, a most hideous development. You brought it down upon yourself, they will try to convince you. What if, in fact our thoughts were where we are truly judged, and the actions, the actual physical real corporeal actions, were merely window-dressing? Did not matter. Oh wow. Oh murder.
Let us be clear about this: "Freedom really is the cage you suspect it is.”
“My God, the faces she makes. You’d think I was stabbing her through the heart. I thought this was supposed to be fun. Am I in the wrong epoch?”
A pact with the Devil. Normal. Boring. Codified.
A liaison with the Devil. This is new. I like this. Separate but equal.
Winner! You one! I one! We all one!
P shawww. A constant state of being, no flux, no “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
You are most definitely going to be sick, and you are most definitely going to learn to love it.
Rise, rise, asshole!
He had never felt a warm wind. A scirocco, like the car, they call it? Of course vice versa, names like zephyr. Little whirlwinds, self-contained air kisses. A tornado to tear you and your town apart.
Was in a tornado once. Essentially. Driving my shitty car (pretty sure it was the GLC at this point) home from a party, stoned most likely drunk, 18 years old, wait, so it was the Volkswagen then, probably. When did I total that? I was 18. Listening to Sebadoh the day of a Sebadoh show. They sucked. Talked to Lou Barlow for about a half hour after. He was wearing a gODHEADSILO shirt. I didn’t tell him they sucked, but I did tell him I totaled my first car earlier that day listening to a mix tape I had made and the song playing at that moment was “Social Medicine” (a dead-pan funny B-side and probably one of the last decent songs they wrote). The 70something couple’s Lincoln/Caddy/urban tank was barely damaged. And they weren’t hurt and didn’t press charges. Brief flashes of almost-death like that. Fucking Market Ave. That fucking light near Our Lady of the Elms. Looked up, swerved instantly, narrowly missing some other sonofabitch, jumped up onto the curb, luckily not flattening some earnest citizen, jerked the wheel so hard back the other way I came right back onto the street IN FRONT OF the car I nearly hit and wham bam thank you ma’am smash-o-la fuck into the nice old people’s ass-end. Probably one of the nicest cops I’ve ever met (it’s a select few) came to the scene. Probably should’ve been way more painful. That was a good car. A fucking great car. A car is just a thing. Where was I?
Ah. The tornado.
They put sugar in their buns. They put heroin in their milkshakes. They put heroin in your gas tank. You park, you eat. They rollerskate around, you are mesmerized. You eat so much visions dance in front of you, time-jags. No notice. Flimsy accountability.
Cough cough. Engine won’t work. Tornado another time.