| January In My Mind BY WAYNE MASON |
||||||||||
|
||||||||||
| She was a lesbian with a fetish for shoplifting and snuff films. I was a drunk with a fetish for alcohol and nostalgia. I was already polishing off a twelve pack and scrounging money from couch cushions for another when she came pounding on the door, I let her in and the first words out of her mouth was, “Crosley, it’s time for you to dimension-trip.”. I took a deep thoughtful drag off my lucky strike and told her I supposed so. She was talking about DMX, I had yet to try the stuff, even though we had discussed it in great length. She sat down on the couch without removing her beret or bulky black overcoat and emptied her bag beside her. Two quarts of cheap malt liquor, one Diamonda Galas cd and two vials of the syrup. It was sure to be an interesting night. “It’s important you be perfectly still for a little while or you’ll get sick.” She was talking as she put in the cd and lit candles around the living room. Every drug scene has there ritual and the DMX crowd was no different. After she was done we were to sit on the floor indian style facing each other perfectly still forming no attachment to any thoughts or whims that floated through our skulls, sort of like a chemical induced zen. I was pacing around the room drunk starting on the quart looking at the vial in my other hand. “So this stuff will help me sever ties with reality?” “It won’t sever all ties,” She answered me, “but it will leave cracks in space and time, reality or dream won’t cancel out the other, but they will intermingle. You won’t be worried about philosophy.”. They were staring eye to eye lost deep in pleasure of nothing, nihilism, nihilism fading away, lights fade in and out eternities pass maybe under the neon glow of stereo illuminations diamonda I monda I’m purging my soul, launching chunks of bare bone silence into porcelain thrones. I wipe my mouth and now it begins, the empty robo bottle lies on its side next to a half full quart of malt liquor. My body feels lighter, as if I could float away, I can’ t help but to feel that I’m dreaming. The endless sky held high up time your mind chose to track. I think of —wish for some fantastic holocaust to go BOOM, long and dark, being too lonely —entirely too real, that big alone terrible and urgent. Her voice melts away in sepia tones. I make a run for the door. Fires spread out proportionately on a sidewalk burning away passionately through a barrage pitter patter of rain like gods pissing on a too gone world. Flesh like apathetic jelly, curvy and narrow surrounded by radio, I lean forward in sing along, my voice is every note. I’m one with effortless movement. I feel a strange girl I know well in black lingerie taking time in—between to kiss me but I only have a strange head on my chest —THE ROAD- sparse car from out of nowhere followed by another that cuts joy out of air —there is no music now— the ground rips up dirt and a thousand familiar faces I stroke. I’m pushing fingers penetrating the loss of myself hoping to materialize out of nowhere like a phantom machine. Drunken poets with buddha hearts of pure gold camouflaged against a cold world with a cynical facade. Facade? Drink. Toke. Shard of nihilistic bliss. Float into me and the neuroses will feel as comfy as an old pair of boots —they will clonk, and clunk, thump and thud into a drunken night -eternity has ended. WH000000SH -What road are we on? The pine float is the voice of love sinking, falling, grasping, and floating. —Futility— “Heaven is empty tonight.” The words sear hanging in the air with the cigarette smoke. Simple poetic truths, the only thing to make one smile. Heaven and Hell entwine like melancholia. “The happy hell.” ‘‘The decadent Heaven." She looks over eyeing incestuously for she is the mother of desperation, we her children, this bar a temple, temples are for the weak, the weak are desperate. It’ s all so romantic here in the empty Heaven, emotional sinning nobodies lapping up religion. But one January in my mind everything went -BOOM- and I saw myself clearly, a specter haunting this hall reality shamelessly searching for who knows what, humping apathy and lurching, surging towards unattainable, like a numbing captain or soft kisses on the nape of your neck. Fumbling blindly? Fumbling miserably? Fumbling towards ecstasy we hope and pray.... Fumbling towards nothing, story of a life, story of a day. What would happen if we forgot this place? And begin the walk back in classy hood such as the dreamer walking down desolate, sad, hilarious, pathetic. I head out and grab a beer. Everyone gabbing, my mind anchored, interaction billows as words drop like faceless flies off to dreams. Glorious noise shards impale me, shrapnel of a dreamers dream go forth and create virtual spiritual anarchy, peaceful chaos on this ravaged day. The alcohol burned away and I awoke bleary and broken, my thumb swollen and stiff from the previous nights drunken tantrum. My body is battered and torn, a drunken testament to existing. Yes, the boat is sinking, full of holes, let us have another drink and watch the fucker go down under lonely moonlight and forgotten burnt out stars with no name. It’s another day again, where does one go from here? Further, I guess. |
||||||||||
| Copyright © 2005 by Wayne Mason |
||||||||||