The mood soars.
Curled up in blankets,
Curled up inside.
Sunlight on the outside.
Windows wide open.
The light illuminating the fullness
of my life.
Full of midnight travellers,
inspiration sleeting in!
Full of those gutsy gamblers,
betting all and winning big.
Full of those midnight riders,
inspiration sleeting in.
Where did that old creature go?
I looked around,
and I found that I didn't know.
There's a bowl of simple breakfast,
There's a cat with an air of disdain.
There's the sound of a woman laughing,
and there's the sound of the last packed train.
Call me a gutsy gambler
Say he leads a restless life.
Call me a midnight rider
Sleeting in with the darkness of the night
Call me a gutsy gambler.
Say he led a restless life.
Call me in the nighttime silence,
And I'll be smiling...
in the simple joy of life.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
David
The table crunched as the rotted wood went into sharp, unexpected contact with the concrete, and there was a satisfying sound as one of the legs ripped free entirely, bouncing off down towards the bays. The smell of damp and mould was suddenly in the air. I sneezed twice uncontrollably and was suddenly annoyed at myself. Why break the legs off old tables? What a prehistoric notion, that breaking things was an accomplishment - but if you set out to do something, you have to do it. There wasn't much point in feeling sorry over it now.
I looked the table over. Yep - a leg had torn itself completely off, and there was a split in the top. Some fuckwit would have come along with his family, wouldn't have wanted to admit that he knows absolutely nothing about wood, or about the quality of wood, dropped fifty bucks on the 'fine mahogany table' and taken it home to his place in the suburbs. The table could have been taken home, quietly made even more dirty and scuffed and ruined, and then collapsed one day. Instead, I've broken it. Now it'll have to go straight to pulping, and I've cost David fifty bucks and that idiot white-bread suburbanite his termporary table.
There's something about that. I don't know. Feels really good. Everything is more entertaining when somebody else is being screwed over it.
"Temper, temper" David says drily, adjusting his position so that he can drape his long, stork-like legs over the side of the chair he's sitting in. There's a hole in the bottom of it and he's almost falling right through, but his gangly frame is artfully positioned over every available surface that'll hold his weight. I love it when he does this. Here we are, out at the dump, under an acid-rain sky with the stink of all creation's inevitable end washing over us, and David thinks and talks like a Victorian lord. I mean, aside from the joint hanging out of his mouth and the constant smell of stale weed, he could be one.
David knows that everything's more entertaining when somebody else is being screwed. That's why he sells garbage to yuppies and suburban drones who should know better. That's why he lives out here, running the semi-legitimate business of selling off recyclable furniture at a tiny profit. That's why he's high as a kite for most of his life, and that's why he fucked me twice over the table before I broke it. It's also why he only let me come once.
I pull my pants up, bending down to the cold concrete for a moment, and I hear David make an appreciative noise as this position gives him a perfect view of my ass. Despite myself, I smile. Sure, he's an asshole, but he just reminded me of how much he desires me, even now, after he's finished with me twice. Another good feeling in the midst of a shit situation, a terrible action. I'm learning to accept them when they arrive, but my smile turns into a grimace anyway. Straighten up, brush the ash out of the small of my back from where his smoke dropped onto me during sex. I didn't bother to ask him to take it out. We never kiss the second time, so it didn't matter.
"I've got another round in me later, if you're disappointed with me." he says, and I know he probably will. Six joints and a few hours later and he'll be raring to go. I tell myself I won't be here. I probably will be. Where else is there to go? If I go home, the people I live with will be awake and around. What am I supposed to tell them? "Fuck off or I'll kick your head in, you santimonious little fucker" didn't go down so well last time. Besides, I don't want to head back into the real world yet - the world where people had to bleach their anuses, or have their tits cut off in a double masectomy, or take little pre-packaged brainwashing kits to sleep at night. Out here, I could pretend that the world was dirt, and ruin, and natural. So I'd stay, and the sun would go down, and David would fuck me, and if I were quick about it I might even get to come the third time. It's worth a shot, right?
He grins and I know he can tell I've made my mind up. I turn back to the fallen table and shake my head. "If you can find something else to fuck me over. Sex is always better if you're breaking something."
He nods, takes a drag. He agrees.
I looked the table over. Yep - a leg had torn itself completely off, and there was a split in the top. Some fuckwit would have come along with his family, wouldn't have wanted to admit that he knows absolutely nothing about wood, or about the quality of wood, dropped fifty bucks on the 'fine mahogany table' and taken it home to his place in the suburbs. The table could have been taken home, quietly made even more dirty and scuffed and ruined, and then collapsed one day. Instead, I've broken it. Now it'll have to go straight to pulping, and I've cost David fifty bucks and that idiot white-bread suburbanite his termporary table.
There's something about that. I don't know. Feels really good. Everything is more entertaining when somebody else is being screwed over it.
"Temper, temper" David says drily, adjusting his position so that he can drape his long, stork-like legs over the side of the chair he's sitting in. There's a hole in the bottom of it and he's almost falling right through, but his gangly frame is artfully positioned over every available surface that'll hold his weight. I love it when he does this. Here we are, out at the dump, under an acid-rain sky with the stink of all creation's inevitable end washing over us, and David thinks and talks like a Victorian lord. I mean, aside from the joint hanging out of his mouth and the constant smell of stale weed, he could be one.
David knows that everything's more entertaining when somebody else is being screwed. That's why he sells garbage to yuppies and suburban drones who should know better. That's why he lives out here, running the semi-legitimate business of selling off recyclable furniture at a tiny profit. That's why he's high as a kite for most of his life, and that's why he fucked me twice over the table before I broke it. It's also why he only let me come once.
I pull my pants up, bending down to the cold concrete for a moment, and I hear David make an appreciative noise as this position gives him a perfect view of my ass. Despite myself, I smile. Sure, he's an asshole, but he just reminded me of how much he desires me, even now, after he's finished with me twice. Another good feeling in the midst of a shit situation, a terrible action. I'm learning to accept them when they arrive, but my smile turns into a grimace anyway. Straighten up, brush the ash out of the small of my back from where his smoke dropped onto me during sex. I didn't bother to ask him to take it out. We never kiss the second time, so it didn't matter.
"I've got another round in me later, if you're disappointed with me." he says, and I know he probably will. Six joints and a few hours later and he'll be raring to go. I tell myself I won't be here. I probably will be. Where else is there to go? If I go home, the people I live with will be awake and around. What am I supposed to tell them? "Fuck off or I'll kick your head in, you santimonious little fucker" didn't go down so well last time. Besides, I don't want to head back into the real world yet - the world where people had to bleach their anuses, or have their tits cut off in a double masectomy, or take little pre-packaged brainwashing kits to sleep at night. Out here, I could pretend that the world was dirt, and ruin, and natural. So I'd stay, and the sun would go down, and David would fuck me, and if I were quick about it I might even get to come the third time. It's worth a shot, right?
He grins and I know he can tell I've made my mind up. I turn back to the fallen table and shake my head. "If you can find something else to fuck me over. Sex is always better if you're breaking something."
He nods, takes a drag. He agrees.
Terrors?
See: me.
In a dirty mirror,
cracked and scratched.
See: me.
Distorted in the souring of the glass.
Twisting in your sheets.
Crying in your sleep.
Follow me,
Down the beads of sweat on your forehead.
Follow me,
Down the shivers in your body.
I'm unsure what to do,
I'm unsure what to do,
The memory of victory is vanishing with you.
Moving all around,
Shaking the bars at the ups and downs,
Clutching at straws
until we both crumple and fall and sleep until dawn.
See: me.
Smiling.
The wind in my teeth,
the memory of grief
fading across the sky like a cloud over the sun.
See: me.
Laughing and running free.
The shaken nights have shattered and gone.
We run free, we run free, by the light of the moon,
it couldn't come too soon,
and now we'll have some fun.
In a dirty mirror,
cracked and scratched.
See: me.
Distorted in the souring of the glass.
Twisting in your sheets.
Crying in your sleep.
Follow me,
Down the beads of sweat on your forehead.
Follow me,
Down the shivers in your body.
I'm unsure what to do,
I'm unsure what to do,
The memory of victory is vanishing with you.
Moving all around,
Shaking the bars at the ups and downs,
Clutching at straws
until we both crumple and fall and sleep until dawn.
See: me.
Smiling.
The wind in my teeth,
the memory of grief
fading across the sky like a cloud over the sun.
See: me.
Laughing and running free.
The shaken nights have shattered and gone.
We run free, we run free, by the light of the moon,
it couldn't come too soon,
and now we'll have some fun.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Being Older
It's really tragic how harshly people treat young people who make mistakes, and I think that might be something that I need to unlearn. When you think about your life preceding, say, 20 years of age, it paints a ludicrous picture. Half your life has been learning how to be ambulatory and how your brain operates. The other half is spent in a schooling system that does not prepare you for leaving home and making it on your own. None of the practical skills required to run a household, or run a business, or even make plans for your future are guarenteed to be present in young people. We just don't get taught how to be actual people.
So who do we blame? Our parents? Yeah, that's a good idea - expect the people who were born three or four decades ago to instill the necessary abilities into the next generation. How the hell are they going to pull that off? Forty years ago, student debts and technology and the war on terror and all sorts of insane, fucked up things have happened to the world, and parents don't have any idea of how to structure a life to cope with the overwhelmingly different world from what they grew up in.
I mean, that's the culture of the 21st century, isn't it? Years of fucking up. Years of digging upwards, trying to get past the obstacles. Constantly striving, constantly fighting, constantly falling down. I don't know - I think we're just too harsh on people.
So who do we blame? Our parents? Yeah, that's a good idea - expect the people who were born three or four decades ago to instill the necessary abilities into the next generation. How the hell are they going to pull that off? Forty years ago, student debts and technology and the war on terror and all sorts of insane, fucked up things have happened to the world, and parents don't have any idea of how to structure a life to cope with the overwhelmingly different world from what they grew up in.
I mean, that's the culture of the 21st century, isn't it? Years of fucking up. Years of digging upwards, trying to get past the obstacles. Constantly striving, constantly fighting, constantly falling down. I don't know - I think we're just too harsh on people.
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