This place is beyond bleak
- it’s fucking grotesque. I have the
faint edge on. Gloomy clouds signal inclement weather. Tired baleful
concrete tenements glower down on deserted streets during the daytime and the
place seems deserted; but at night the place comes to life when troops of cocaine fuelled primates fill the air with tribal war cries and
furtive indigent lepers go about their business on the fly.
What
am I doing here? I hate this fucking
town Everything went wrong here. I
fucked up big time. I crashed and burned. You expect to be kicked when you are
down; but not by your friends - that really hurts - and I got mad. I thought about vengeance. I’d be good at that, but I’ve seen their
lives and that’s enough.
It
still smells of piss and cancer here. It has a soul crushing ambiance. The
shithole that used to be home - but not by choice - never by choice. I got out, but I came back to find that there’s fuck
all here, but the undead junkie hoards and their feral klepto offspring.
I could do this of my own accord you know. I don’t require the
spike. I do alright on my own and I could write if I could just get some sleep!
Men of a certain age find it difficult
to sleep. Shit loads of pent up emotion and barely suppressed anger keeps them
awake at night. You’ll find that men of a certain age carry luggage heavy with
pent up emotion and barely suppressed
anger. But, they have the fear on.
This is my hometown - anus mundi. I came here to get away from it
all and I succeeded. I’m decades away from anything. This place was designated
pointless in 1962 and filed under forgotten - do not resuscitate. Some part of me has died
here and shall forever remain in an unmarked grave
Does what you’re doing make you wonder where you are going?
Best not to think about it; the remedy is simple press the needle
to the membrane - now plunge. Instant gratification; in vitro fertilization for
the brain. (exhale)
less
haste more speed
I stand enthralled. I’m
still drawn to the scene. I do not say I’m compelled.
The Inca in me holds a morbid fascination for the patterns of
disgrace.
So many faces to remember - so many to forget.
I was young I was
arrogant I was doped up I was right
I was always right
Everything that could be done was done, but the consequences were still brutal. I held him in my arms as his life
ebbed away. He didn’t remember my name. That’s when I knew he was never coming
back. His papers read DOA
They called it death by misadventure, but I killed him with
kindness and an extra generous deal. I’d already forged my connection along
with my papers and was on the first bus out of there.
Don’t tell me how bad it is. I already know. It’s a suicide sport and I’m all
out of bullets. Nevertheless - I’m geared up for excess. Bicarbonate of coca, the
ancient inca curse. Smother me with candy kisses. Take this poor boy home it’s
the last big deal - coughing up rocks
and surfing on air, but it’s all good
at twice the price.
They’re shanking junkies down in the park. Bloody lubricant for a
vicious mechanism. Those black market forces can be so exacting.
