An afternoon, downtown
A drowsy
afternoon without any prospect of improvement.
Alcohol and solitude mix together bitterly.
Now the dry,
sunburnt pain has grown so vast and volatile, it’s caught up with me even in
this rumbling downtown café.
Even rock ‘n’
roll sounds like death. The dusk is
poisoning my sight. I cannot be
saved. The terror of night can only be
reluctantly postponed.
#
“It hurts to be
awake.”
-stolen,
from Moody. Precisely. I go to sleep at night, struggling to shed today;
I beg the world to leave me alone, until another day.
To
breath is effortless, but to live is so hard.
#
While
my dreams are bursting at the seams, my pages are blank. If to dream is to escape, why not escape by
writing, in consciousness as well?
#
I
used to ride up and down these streets and alleys. I used to belong. I used to sing.
I
look out the windows that are dampen by the dried raindrops sprawling all
across my beloved city. Surrounded by
death we walk on, pretending to live. We
know O so well the death that lurks in our own shadows, but the willful
ignorance preserves us for tomorrow.
The
glorious tomorrow.
#
The
glare of the raging sunset is staring down the back of my neck now.
There
can never be enough heartbreak in the world to stop the love-addled fools from
trying.
#
Authoritative
voices enthrall me. While subversion,
wit, and honesty draws me in.
This
must be true for most of the people as well, judging from the fandom the likes
of Thompson and Lester Bangs have attracted.
But I don’t believe what we recognize in prose as personality and spontaneity
are inherent. So how does one learn to
express oneself – the stuff of heart and blood – through words? That is the true art. The marvelous thing about Thompson is not in
his drunken escapes, but the way words and sentences gust out of him freely and
sharply, that they outlined his person.
It’s
beautiful – though I doubt the man would have appreciated the girly sentiment.
#
Rock
‘n’ roll can’t change the world anymore.
It
has to be something new now.
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