I can feel the circus of power and the fuzz fucking with me. All the dark eyes and the pretty, twisted smiles of suburban girls plotting against me. All the rage hiding in the dark behind a light veil of syrup that keeps it contained. All the citizen peasants trying to dam the thing the force. More kept pressure means a more violent struggle once the catharsis hits and the light shines through. I will take your arm and lead you into someplace that we will never return from.
This homeless chick and I was either a detective or some peeping tom jerk with nothing better to do than shuffle the street and watch my mirror image dwindle. She was plagued with the great gift of seeing the beyond the obvious. String up a seagull by it's neck in order to win a scrap of food from it and see what survival is all about. The little wing flapping and the sky chase. The animal still has the hidden animal stalking instinct that we lost since we developed our brand of retro-evolution from the modern techno industrial lights that prevent us from dying straight out when the time comes. Makes me think that if there was a respirator and heart thumper machine well oiled enough, we could hang from our cross limp, only to see our peers below arguing about getting us down because there are things to be done and shame to be doused. Christ form, see Mary cut him down, give him a pep pill and tell him to keep marching. There is a certain dignity in peaceful rest that the ghost of chance will no longer allow.
She is on the roof tonight looking out at the sky fueled wild with desperation her lung cries sailing out into the dusk. She is a hooker in neon fever. She is disco dancing in white jump suit to the sounds of Kool and the Gang. She is a morose victim watching me make a fool of myself in pursuit of some art form. She is the all knowing saint that sees what a pitfall it is to expose the self to the masses for understanding. You want understanding, you take an elevator to the 6th floor of a 5 story building. You look surprised when a man opens his trench-coat to reveal a thousand doves that head for the heavens when the doors open. You want to understand, you slice off your tongue and act surprised when people laugh at your sentences "Ut Da Uck is goin' on ere?" You dream of a man with an empty house that scowls and hands you your own heart on a silver platter and say's "Here's your so-called art, junior." You dream of a woman who let's you know that if you are not willing to die for your bullshit cause, then you may as well cast off your genitals and hang them in the wind. Perhaps you should then seek something softer, hide under the covers, or go to Peru. I have a glass of wine on my desk here that will last longer than it takes you to uncross your eyes after reading all of this and trying to understand. Here is your understanding, and a street paved with black silk slit throats, nice and easy like buttering toast.
Hot knife cuts through. As the crimson water drools, all I hear is a trickling you. As it runs it's way through rusty pipes of a vacant home, corpse dangle all silent and sweet, like never before. The police and your parents circle the parking lot in a gray fury, never believing what transpired. Someone gets the cash and someone dies all tender and apologetic. Something Darwin once said. Someone laughs like a vagrant laughs and someone trips in the bathroom with their pants around their ankles in a fleeting attempt to avoid gunshots that ring out in the twinkling desert twilight. Either way, the reserection will stick and burn in your eyes like a hot book of matches and we will bring back your body to be twisted by newspaper interviews and a celebrity rise and fall.
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