After a few drinks and staring at happy people in the bar, I felt drunk, so I put in my headphones and abandoned responsibility for a music video world, where my body was numbed by the cold and the booze.
“It’s times like this…” I thought, “that I am really truly just a lowly junkie, flunky fucktard. All I do is wash the feelings down the sink with menacing drinks, and pound the heaviest music I can find. I want it heavy. I want catharsis. I want thought out of me. I know there are empty eyes all around the place with lovely thoughts of licking things off my body, of throwing me around and making me moan etc etc” I stopped and I pouted for no one. Rain, wind, and hair everywhere. God I looked cool, I thought, but it was hurting to think,
“You see, I want to know, why in the fuck… everything?” And I didn’t get an answer that night.
“When will the time come to truly sit among thoughts and paint the pictures I see so briefly? Briefly, briefly does it go, so sweetly, bittersweetly not discreetly” I said, crying in the harsh day light with wincing and fucking philosophical eyes.
“John Lennon, y’know. Like, the plans… we make” he said. Smiling raw lips and rubbing what was probably a sore cock, though with a self-satisfied glaze to his whole stupid face. I could smell and feel his bloated everything, and just bit down.
“I used to think I was a poet” I said.
“Maybe you were just awkward, and arrogant about it. Good looks are a curse”
“What the fuck have I done to my youth?”
“The same thing everybody does, I guess”
“It’s going to end badly, isn’t it?”
“It has to”
Then he made us breakfast while I stared at myself in the mirror, or mirrored his stance, or stared as the cockroaches danced in a cloud of poison that I sprayed while laughing.
The eggs tasted worse for the wear, but we smoked a joint and went out walking, just to see what would happen.