Wicked Game

R.I.P. Lester (December 13, 1948 - April 30, 1982) and Hunter (July 18, 1937 - February 20, 2005). We need more of you to regain our excuses to ride the colors of pinwheels.

This is non-fiction, a cautionary tale.

Two junkies in a symbiotic relationship, hooked on each other, hooked on meth and pain killers and other vices yet to be named. Their gateway, each other. Stuck lil' guinea piggies. Their names only muttered to mask the track marks, "Jack and Jill."

They went up the hill, fetching from the sources pails of acid -- joints being passed around while walking up the steep, grassy knoll. They have plans to ensure their delinquencies and masterful inadequacies.

Everything seemed mechanical, detached, sleepy; fluorescent eating away at the buzz. A country that survived Stalin could survive a little dope.

Every taste
Every specter
Every nectar
Every spectacle

Every little ounce of breath -- its the drugs that do the talking. The shakes and molehills, dilated pupils, service part worshippers, the left living in a hot sardine tin can... there's one rule: no one can fall in love. It ruins business, and distracts the patrons and saints and hogwashed brown nosers.

Its the drugs. It always was. And you want, you need, it all. Do you even read stats at all? Or are you too busy being butt fucked by well hung towers of religious enterprise? Either way kiddo, you choose a side.

They came tumbling down. And its often debated. Keep the engineer, feed him burgers and fries -- or if in England -- bangers and mash. Oh did you forget the words that you scraped? Sweet, sweet downfall and doom and gloom and cheery melodies of "you wouldn't know it." They came tumbling down.

Which was expected, if I should say so myself.
Either way kiddo, you choose a side.

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Untitled #2

He was telling stories of ghosts in pirate ships, that's all he does. Circling with the fog, his heart skips. "This has happened before, hasn't it?" It wasn't really a question. He sees it as circles, but its really cycles that go around, around, around. He spits and his blood rips through the yarn of passing time, and age old science of content, a geranium patch held up by cops and robbers.

She's pissed. She doesn't like it when the larks get to clingy. It fills the bus stop and the bus. that fleeting feeling when you service the sun all your life, she fells like that. But she keeps to herself, all the nagging inside her head. "You never are around, you never were, you never are," the whisper of the rain was telling her in small pitter patter against the window, the bus ride home. Home never feels like home anymore, home never feels cozy, it was all work to keep it together.

They crossed paths. Eggboy vs. Cocolulu is the background music, like it was a scene from everyone's favorite indie movie. Running off, running off, running off. Come to realize this movie is pretentious, just buy the soundtrack.

He tells her the story of the mariner that seen the ghost ship, a slight revamp to his earlier stories that keep repeating. She just shrugs and walks. The spirit undeterred, he continues jogging near her fast paced feet, continuing his stories filled with apologies.

"You're not helping any cause. Just wait for the resolving clocks," she said when she stopped in front of her stoop.

"Oh, that is just gold. You and your cute nose," he blurts out. Maybe it was time to back away and just sit around the bus stop and wait for his home to come over.

Although, he doesn't want to.

So he just stands there clutching himself, circling with the fog, as she enters her door with loose grips of menace. He sits down in the middle of the road, around this time no one drives, he's safe. maybe.

She cooks herself a TV dinner. He sits there outside in the cold. She washes her dishes. He sits there outside in the cold. She abuses wine. He sits there outside in the cold. She whispers against the static of the television. He sits there outside in the cold. She brushes her teeth, dresses up in pajamas, turns off the TV, nods off to sleep.

He sits there outside in the cold. Alone. But safe. Maybe.

Maybe he needs to work on his stories.

When she got up in the morning and was greeted by yet another day of being there, she didn't even feel any chipper than the last day. The radio announces today would be another cold day, one for the record books. The patches of geranium at her garden didn't want to bloom either, the day would go downhill, assuming. The machination bites her tongue. She spits and her blood rips through the yarn of passing time.

Sober.

Once she stepped out of her door, he sees him there, sitting in the middle of the road. the most tired look on those eyes greeted her.

"I have a different story this time around, about a cute teddy bear on heroin."

And a tired smile matching his tired eyes creeps on her face.

.082007.