Call me call me call me. Pick up your goddamn phone or call me. Because I told you I want to drink. I told you I need to drink.
(this is me not drunk enough, but quite drunk to think all these twisted thoughts)
***
I miss you. I see you in that picture on Facebook and I miss you. I want you, just like that, with your eyes closed and yout poet-eyes shut away in dreamland. Because I'm a dreamer and you're a dreamer. She's not a dreamer. I want you, have I said that before? I don't care about anything else - I just want you and that lovely sleepy face. Not in a bus. Not in a tree-lined avenue on the other side of the world. Not at Hyde Park. I want you in places I wouldn't dare list here. I want you like Liz Phair's "Flowers". I want you to unmask that big lie and I want you to play "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" with me and I want you to keep sending me that poem and I want you to fall over on top of me in the tube station (as you so irresistibly call it). Be. Here. Now.
I hate you.
***
Loud music. Mr. Jägermeister gently pouring shots between my lips. American girl discovering Brazilian man. Me jumping and dancing and raising my arms up to the beautiful night sky just because I'm so blissed out - and not even high. Man in torn stockings - note: they're not torn on the knees, they're torn right between his legs so this city's demented shadows can find a way in. He smells like pee and I start to get a little freaked out. I start to realize things aren't quite what they appear to be. I realize I'm in a hole in the heart of this city's underground scene. I realize that guy's Tic-Tacs weren't actually Tic-Tacs. I realize things are spinning. I realize I need Mr.Wasted Guy's special cigarrette. I realize I don't smoke. I realize those girls in the weird capes don't just have a crap dressing sense - their actual "dress", if you can call that minuscule piece of fabric a dress, is a pole-dancer's outfit. I realize I did take a pole-dancing class last summer. I realize I'm not at the right place at the right time. I realize I don't even care. I realize I'm alive.
***
More. More. More. Keep filling that fragile plastic-fantastic cup up till the contents spill. Because it's not about the contents - it's about the idea behind (and in front of) the contents. It tastes like the dirty tap water I had to brush my teeth with from that kinky road-side motel back on that college road trip. It tastes like rotten bubbly water. It tastes like something one should never taste out of free will.
But after one, two, three, thirteen... it just tastes like water. And I'm thirsty, so excuse me. Fill it up, fill it up - I'm burning. I'm starting to see things - actually, I'm starting to miss out on things that are there to be seen. I'm starting to give people extreme-makeovers in my head, like... beauty-fy them. Because deep inside no one's as ugly as the real world makes them. It's not their fault, it's not my fault, it's no one's fault. Blame is like God in many ways - it's omnipotent, omnipresent, and omniscient, but it's just there, invisibly luring people into its mad fits of uglyness.
And beer helps.
Out I go before I give the entire universe my oh-so-famous finger and walk out on life. Out I go, into the demented holes of this city to drink even more than I already did. Out I go to live, to shoot for the moon and land among filthy rats disguised as stars. Out. Out. Out...
Because I can no longer stand to stay inside. And it doesn't feel grand, lemme assure you of that.
*
No comments:
Post a Comment