Degenerates

Huddled in some back alley behind the apartments along the river, a spot where you can see the factory, a chick with long earrings and a black blazer adorned with badges sits on the dumpster in divine LSD commune. A not-yet-adult leans against the wall with his foot on a pile of cinderblocks. He smokes a cigarette in the breath of nicotine fire that stains his army jacket with the day’s angry thoughts. We make a net of choices just to trap the demon inside. Another chick in a stained cut-off white tee that offers no brand but the universal “Fuck You” sits under the window and reaches up over her black mascara and silky black mohawk to grab the bottle from the kid laying in the room portal above her. It’s filled with the entry-level numbing agent the girl needs and the kid only feels. Trapped among concreate rulers and united by casual jadedness. They live by the deep hope that they might find what everyone else has been missing in that back alley looking at the factory where an industrial age suffocates in iron oxides like so many hopes and dreams of enlightenment.

Waiting for the day they give everyone hatchets and rifles. Waiting for the war that will change everything. Waiting for time to pass. Wating with their netted demons for the time they can be set loose; when the world can be theirs. Waiting for their lives to happen. Waiting for the drug to free them. Waiting for the arguments to stop. Waiting for the monster of Love. Wanting it all and dying of anger. Capable and dangerous.

Meditating on the sensation of it.

 

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Lovers in Space.

The farther you pull back,

The less it all seems to mean,

But looking in on a moment,

Bears all the significance.

 

The lights of a moving carousel,

the smell of pine and fried dough,

Smiles that wont go away,

Standing on the grassy dew covered hill and looking up at the fabric above,’

and wondering.

And not having to wonder alone.

 

Sky rocketing through the clouds and weaving among comets towards the vast uncertainty of the big ocean of reality,

Peering out from the cramped cockpit at a flinging tendril of star energy,

Not minding the close spaces or the empty floating candy wrappers in the cabin,

Or the crumbs, or the love.

There are filters after all.

 

Walking across alien landscapes and marveling together at odd temples covered with blue lichen,

Reaching for each other under a green sky,

and being human in a strange, futuristic land,

on another planet,

in the emptiness of all space,

two specks in the multitudes,

Knowing that when you pull away it all seems like nothing,

But here and now,

Is all that is.

all that is needed.

Futile Instincts.

You know how dogs will keep fetching or chase things around until they are worn out, or how cats can’t help themselves from swatting at fast moving tiny things, even though it’s clearly a jangly ball on a stick…I wonder if humans have one of those futile instincts we can’t stop ourselves from doing….

It’s probably just vices, sex, or violence.

But that does not mean we don’t have fun things we cant help ourselves with! (besides the Vice and Sex part). I mean there is music and art and good food. We find infinite ways to be creative. And maybe that is humanity’s futile instinct, to be creative and try new things until we’ve done it all.

But, It’s probably just vices, sex, or violence.

I mean I MEAN, we have all these thoughts spinning in our heads that we need to drown out or let go just to live without going mad. What do we do with our time? What does it all mean? Who are we as individuals? Is it worth it? Maybe our futile instinct is questioning! We cant help but question things, even if we know the answer. Looking up at the stars and feeling that wistful humility of knowing how much more is possible. Or maybe it’s like…like…

It’s probably just vices, sex, or violence.