Crumbling Walls
“I just don’t get it,” she asked as we
sat, side by side, inside the
wizened shooting gallery, someone’s former
home lost to foreclosure,
“you’ve got a place to call home, a dream
to pursue, good looks.
“what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, twirling the
glass-pipe
between my fingers. “I like it better here
than out there with
“what you’d call normal folk.”
“you’re insane,” she scoffed.
“might just as well be the case,” I
concurred. “it does that
“to you.”
“you seek death while you have a life,”
she continued,
high and in the mood to be philosophical,
“while the rest of us seek life for we
have nothing but
“death.”
“write that down,” I encouraged her. “might
“one day land you a job at the university;
or a publication in The New Yorker.
“they love bullshit like that.”
“cut the shit,” she punched my shoulder,
playfully.
“I’m not shitting you,” I threw my arm
around her shoulders, held her
close.
(it’s insane that I remember those moments
vividly,
seeing them transpire in front of my tired
eyes,
but cannot recall her name.)
“right,” she sighed, rested her head on my
shoulder; we both
blankly stared into
the abyss. winos and junkies engirdled us,
yet they
they did not exist (for us), just like we
didn’t exist (for them).
perfection.
“will I become a story, too?” she asked
after a long while of perfect silence.
“probably. one no one will ever read.”
“why?” she looked at me with a soul-warming,
sorrowful smile.
“we’re not today’s heroes,” I said while
rummaging,
with my free hand, through my pockets.
“we’re the outcasts,
“the bad guys, the ones to avoid.”
“so, make me into a bad guy,” she giggled.
“I’ll be alright with that.”
“and,” I filled the pipe and fired up the
lighter
underneath it, taking long drags, “who
shall be the hero? me?”
“why the fuck not?” she lifted her
shoulders; her face too close to mine, her
breath reeking of good glass, and of
passion.
“I’m no hero; not today, nor tomorrow.
maybe, I would
“have been yesterday. or the day before
yesterday.”
“so fucking what?” she insisted; then, she
wrung the pipe
off my grip and had a drag.
bugs crawled under our skin, devouring us
from within; flesh-eating bugs
doing damage but refusing to
deliver the final blow. intelligent
parasites, keeping
the host alive for as long as possible.
men in black staked out the gallery,
watching,
waiting, guns in hand; one day, they’d
raid and we’d all be dead. they
never did while I was there.
her head on my shoulder, we shared the
glass pipe,
staring into the abyss and the grey cloud
of smoke turned
green from the abundant moonlight
penetrating the broken windows.
“can we last?” she asked while scratching
her arm, digging
the bugs up.
“no,” I said, having made peace with my
parasites, letting them eat
the useless away—they steered away from
the liver (too poisonous)
and thus, I didn’t bother them.
“yeah,” she agreed and jumped to her feet,
frantically
walking about, searching for the feds, the
secret agencies,
the pre-paid assassins.
we were alone, lost in a raucous crowd;
for a while, we desired nothing more.
birthplace of many youthful
dreams and aspirations; in its
rooms, a young, innocent love
based on drugs and booze
was born and matured in a
few days.
fuelled by our
favourite poisons, we embarked on
a short weekend escape that would
engrave itself viciously
on my at the time living soul.
burning junk in the morning to
maintain the flames alight;
kisses on the porch overlooking the
lake and surrounding forest.
we knew we
belonged; not in
that lakehouse, but somewhere
similar, yet greatly different,
next to some other lake,
in some other country.
away from everything; just
the two of us against the
whole damn world.
we were ready, eager, prepared to
FIGHT. we
did, and
lost. I’m still
grieving; tough pill to swallow
(even for a man that at 27 has already
popped down every pill available
in the markets of dark alleys—following,
without wishing to, the
glorious footsteps of the great master
now hopefully looking at me with some
pride
from the great Bar in the sky).
she’s gone, forgotten by
all but
me. as the sun
rises, signalling the birth of more
stillborn dreams, I recall the lakehouse
and a
tear drops into the strong coffee;
insanity has been on pause for
six months; haven’t injected, snorted,
eaten, nor smoked
illegal substances for quite a while.
I miss the rush, the
hallucinations, the escape.
my sole solace, Friday’s
beers reminding me I was,
once,
a free bird soaring through
the skies and deserted highways.
the lakehouse represents the days
I dove into the sea of
depravity and despair—best damn
decision of my life.
the world around me turns smaller,
no breathing space available; I lost
my Emily a long time ago and it sometimes
feels it was only yesterday we
drank Four Roses by the lake, staring at
the horizon,
making grand promises for a future that
was never
meant to
be.
Turtledoves on the Window Sill
almost every morning, I was drinking and
watching a tiny part of the world
from my window;
had no place to go,
nothing to do.
only Four Roses bourbon,
stale tobacco;
the grey clouds kept on descending like an
otherworldly mist coming to take me away.
humming from under the blankets,
I saw nothing, heard everything.
the bourbon river flowed,
there were mice under the kitchen sink
playing 5-draw poker,
some flies danced near the ceiling
and I didn’t disturb their tribal rituals.
it was all over the day we
saw the sun sincerely lambent,
when the grass burned
on the other side of the world.
we had to run,
the planes were grounded;
angels serving time,
criminals buying mansions on
the mountains. we had it all.
we lost it.
reclaimed the spoils
of the ongoing war.
razed fields and
burned landmarks of
other epochs;
relics walk by,
sometimes,
back then we hollered and laughed.
not anymore;
relics, too.
others are doing
the hollering and the laughing.
others will replace them,
just like they did with us.
in back alleys
drunks fight;
not the same ones,
but they’re drunk and
fighting,
it’s all that matters.
some drink because they cannot have
fun otherwise,
and some drink
because it’s all they know, how they manage
to live.
I belong to both, and to neither.
I never escaped, I never
tried;
temporary sanity,
I drink, it flies off the window.
she got up; kissed me on the cheek.
asked me the time. 8.30am.
“did you get any sleep?”
no, I drank all night long.
had nothing better to do.
she kissed me again,
took a hit from the bottle.
got dressed, headed to work.
I stayed behind,
postponing my going to class
for another day.
it was faraway lands we dreamt of, and you
made the longest trip possible, to the one
destination
from whence there’s no return.
after the funeral, I went to the dive; the
place we met,
danced under “Purple Rain”, got drunk, and
ended up
in my dorm room—drinking more beer, having
fantastic sex.
who’d have thought that one night would
turn into the nine
most magnificent and wild months?
I drank you away— tried to anyway—
while women came to me, trying to decipher
my teary eyes; I shooed them all away,
for once, I couldn’t leap into the next
adventure.
after a short while, and several shots of
bourbon and tequila and quite a
few beers,
I left; shambled to the bus, back to the
apartment that was
home—though never felt like one sans when
you were there—
for so damn long.
drank some more; constantly trying to
drink and write you away.
failing.
drunk all the time, somehow finding
comfort in the haze
of booze and drugs because I felt
as if you were right next to me, indulging
to the same
vices.
in drunkenness, I feel your hand in
mine,
your soft voice landing in my ear,
tingling my dazed mind.
I looked to my right—you weren’t there.
I looked to my left—nope, still gone.
more bottles drained; still bottles are
drained, still
boozing most days away, unwilling to
function
in the cannibalistic society.
I still fucking miss your hand in mine,
your hair in my face as we slept in a
stoned embrace.
what keeps me alive are the wild acid
dreams
of you making a fool of the Devil,
drinking the bastard
under the table,
preparing His kingdom for my arrival—we’re
taking over,
as we promised Him the night we drank and
shot junk with Him
on that blue couch of mine.
bourbon and gin and tonics,
beers are reserved for maintaining a
healthy pace,
and countless cigarette stubs cover the
ashtray.
the words keep flowing,
your image once more pops in my head, a
couple of tears roll.
recounting the hundreds of embraces that
tried to replace yours;
and all failed miserably.
bourbon love song, once more for my fallen
angel that left
the world too soon and now is outdrinking
the Devil
without me.
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