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bop_apocalypse?

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Ch. 2; take two people, romantic [Sep. 12th, 2006|09:05 am]
Frankie was my doll. Man she was the epitome. Back in those burnout harlem days, i'm telling you. she had the boys on her at all times. And they were on each other too.

Sex, to me, is the true innermost urge. It's what really motivates us to continue, as for some reason our purpose is obviously to regenerate? Why? Who gives a shit. But sex, it's that primordial thing that eggs us on to do shit we think is really stupid at any truly rational time. And truly rational times are only found by chemical aide, so i've seen. So the common consensus, even then, was free love. Shit. We were sodomites, i'm telling you, hell its better than philistines.

And you know why, it was the smell. We all were caught up in the crazy sickly-sweet smell of the times, a mixture of weed smoke and sweaty bodies, searching for the natural inner mentality with stimulants and depressants like barbituates and poetry, amphetamines and pearls, chased with a dosage of sex and violence at the 4th plateau. It was a rosy-eyed time, and male or female, everyone was doing that primal dance.

But Frankie, she was my girl. I first met her when I was 15, she was 19. Real upper-class bird, Brown swim-team, rich-daddy type with a body like a romanian gymnast. And i appealed to her. I'm telling you, she was classic. She was the tyoe you bow down to and kiss her toe-ring, you know, Jewish girl, she'd only eat green vegetables, as it's the color of nature. she'd spend a week in bed with you hating the way you looked at her and you'd love her for it.

She had these eyes, man, they were older than her, i'm telling you, i could feel them behind her cloud of opiates watching herself and her whole sphere of conciousness burning up into a mushroom cloud of fine white smoke, and she loved it like a kid stepping on an anthill an feeling the society crush beneath his feet. you know we're all pretty destructive. but honestly she was gentle. She was very gentle, and you could see it in those grey-green eyes. But she was one of the gang, a bit of the ultra-violence, and crazy drugs man. I remember the start of that jive.

After I got the boot from my old man and his dummy, I rented a moldy little cottage attic up on the hope street district. We all would be in and out of there, you know, landlord's biggest headache and shit, but what would you expect from a queer like me. It got to be a real hang-out, man, almost a real friggin nightclub, and then an apothecary. I was dealing out all sorts of mind-benders, body-droppers, soul-seekers to innocent young people who couldn't undersand the tao of it all and therefore ended up dying blissfully young. I'm past that now, i can't. It's too late for me to go that easy.

I'm damn old, man.

But Frankie, she lived with me. She was one crazy woman. Damn, the sex we had. We'd do some sick things to each other, just for the kitsch of it all. And I loved it. But she.. i can't even begin. Because i know i'll end up choking up like a fucking pussy halfway through it all.

I makes me wanna cry, what a stranger I've become.


I left her behind after a few months to seek out the panamerican dream of alcohol and indians, figuring she'd wait for me, the world honestly revolved around my head like the stars around daffy duck's skull after being hit by an anvil, man. it was just like that.

I think honestly we're all the gods of our own worlds. Think about it, you don't REALLY put anyone above your own needs, man. Oh sure, you love a person, you'd do anything, you'd DIE for her. And why? because she compliments YOU. she makes YOU feel good. And there's nothing wrong with it, it's the natural order of things. It's really a buddhist way of looking at it, man. I tried that scam though, it's all money now.
But i sure got plenty of that. And i'm still living the life of a fucking bum.

I gotta get past the romance of it all, i'm caught up in thecityneversleeps mumbo-jumbo rainy city night bullshit, i have to get out of it but i'm too old. And i'm afraid of what i'll find once the curtain comes down, man. What if this is as good as it gets? I'm too old for this. If death knocked on my door, I'd invite him in for a good cup of tea, and tell him all these stories. He'd discuss with me the contradictions of life to the point where he'd spectralize from the truth of it all. I think i should like to go with him.

I'm too old for this shit.
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Ch. 1; oh, i was moved by your screen dream - roughdraft [Sep. 11th, 2006|08:22 pm]
Lordhowtimeflies. god i'm old. god i'm old. what the hell happened to me, god i'm old.

It seems the sun doesn't shine on me anymore, it just bakes me, or it always did. My soul is trapped in the remains of what was a sex god, a big shot, man. I was classic, you know it. With my cigarette burns and kaleidoscope eyes, man i was a turn on. But now i'm old. And damn it, they still want me. They're just crones, you know it. Old hags in the body of nubile faery nymphs. Forget them.
If it matters to you, I'm no friggin rock star. I never was. It's a waste of breath to me. I was a scene legend though, of my own right. No twee bastard could knock me down. Logic has its own territory, damn it was nowhere near mine.
Broken legs here and there, fingers too.
But if you ask me it's all a pile of shit. What's a pile of shit? I'm not sure. I have no friggin clue. But I'm burning braindead and I can feel my marrow drying up. It doesn't matter anyways. It matters too much to most people, I got sick of the whole thing. The false romance, the friggin dance of darkness, all that shit. People in funny hats walking around sticking fingers in pies that they've no right to. The art died with all of it. You see some idiot walking around and its nothing. It's expected. Damn companies soaked it all up.
It may seem to you things are getting better. The cultural state of things. But you're an idiot. No offense intended, but you have no clue.
It's like talking to a wall.
So I'll try to explain.

It was about three months ago I got booted from the scene. We were junkies, fire-eyed fools and occasional lovers. It was a wild time. I would walk down a city street, lit up in the lobes with the expectancy of drama of the striped neon lights, the smelly pavement and hard soil of providence and be at once dazzled; with myself! with my own damn self! how existential. Like a viewer on a different plane watching the little dances of these bizarre bugs, and i was one. city on seven hills, ancient rome. and i was a patriarch, patriarch. I really made it happen with the old gang. old. damn old.
It makes me wanna cry sometimes, what a stranger I've become.
I was kicked out of my house when I was 15. My father was a conservative drinking firearm football prick, and mother was a ragdoll incubator. And i was a queer. Piercings, dye, all that shit, it's kid stuff to me now. so they kicked me out. I lived on the east side for a few years, smoking lots of dope and getting lost on my way to Brown, looking for acid and dmt, anything for a little out of body time. I was a modern buddha, i say, splitting the body and finding the collective concious. So then I left.
And landed with a thud in san francisco, god knows how. and god only remembers the kinds of freaks that found me there. left and right at that time. I had a pet rat back then, i'd walk the fat bastard on a leash like a bourgieous crumpet, and i the butler christoper, he loved it. when he died we cremated him in the middle of ashbury, til some old grandmothers came and stamped him out say 'youkidssmokingpotwhatsthematterwithyouththesedaysdamnqueers"
and lord

and lord i think they were right.



damn, did i have so little to compromise back then. i was the elite. i was the damn burger king, and the world was my ronald mcdonald jester. so i left again
and fell on my face back home in the ocean state. god i love this state. i was dropped on my old girlfriend's doorstep and walked in, punk and disorderly with an bestial grin smeared across my forehead, shouting honey i'm home howare the kids i was passoutdrunk good lord man. it mattered naught, she was gone with the tide like a dead body, some old drinking buddy took over that port-of-call, breaker-2-9, good buddy.
So with no deeds to do and no promises to keep, I walked over to the bank to make my collection. back in my youth i had an old tea-titted spinster aunt that croaked and left me a good wad of dough. i was rolling in it, and i smelled like it, damn. they called me chris money, man, smoke was on the house at my place. i really loved that woman though. but there's no place for emotions that deep when you're living a legend.



honestly;

i think the bastards at my funeral will steal the paper plates and burn it all, thinking my spirit will rise up in the smoke, in a lion king cloud of tragedy and tell them the secret to mygod-elite status. but shit, there is none. the chips are down, the candle's burning at both ends.


It's your turn to make a deal.
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(no subject) [Sep. 11th, 2006|07:20 pm]
[mood | calm]
[music |2hb - Roxy Music]

this would be the beginnings.

this journal is for the storage and viewing of my writings, and for some riticism. check it out. my first project here will be a story called 2hb, which will have a multitude of chapters that will come out... say biweekly. and how many? as many as i like. so i'll start it now.
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