Viscera perturbing deep bass tunes rumbling from within OHM, Vodka Revs, the meat-market bars of West Street. Girls squashed into starched denim mini skirts queuing outside, tottering on heels; lads coiffured and glam-muscled and broken. The world broken, cracked some place deep within and then hardened into plastic, congealed, stuck in a calcified state of material possession, accumulation, ego. Everyone trying to give themselves away, desperately burdened with existence, trying to lose it in the wild cackling haze of booze, coke, sex, chart music...
How I remember all that. How glad I am to be through that vortex, ambling on with my torn bag on my back, my straw hair, my words. I want to be lost to literature, lit by the lambent flames of poetry, of art, of pellucid passion and clear spring water love.
I want to not escape but countenance existence, stand and stare the menacing reaper in the face, slap daisies in the stifling heat…
... NO more of that for now. Had to go work, slugging down to the pub and sulphur crowds and slow stagnant hours. Round and round that damn bar. Beer in plastics. Money in till. Plastics in bin. Round an round an rou
It’s late night/early morning now. House is empty. Dancing keys in bed and hamstrings wailing and thinking am I gonna sleep through my day off tomorrow?
Or will I up and touch the crackle of existence seeing with present eyes not the ever opinions but the facts as they are - this is a tree, this is the hard ground, feel the sun warming my skin, here are my thoughts, emotions each with a valence, always in the Now don’t ever leave this one moment which is still the moment of being born - still coming into existence, still becoming, blossoming and blossoming a star eterna burning the universe all together in a state between breathing in and out?
Looser. Write looser. Let go of notions of good writing and correctness of wording and blabber catherine wheel powder sparks onto blackened page.
And on...
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