Deadhead

I am living out of open cartons of frayed books and broken bottles of bleeding wine. Still that ambiguity whether this procession of Life is moving towards or away from living. An emergent, inconsolable sense of desperation clings to the thin fake winter air permeating the razor sharp stillness lining the derelict metropolis. What will happen to us?  People like us who can’t find souls or soul mates to share coffee, jazz interludes or just karma with. People like us who were coiffed, cultured and tutored to espouse the merit and meaning of human evolution. People like us who failed so fucking miserably to conquer any of those things. People like us who managed to bring a downslide to the upswing task that was/is our genetic mutation through Pages of Ages. People like us who made wasted attempts at marrying societal dichotomy with articulate androgyny of what or who we were/are supposed to be. People like us who peddled drugs and dharma with equal ease and least amount of spurious guilt shrouding our spiritual leeway.

Yes, we managed to break free and yes we did die a little bit every step of the way.

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~ by iconoplastic on February 16, 2006.

One Response to “Deadhead”

  1. At least the bottles were once full?
    My cup’s as empty as yours.

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