Karma and the Bottle

Rehash…
Its mine and mine only. So, no questions asked..

Part Une: Slippery tongues

Say you to me
You’re a bird with an eye for anything shiny
Searchin’ the land
For a hero of a man

Why? Why? Why?

What shall it be?

A life of passionate grandeur. The provocative whiff of Sex. Of reckless abandon and fervent Bacchanalia. Dowsed in generous doses of Absinthe or Ouzo. Mercilessly lovelorn despite the stanch, infidel state of existing nowhere in particular. A stark temptation, unfixed by dying proclamations of love and loss and all that measures in the midst. A scarlet skyline that grins ever so surreptitiously at the whorish streets of Broadway east. An elegy spun along the beats of Krs1, an ode to devouring the streets, after being devoured by them. Its shall be this. And more. A passive naiveté or circuitous cowardice.
What shall it be?
A million songs to Ashtray Girls from Soho’s lot. Each, with scabs, scars, cuts and curls. Neatly unfolded towels around bathtubs full of blood. Nightstands lined with fine, crisp grains of swift moksha. That’s what this shall be about.
Intoxicated picture frames, whips and chains and candles- all left behind. All equations of ache and ardor settled for long. Sometimes, you figure it out. Sometimes, it’s splintered. Like those car-windows you survived. Almost, always, it kills you a little bit.

What shall this be about?

A spartan open sore or a well preserved injury.
Of unrequited protection, of hesitant penetration. Your hands or tongue or something far more Machiavellian that either of those. We shall settle for all of these and more.
Let this be about your early years of reckoning. Your unrivalled zeal for everything. Everything.
About solitude and camaraderie. Each without long-winded elegies. About lives whispered into the blanche corridors of the disputed heavens.
Cold bodies that don’t pose threats or questions. Nothing, just a calm refuge.
About all the “east Omaha highways” and their perspicuous dirt.
And also the dragon that guides my back and separates my yins from my yangs.
And that unforgotten line in between.

Part Deux – Lost at the airport.

To know that I have been here before. And I am here again.
And messages have been scribbled on papery thin paint; eyes have locked underneath rinded roofs. Awry refrains have been strummed underneath fog filled skies as the broken columns of gingery rays greeted a coffee colored earth. Lost Hours need to be accounted for. When did we unfasten ourselves ? When did we condescend to becoming static time pieces?

How much did I change myself to become who I am?

And only I know of my librettoes corsetted in the darkness they were born of or about the hubris that refused to leave me when I said goodbye. Or the sense of judgment that refused to relinquish the sinister corridors of my mind. I feel akin to that long stretch of dawn right before morning starts stowing parts of its body into a derelict bedroom- the night hasn’t left yet, its sinewy shadow lurks behind untraced alleys in an opaque suburb- yet it doesn’t really exist. I know that I could never fully gauge my strength.

I know I change all that I encounter in my wake. I still know that the way home will never be found. But I write about this wandering as a palliative addiction for the survivor(me). I can juxtapose ironies with some class thrown in for casual measure. I have cried days into moments awaiting a subterranean fall, a descent I know nothing of and yet anticipate conscientiously every second of the failing hour. Ascetic spending of time, divided longing between long and short minutes of recklessness and restlessness.An erroneous sutra ,convoluted,created after sufficient doses of narcissism and narcotics.
Again. Don’t you know creatures of habit must lead by instinct not by intellect?

I am choosing to be happy with what I accomplish here. Just promise me that You won’t construct me any of those painful elegies when I choose to lie down.

Just that when you close tight your eyes in a noise filled room , I will be the mind you are trying so hard to read.
The Man from New York is here.
Must run.

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~ by iconoplastic on February 12, 2008.

5 Responses to “Karma and the Bottle”

  1. beautiful and so headily resonant!

    how I’ve missed this.

  2. Gorgeous. Absolutely.

  3. She’s the kind of girl who gets her slings and arrows from the dumpster
    The kind who tells you she’s bipolar just to make you trust her

    Thanks for the text. A very happy “VD” to you too. Flying back on Saturday. See you then.
    Love

  4. @Headmistress – Danke Schon!

    @Fish – Wherefor art thou?

    @You – Listening to Crowded House just now..

    “There is freedom within, there is freedom without
    Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup
    There’s a battle ahead, many battles are lost
    But you’ll never see the end of the road
    While you’re traveling with me”

    p.s.: Since when did you start leaving me Dresden Dolls lyrics??? eh? eh?
    😛

  5. Your words hold raw magnetic power to attract the most distant of minds and hearts.
    Echoing Trish’s “gorgeous”.
    Such a unique style.
    Such unimaginable depth and beauty. As always its a pleasure to read you.
    Take care.

    Z

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