Girl Un-Interrupted

3 things.
1)It’s really long.
2)Its may not make any sense.
3)You were warned.

“In the end I was the mean girl..
Or somebody’s In-Between girl…”

I am road tripping on a bitter Monday.
Miles of shrunken solitude stretch as I step into the middle of nowhere.
Summers have pined for a single drunken strand from Parker’s finest instrument.
Wrapped in satin and set on fire by its own incandescence. This summer’s onset. It never felt this good to burn.
Nerfa nerfa burnin’ love.
Now when the water retreats and the streets clear, my mind feels the same way.
Will I see Nadja walking your granite again? Will I ever forgive myself for being so distant when you cried yourself to oblivion? On the breath of a long running thought, an imminent epistle. Should’ve dispatched before you were swept away. Black star. A jazz chorus overwhelms all senses within muted hours of darkness.
I have changed my Life but I  still keep coming back to You.
I cant express it. It wont do justice to emotion through words.
The absinthe in my veins, the Blues in my soul, the pensiveness hanging ever so softly in the air on this faithfully blind night.
Of a Life, lived Elsewhere. And in the wake of a much desired return to same Elsewhere in a short while.
Carved in stone, my faith and knowledge lay buried in the beads that glitter and through them each Mardi Gras another austere addict discovers the soul and the muscle and perhaps an anonymous ardor for Life. Here.
No hippie. No saint. At best just another upstate heretic in some measures, sinking with Polyrhythms and  uneven syllables. The Duke’s den dealt those nickel bags, strummed awry refrains. Inhaled enough to scream like a wailing banshee with green,  screaming veins. What is the real drug? I’m dishonest about how much I consume(d). How much honesty do you expect anyway?
How far have I come from that place?
Is the physical overdose any more painful than the mental ?
To have shot, snorted, injected and then some more. Still alive.

Life is, but, a four lettered word.

Unhappy with everything but not yet ready to let go of those things, then came back for more.

My city of severance and harmony. My antithetical equal.
Vortex of my infatuations and passions. If I could find a man with enough soul as this city I would die just to live another day in his arms.
Do I regret the lines of coke or sullying binges in your non descript bars?
I’m changed. The 5 year mark came to an end yesterday. This time I succumbed (once again) to the desires of these itchy feet that get stronger with each little sliver of spring thrown their way. Everything’s been washed away. Everything will be formed. Anew.
But I confess that I have loved living with you. And breathe into you, I would, the insatiate desire to Live beyond means and survive all that the testy lil’ cretins threw along our paths. And continue to. I would instill back the lunancy that descended me at the Presbyetre or even relive the romancing of Bourbone Street.
I made my transition
I made Me. Nomore am I the same girl who sunk into a heap on a wet bathroom floor making the millionth call to a deplorable bastard coz I had some hope of being loved back. Tied to the ugly, begging self in the foetal position and remained for innumerable hours. I don’t allow any more room for that kind of emotional self-flagellation.
I’ve found my flow. Again.
I am this city. I’m You. I will burn brighter every time they try to throw me into another room filled with darkness.
A precipitate compulsion, a rouge morning, heralds a not-so-random beginning.
And a brass spirit welcomed me into.
I haven’t left. I was gone for a while. I was interrupted. But I didn’t leave.
Now, you can’t recognize me coz it’s a transformation. Chrysalis, no more.

Of an article from my Past.That appears in my Future. My recurrent haunting. Fills deeper voids within this life. If Your Blues didn’t haunt me, what would I have come to be?
Would I ever find the strength that makes heroes of (wo)men.
Another lifeless form?
Battered barricades of rage to fling myself off of. Pure and unadulterated rage.
Slow dilution till all of it just becomes one.
A frantic breath of Life.
.55 for a long shot.
Violent poetry in motion.

I could’ve been the End of everything I’d created.
You salvaged me that once. Then so many times over, when I came to you with despondency, odium, and fury.
You are the wandering. The absence I feel when am alone. The tune of extimacy and intimacy.
My Pain for you, my reliquary, is much like my Love…
Unforgotten. Unsung. Undying.

p.s.: Its finally taken some shape. Even if just in my mind.


~ by iconoplastic on March 3, 2008.

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