i keep a wolf at the door.


i been kicked outta hipper places than this MOTHERFUCKER!

spit in his face, just so he believes the lie. Cherry Skoal is what i'm packin'. fiberglass to the cornea you FUCK!

yeah! better believe it! much hipper than this shithole. in '74, after standing up on the bar, whipping my shit out, and insisting that a bartender let me put my (unshaven) balls on her face, i got (quite literally) thrown outta Whisky-A-Go-Go. thrown onto my face. i still got pieces of the Sunset Strip in my cheek, under the skin and in the flesh now.

"Gotta Pay To Play" she'll say. and that's a registered trademark you sonofabitch, so keep on movin'! i paid, and i played, and i got the scars (and the bankrupty declarations) to prove it.

so don't try to tell me about dignity or inappropriateness or appearances or crutches or Co-Caine or VietNam or bareknuckle boxing for CA$H MONEY or annihilation or social constructs or disappointment or jumping outta planes or legitimacy or divorce or "the button" or Detroit or Chicago or opiate addiction or Vaclav Havel or the Velvets or M-16s or slide guitar or broken rubbers or consecutive abortions or saturation bombing or subway groping or false alarms ASSHOLE!

FUCKING AMATEURS! FUCKING SNOT-NOSED, NEEDLE-DICKED, FINGER-FUCKING, BRACES-HAVING AMATEURS, ALL! the kinda fucks that'd get you K-I-L-L KILLed in The War man! in any War! i mean, what kind of fucken operation are you running around here any fucken way?!

you see, all this is easily explained. call it history repeating itself, kind of. more like the echoes of historical fact spiking our present day prom punch. and fortunately, it looks like the universe has afforded me the occasion to explain exactly where we stand and what got us here to begin with.

on some strange spring day spent bashing about the '67 iteration of the Haight, i ate a bunch of that devilish substance STP and rather immediately headed down the traditional "bad" route. a Bad Travail for the Bad Old Days. like a 10,000,000 volt Blinding Baroque Mindfuck wrapped in an Incomplete Full-Body Orgasm.

fight for your life... strife = freedom. and the rest.

there i was, newly jettisoned from the historically notorious slave ship Tocora, cast into the bitter froth 50 feet below the decks like so much rotten meat. my own seabound hell. or should i say a new seabound hell. the stench of dead brothers and sisters follows me off the deck, the vile journey much less a Passage than a crashing, careening Funeral Procession.

but there i was, FREE from it, and though i knew i wasn't really "there" in that ocean, i clung to the coffee table, or rather the small plank keeping me afloat in the harsh North Atlantic waters, with all my mortal might. hopeful. though the salt of the ancient ocean soaked thoroughly enough into my wounds, suffered at the hands and whips of "traders," to make me repeatedly consider letting go. just slide into the deep, graceful for the first time since the terror began.


The Invisible Hand, at your service.

i persist without exception.

challenges abound, in and out.

what are you waiting for? questioned the All-Knowing, Unseen Electronic Eye. Surely not rescue? Be realistic. 'He' wasn't there for your father's father. Why would he be there for YOU? tell me now. Just what is it that makes YOU so beautiful, so worth the trouble in the eyes of Out-There?

this unsettling neuro-charade went on for more than a few hours. days even. that is until i was roused from my Electric-Ego-Death by a young nymph named Paisley who told me she wanted to buy some weed.

worried. stunned. now, carefree. absolutely lovely as she stood in patient silence, feigning tiredness so as to make herself more interesting.

just look at her.

she'd passed the test.

after the sex, i thought about asking how old she was, but you see, the ignorance, she is bliss in her remiss. without a doubt.

spare me.

the endlessly abandoned soul can wait. as long as it has to.

and so can you, you FUCKING cocksucker! get your fucken HANDS off me! i got rights and shit! rights i fought for!

i been kicked outta hipper joints than this! fuck your Golden Arched chintz! fuck all 99 Billion of your flunkies! and FUCK-THAT-CLOWN! how i loathe YOU and your fucking CLOWN! fucken banditos! fucken Hamburglars! (good one!)

a shuffle and a step.

get your fuck-no need to carry on any further.

i'll see myself to the door. just gotta use the bathroom first. i'm jonesing.

The Saga Continues HERE


Daniel Cardona said...

I know a girl that knows a girl, who in high school would snort coke off a Burger King bathroom's toilet seat cover.

That not quite the "Golden Arches" but you could wear a crown for a day if you wanted.

Lastnight I was at StudioB in Brooklyn - DJs played something that just felt like ppl were doing coke in back rooms, and Gorgio Moroder must have had an influence in the conception. I had a momentary lapse of reason, and imagines someone who was such an addict that they cop-ed a fix for them selves on the dancefloor (getting stepped on, and eventually the DJs see this and decide to play Boys Noise and what the poor soul get trampled).

papo1 said...

yeah man