Your Ballroom Days Are Over, Baby!
And time marches on. It becomes apparent that the times when I feel the most alone are when I’m surrounded by other people. They ground me, and I long to fly.
I have drank every day now for 14 days. It’s good to be an (un)responsible adult.
Italics start/don’t start here.
It is with some kind of jaded displeasure tonight that I swirl your eyes, dressed in silks and high heels you cunning bastards can drive the length of the Midwest and find no romance. I have no time for you.
So look at me you heathen fucks! Dear God, this, if anything, should mean you have time for me. Can’t you even break the dawning burns of your cliff-less lives for a second to tumble into the dirt?
*swig*
I can’t drive tonight, Brenda. I put the jeep in for service on Thursday and haven’t been under .05 since. I can’t remember the cause and effect… did I drink to avoid the car, or because I didn’t have the car to worry about. Why did I put the car in? Brenda, help me, I’ve fallen into myself. There’s me all down my shirt. How rancid.
*swig*
I’m walking along a median strip in the haze-fuelled heat of the day. There are no cars or people around, none at least that need me to see them. If a car drives down a road and no one’s around to see it, is it there? If a person lives their life and no one’s around to care, do they exist?
*swig, swig*
When I found out that she was pregnant I thought that there was only one possible option, and luckily so did she. Not so fortunately, our separate only options were different. I want to carry the baby for the full nine-month term, I said. You can’t have it in your dirty fucking use-less-erus. If I can’t carry it, you can’t either. I’ll suck the cunning lingerer out with my own God blessed lungs before I let my kid anywhere near that fucking groin of yours. I’ve passed out in it enough times to know the danger. She said something that I couldn’t quite make out, and some kind of argument ensued. I haven’t seen her since.
*sip*
Underneath our skin is more skin. And blue veins and tiny vessels and muscles that are repulsively ugly and slimy and stinky, yet very attractive when viewed through a distorted lens of skin, vessels, veins and culture. My friend Robin was killed in a 4-wheeled motorcycle accident when she was 14. She had the most beautiful muscles I’ve ever seen. Oh God, God… inside of me
*drain*
“There must be some kind of planet
For all the people who can’t manage.”
So in the end we all drive the key into the emergency stop. If only there was one! A set of brakes for the universe, that could just swirl it together when things got too crazy and all our Mutual Friends stopped calling. I tried to once. I swear I almost made it. Read on this website, with a long numeric url and a green background, that out on Highway 1 there’s a stretch of tarmac that splits 3 ways, not horizontally but vertically. One leads out to Adelaide, another to your home, and the third down to nothing; to the end of the world. So I jumped a road train in Kewdale and dug in at a roadhouse smelled like cooking oil and cheap cigarettes. I bought some of both, and tried to hike out to the black beyond where the key in my hand would ram into the earth and strike a thousand lightenings over the shit of the plains. And I got there. I got there on the darkest pitch of the lines and I found the keyhole that had no colours and wasn’t black… it was an emptiness, and a peeked through the keyhole at the beyond, where I should be, I screamed and shook and I burned and I lit the night on fire. The wheels that turn the stars snapped and bled streams of nothing across the finite. So I knew what I had to do. I took the key out of my pocket. But the key was my guts, my lungs, my heart, my dick, and the pocket was me, so I tore myself and rammed me through the earth, through the highway to a place where I was home… home… but I had taken the wrong road. I hadn’t found the end of the world, I hadn’t hit emergency stop… I just pretended that where I wanted to be was in the grand suction. I took the long straight road through the desert, and I ended up right back at home.
I am still here. Can you fucks just break into the sun and have time for me now? I am still here!
I have drank every day now for 14 days. It’s good to be an (un)responsible adult.
Italics start/don’t start here.
It is with some kind of jaded displeasure tonight that I swirl your eyes, dressed in silks and high heels you cunning bastards can drive the length of the Midwest and find no romance. I have no time for you.
So look at me you heathen fucks! Dear God, this, if anything, should mean you have time for me. Can’t you even break the dawning burns of your cliff-less lives for a second to tumble into the dirt?
*swig*
I can’t drive tonight, Brenda. I put the jeep in for service on Thursday and haven’t been under .05 since. I can’t remember the cause and effect… did I drink to avoid the car, or because I didn’t have the car to worry about. Why did I put the car in? Brenda, help me, I’ve fallen into myself. There’s me all down my shirt. How rancid.
*swig*
I’m walking along a median strip in the haze-fuelled heat of the day. There are no cars or people around, none at least that need me to see them. If a car drives down a road and no one’s around to see it, is it there? If a person lives their life and no one’s around to care, do they exist?
*swig, swig*
When I found out that she was pregnant I thought that there was only one possible option, and luckily so did she. Not so fortunately, our separate only options were different. I want to carry the baby for the full nine-month term, I said. You can’t have it in your dirty fucking use-less-erus. If I can’t carry it, you can’t either. I’ll suck the cunning lingerer out with my own God blessed lungs before I let my kid anywhere near that fucking groin of yours. I’ve passed out in it enough times to know the danger. She said something that I couldn’t quite make out, and some kind of argument ensued. I haven’t seen her since.
*sip*
Underneath our skin is more skin. And blue veins and tiny vessels and muscles that are repulsively ugly and slimy and stinky, yet very attractive when viewed through a distorted lens of skin, vessels, veins and culture. My friend Robin was killed in a 4-wheeled motorcycle accident when she was 14. She had the most beautiful muscles I’ve ever seen. Oh God, God… inside of me
*drain*
“There must be some kind of planet
For all the people who can’t manage.”
So in the end we all drive the key into the emergency stop. If only there was one! A set of brakes for the universe, that could just swirl it together when things got too crazy and all our Mutual Friends stopped calling. I tried to once. I swear I almost made it. Read on this website, with a long numeric url and a green background, that out on Highway 1 there’s a stretch of tarmac that splits 3 ways, not horizontally but vertically. One leads out to Adelaide, another to your home, and the third down to nothing; to the end of the world. So I jumped a road train in Kewdale and dug in at a roadhouse smelled like cooking oil and cheap cigarettes. I bought some of both, and tried to hike out to the black beyond where the key in my hand would ram into the earth and strike a thousand lightenings over the shit of the plains. And I got there. I got there on the darkest pitch of the lines and I found the keyhole that had no colours and wasn’t black… it was an emptiness, and a peeked through the keyhole at the beyond, where I should be, I screamed and shook and I burned and I lit the night on fire. The wheels that turn the stars snapped and bled streams of nothing across the finite. So I knew what I had to do. I took the key out of my pocket. But the key was my guts, my lungs, my heart, my dick, and the pocket was me, so I tore myself and rammed me through the earth, through the highway to a place where I was home… home… but I had taken the wrong road. I hadn’t found the end of the world, I hadn’t hit emergency stop… I just pretended that where I wanted to be was in the grand suction. I took the long straight road through the desert, and I ended up right back at home.
I am still here. Can you fucks just break into the sun and have time for me now? I am still here!
posted by Cal Samson at 9:46 PM
12 Comments:
Hey hey hey ... Calm down!I am here . . Call/text me if u need 2.. Was that whole thing a way of expressing ur emotions or was it a true story? or both.. Cyas **
definitely a true story. i happen to know that you like passing out in peoples groins.
very masterful. i quite thoroughly revelled in this. you are very refreshing. keep up the dissent. (get it, it sounds like descent!)
Yay, loins! Surprisingly, the 'Italics start here' bit worked, I barely paused before continuing. Smart one.
oh dear rosie did u have 2 say that? lol...
hmmm..
....
mmmm....
....
...
.
hmm.
mmm....
...yep.
Yay loins indeed!
Thanks guys, comments keep this blog going. It's so cool to think that people are awesome.
What is also cool is international comments. I wish I was in Austria... poot on you.
Ppl . . post on my blog? Please . .
hey, no one ever comments on my blog. don't let's all get saddy about lack of comments. it just means people don't love you.
That... I can't express it properly... that deserves to be on my Google homepage under quote of the day.
Not what I said I hope..lol
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
siiigh. i withdraw that comment too.
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