Sid is envious of the dreamers.
Whilst they sit describing impossible spectral paintings he sulks in the corner.
Rooms full of damaged angels sat in circles on the floor, not quite broken yet.
They talk seldom, go around, and sometimes one will begin to tell stories of missions through fields at 3am, fucked and spinning with no direction, sleeping under bushes and waking up damp from precipitation and wondering where they left the campsite.
Hanging in the sky over two wandering figures in motion, pupils fat and words spilling out in all directions, intercepting at odd angles and flowing through each other. Bounced for hours from pub to park to alleyway to flat, stopping occasionally to collapse and hide beneath waves of conversation that do not belong to them.
One of the figures (which happens to be steph) says to the other (who happens to be me) "Why are we here?" but doesn't mean the big philosophical question that some people always seem to ponder but merely why are we here with these people who aren't like us but are like us in small periphery ways when we could be someplace other? Steph never wants to stay still, wants to keep moving always no matter if we're going backwards as long as there is motion. Steph wants to destroy what bores him on sight, always, but I have to stop him sometimes because everything bores him and some of these people are purveyors of substance and you can never have to many of those in my book. This book possibly. Is this my book? Can I lay claim to this as my property? How can I when everything feels so nebulous? Like everything is already there just floating to be plucked and mutated and shaped and shattered and reconfigured? How can anybody make such terminal statements and not want to push their fingers down their throats to stop the words from coming out?
"Dude"
"Huh?"
"What were you thinking about?"
"I'm not sure"
"Let's go"
"Go where?"
"someplace other"
"But where?"
"somewhere not here"
"Could you be more specific?"
"No."
We stand and I bid farewell to the few people here that I feel any kind of connection with and head towards Carthys.
07 June 2004
Maggot (part VI)
Posted by Cecil B. Demented at 12:30
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