Crawling in the dark poking at rats nests, seeking a fix that shouldn't be sought, each fist clutching to a separate vice, every pocket overfilled with even more vice, spilling over like flood water from an over worked storm drain, head so pill'd up it rattles, shake it up wrong and the loose nuts fly out crashing against others in all the wrong ways, with all the wrong effects.
Legs sore from trekking, mind numb from thinking, eyes heavy from drinking.
What is it about Dice and Whiskey that attract trouble, what is it about Big Bright Eyes and Loud Lively Laughs that attract me... If I have to ask I don't deserve to know.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
One More Whiskey Soda.
Nights in the Beach City are always dimly lit the temperatures are most often mild enough but the attitudes not so much (' least not at night), walk the main BLVD uptown bound and your likely to be accompanied by the fog on your six, and trouble usually lurks at about ten and/or two, where you likely ain't looking due to the inebriated shoe gaze session.
Drinks weighing down on you, thoughts distracting your line of sight, and sense of sound. The intense concentration on simple cognitive's for sidewalk curb navigation, "step lightly to to board, step calmly to dock", keeping you from the ideas of paranoia and cautious lookout that should be employed at such ungodly hours. Even worse for your safe keeping is the fact your wearing shades in the hours after witching time, when long ago anything remotely bright had faded, but you only cared to shield your eyes from sight and possibly catch up on shut eye as you slumped at your dive, between stints of dice throwing, on the only bar stool with the dark tinted over head light shade, bulb's long been burnt out, now your traveling in this dimmest of yellow hued lights to your current even darker, windowless, sound capturing hobble.
Little mind do you pay to the young night stalkers tracking you. No thought do you give to any possibility of trouble being afoot. No attention do you pay to there whispers and plots. No suspicions arise as they close in, and when they strike, you're off guard, outta of balance, but quick to respond. As if adrenaline kicks your instincts into low gear at high torque a punch to your ribs sends your paws in your black leather read lined jacket pocket, your opposite paw sends a push to distance the advance'r, your primary paw flips open your sharp light blade, the one you often use to scratch fish guts and bird's shit off boat decks and their chrome instruments. You yank out the paw and shove it, with strict conviction, in the direction of the cause of your rib pain, as you bring it back you feel the contact given to your chin by the second advance'r, you spin towards the attack and bring along the swipe of your blade and follow it with a shove and a well intended toss of your fist.
Now your starting to see clearly and the scum of the night looks young to you, very young. The primary scatters, the left over mid teen year'ed fella on the ground follows suite shortly after.
Now your shades lenses are scuffed from their flight to the pavement and all you got on your deprived, debaucheristic mind is, "Damn, now I gotta buy new ones."...
Drinks weighing down on you, thoughts distracting your line of sight, and sense of sound. The intense concentration on simple cognitive's for sidewalk curb navigation, "step lightly to to board, step calmly to dock", keeping you from the ideas of paranoia and cautious lookout that should be employed at such ungodly hours. Even worse for your safe keeping is the fact your wearing shades in the hours after witching time, when long ago anything remotely bright had faded, but you only cared to shield your eyes from sight and possibly catch up on shut eye as you slumped at your dive, between stints of dice throwing, on the only bar stool with the dark tinted over head light shade, bulb's long been burnt out, now your traveling in this dimmest of yellow hued lights to your current even darker, windowless, sound capturing hobble.
Little mind do you pay to the young night stalkers tracking you. No thought do you give to any possibility of trouble being afoot. No attention do you pay to there whispers and plots. No suspicions arise as they close in, and when they strike, you're off guard, outta of balance, but quick to respond. As if adrenaline kicks your instincts into low gear at high torque a punch to your ribs sends your paws in your black leather read lined jacket pocket, your opposite paw sends a push to distance the advance'r, your primary paw flips open your sharp light blade, the one you often use to scratch fish guts and bird's shit off boat decks and their chrome instruments. You yank out the paw and shove it, with strict conviction, in the direction of the cause of your rib pain, as you bring it back you feel the contact given to your chin by the second advance'r, you spin towards the attack and bring along the swipe of your blade and follow it with a shove and a well intended toss of your fist.
Now your starting to see clearly and the scum of the night looks young to you, very young. The primary scatters, the left over mid teen year'ed fella on the ground follows suite shortly after.
Now your shades lenses are scuffed from their flight to the pavement and all you got on your deprived, debaucheristic mind is, "Damn, now I gotta buy new ones."...
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