exposed on the End Of A Fork [[edit repost plus camwhore. Just because]] (363 hits)
Category: Quotes & StoriesRating: -1.62 on 8 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by jack_of_hearts (View user info) at 2009-07-28 21:19:56 EDT
you always will remember that sound. the spectral humming of a nondescript tune coming from a gray, anonymous protoplasm. the guy who always has the best junk. even in these days where kids text their deals back and forth in vowelless abbreviation, the Guy who's carting the primo shit is still too tuned out to get with the times. it might be that those who really have the Sickness never truly develop a knack for those speedier of substances, and without the continual cranial cocaine overload, junk turns it's followers into ghosts.
when fifty-second street is black-out, that's the best time to go. the walk from the loft is always the same, passing by the laundromat, grocer, and rows of ethnic eating establishments. seven and a half blocks. you never know where the Guy's going to be standing that night, so it's best to take up stroll humming his song. the C crowd has their cellular ringtones, the H crowd their own ectoplasmic aria. a true atonal anthem of the daily doldrums.
he's standing by the door to the bar. Bignose's. a real mensch, that Bignose, always lending the junkies a place to congregate. sometimes, if it just so happens to be a Tuesday, he'll collect all your old needles and boil them down. the City offers a similar needle exchange program, but unless you're looking to trade your H for methadone they ain't worth the trouble. bullshit artists never good at their craft.
he's standing by the door to the bar. Bignose's. the Guy hears you humming and walks in behind you. more in sync than the world wide web of wires outside, you both know what the deal is. there's always a spot reserved for this, a table over by the hydrogen jukebox. what happens next looks like a handshake and a nod, followed by a brief pause before floating back out onto the streets.
you always need to have cash to make the score. the handshake hiding the exchange of bills for junk, both one and the same, and concealing them in coat sleeves. the frail shell of a man, the Guy, will return near immediately to his post by the door, awaiting the next song of the siren of Sickness bringing him back inside all over again. they'll never make us give up cash as long as we've got the Sickness. take all the paper away and we'll just find something else to barter with.
with H in your pocket, the subway's the best bet. amid the foul underbelly of filth masquerading as men, the denizens of Disease who populate these sewers like rats, you can pass through unnoticed. when your bone arms roll up your sleeves and tap at the inside of your elbow, hoping to find a vein, all they'll see is a waft of mist. the lighter, the spoon, the needle, and you're floating just enough to care even less about the world.
howler monkeys clamber at the windows as the train burrows through the thick smog of the tunnels. there's a pinpoint of light peaking out from behind everyone's eyes, trying to extract the excrement of your soul. shit in their teacups like a proper gentleman and all will be redeemed in the eyes of your Lord and Postmaster General. Lucy, the backflipping trapeze artists, knows not what tomorrow brings.
in the old village you called home bums sailors queers and carnies all gather underneath overflowing canopies of cotton to bare their brains under angels of Michael and be forgiven // they know not why or against whom theyve sinned and have spent their last Lincoln on a bottle of burgundy // soon enough though theyll wind up hitting the harder stuff // the princess and the prince of pious lies will be slain before the populaces cheering faces // is that why you clutch your cellphone so tightly?
before Bart-the-one-eyed knocked up the bearded lady he made a vow to return back to Tangier before the year was up // her belly was ripe like an overgrown apple and advised by his friend William Tell the mistakes he made wound up on the front page news // the pro-life group had never been more happy to find a scapegoat // as long as gypsies werent breaking into clinics anymore everything was going to be all right
you never quite remember what tomorrow brings...
User Reviews
Submitted by haikumikoo (user info) at 2009-07-29 11:11:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
Ugh...
Submitted by HurtByTheSun (user info) at 2009-07-29 05:44:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
e. e. cummings you ain't.
Submitted by skrapmetal (user info) at 2009-07-29 05:31:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
Unreadable.
Submitted by EmissionImpossible (user info) at 2009-07-29 04:21:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
im assuming the darkness is hiding your true horror
oh no, there it is..... four eyes.
Submitted by vexx (user info) at 2009-07-29 00:20:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
I knew you looked familiar..
http://blog.newsarama.com/gallery/albums/userpics/10006/f2c2365240d2c33f53990d789120d8e4.jpg
Submitted by Doodles (user info) at 2009-07-28 22:57:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
UR SO GAY AND YOU DON'T EVEN LIEK BOYZ
Submitted by BranDo (user info) at 2009-07-28 22:13:45 EDT (#)
Ranking: -1
burgundy // soon enough though theyll wind up hitting the harder stuff //
that's a part of a Dylan song, ain't it? Just like Tom thumb's blues.
My rating was the last on the original post without the picture.
Submitted by PlatinumScarecrow (user info) at 2009-07-28 21:44:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
gray, anonymous protoplasm
Stopped reading there.