Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance, to the radio.

[Sepia]

Did we smell the sweet sweet smell of cocaine before we went our separate ways in tearfilled warzaw, with gods rain hammering down. Did we stray, skip, jump and dream into a flux of emotions and thoughts so far far from our own faces? Did we judge, maim love or passion what we held dearly?

Was the chain of command broken? Had the war already ended? The sounds, the sounds of scuttling feet in an abandoned railroad station, military personnell dressed very civillian, the poet in the future was right, here went our brightest minds. Those who were neither good nor evil, simply visionaries who would be treated humane after it had been ended while the audience would cheer to the bread and circus. The chain of command was broken, everything returned to whence it came. rubble. This was where time collapsed, this was where the spiderweb collapsed in upon its' owner and competition and fear drove us further, where there once had been a spectre, there was now a disease and the dirt in the ground hummed for it, the translucent beast of sad memories would sate upon the blood.

The beard fell, the masquerade fell and for a second there was truth in the air when noone knew what to do before everyone was grippen by panic and went back to familiar pastures and lived in fear and terror.

Simplicity; the man said on stage. Simplicity will get you ahead. Do not tarry to over-analyze, know when to stope. The band will play and it is a work of genious, a truly creative force in the name of nihilism and disintegration. Simplicity, will now beat your drums.

We went to the beach on the fifth of november. We were kids still, small and seventeen and we brought beer and pot and port. This artist from somewhere in the old empire was to teach us, entertain us and art us. We'd live in the shade he said as he went up high upon his bonfire, guy fawkes resting uneasily with the duct tape and that deflated football and the fire, the dancing fire.

We'd live in the shade of our ancestors if we did not think ourselves. Our ancestors are not that of flesh nor blood, but those geniouses past who have opened their eyes and seen beyond and created, molded from the cisterns of life. We must remember them, not because it is tradition, but because they sought to break tradition, we must commemorate those of our heroes who have become false christs, cowed by the masses of the ignorant many. We must lift our heads towards the stars and we must create! We MUST build!

Then they burnt guy. I wonder if they had the wicker man in their thoughts, I knew I heard the terrified screams from pigs and sheep, trapped on the inside with what humanity could do without. It's not the bolts themselves that we need to unscrew and remove, it is the walls themselves, the doors. The fire escape.

"And she turned around and took me by the hand and said,
I've lost control again".

They lit the fireworks, one of those big crates with fake army paint on it, biohazard signs blaring in the front of the scene of the crime and that's when you first notice it, with your head resting on some loved ones chest with the reefer burning in your lungs and the cool beer alleviating the good pain before the fireworks start, you giggle with glee and reflex but grow silent, weary that you cannot speak, that noone can speak that this mirrored dark light opens up the eyes you have not yet seen and you know it's the first time but it's so natural and it's beautiful and you take her by the hand and whisper that you've lost control again.

The memory itself was little. A fire, cold rain, soggy hotdogs, beer, pot and only known parts of life, only regulated pieces of darkness and the form is mild, no jagged edges and it is really a dull memory but all sparks fly high when you recollect, when you talk about it again, when you dream it once more and it's so easy to bow down into it to go back inside it and wallow up, sucking on the umbilical cord once more not because that you're afraid but because that it's so easy. The world is easy, you've grown a degree in understanding, you see connections where there earlier would have been thin air but it stares right back at you, the life, the vibrancy of the trees, the stones, the fire, the sand and her face.

"And she screamed out kicking on her side and said,
I've lost control again."

Then she took me by the hand and we went and lost control again. An image little rattled from the cages where all the mice and rats lived on, we caught the bus back in to the city, nearing civillization, pinnacled and passing through the barbary, looking at the hordes of ghengis khan and some place in a different time but with the same emotion, ernest hemingway tries to write a piece sitting on a sidewalk cafe in paris, angered, because he lost his vibe he'd gotten from the coffee and cognac to the poor poet standing in his face, asking questions and he, the great writer, remembers when he himself was his age and ernest hemingway sits with us, drinking beer, watching the bonfire untill someone shouts FIREWORKS! and he stands up, smiles and cheer and cries out: NOT IN THE RAIN

[LMNO]

For the record, Joy Division rocks.




And so does that piece.

[East Coast Hustle]

fuckin' A.

[Sepia]

 

mm, coffee.

[B_M_W]

I'm sorry sepia, I don't quite connect with this one right now. 

[Sepia]

I'm sorry sepia, I don't quite connect with this one right now. 

Probably because it was an old idea I've had for a long time, think I fleshed most of it out when I had my first ranting period, a couple of years ago. This is me reading Pynchon and listening to joy division and dead kennedys for quite a while and not reading schoolbooks as I have been lately, also really appreciate the comment.