Adam

crazycrab:

Make thirsty fangs of all teeth and gather grim visions like ammunition as night turns to dawn. Stalk and skulk and stumble and sing, “It’s a crime that dreams die before those that dream them.” Drunken skullduggery through prowler’s hours, shadow-faced. Walking in the rain, soaked to the bone, to wash away the pain of moments alone. Doomed gloom and gloomy doom. A moaning cluster of lamentation playing in my head like a lullabye. Midnight in this city of beautiful losers and dutiful boozers. The crows cawed a sad song just for me and you. In heaven. In hell. And in all these insignificant places between. Betwixt. Bewitched. Between two parked cars, I threw up and entire bottle of red wine and it looked like blood. Plenty of witnesses. Nobody stared. Nobody cared. Same old night. Same old fight. The song remains the same until you finally slip into that bed made underground. Just another incremental suicide. Death on the layaway plan. I had always thought that I wasn’t long for this world, but I found that I was wrong and I regret it. And if I’ve learned anything of any great worth, I’ve tried my best to forget it. Fyodor Dostoyevsky once mused, “Man is sometimes extraordinary, passionately, in love with suffering.” And he had been incarcerated in a Siberian prison for five years. Knives. Needles. Nails. Shards of broken glass. Now, my heart is full. A cold night. A cold stare. An old cross to bear. Your words in my pocket like a crumpled receipt. Whiskey for warmth and a smoke for distraction. The city, and me, and the rust of defeat clinging to each desperate breath. These streets couldn’t get much colder if Hell itself froze over. This is no place for hearts of crystal. Vow vengeance and make thirsty fangs of all teeth. And I can still hear that old wino in a sunrise alley, singing to god and the devil and the rest of us too: “Here’s to me and here’s to you And here’s to love and laughter I’ll be true as long as you, but not one moment after.” the end.