THESE ARE GODLESS TIMES

      he’s been pacing, the velvet underground on the record player. he’s wishing he could be like lou reed, all cool like with heroin in his veins and a pretty girl’s lips around his – – he’s wishing he could be more than what he is, which is nothing at all. he’s been writing music, crumpled balls of paper littering the floors, because nothing he ever writes sounds like anything that could make him one of the greats. he’s been masturbating to fake blondes with fake tits in fake magazines and staring disparately at the wall wondering when the fuck his life is going to begin. all in a day’s work, friday nights wasted away, week after week,  he’s really outdone himself this time  !  so when a rattle is heard at his window he jumps, he’s not used to having his routine of self-pity, despair and loathing be so rudely interrupted. or at least that’s the front, she’s nothing but a breath of much needed change, a welcome intrusion on the monotony he’s molded so well. he walks towards the already cracked window, the scent of weed replaced with freshness, whatever that smells like. it’s the only cool thing about him. ‘  friday night, thought i might be a bit rebellious. stay up past my bedtime.  ’ he says with a wry curl of his lips. he has the monopoly on questions, they both know it - after all, she’s the one standing outside his window. ‘  what are you doing outside  ?  it’s cold.  ’