cahrizz

one.
so here's an experiment that seemed to bare repeating. i hope i can make as good as it was going. but i'm gonna do a little potrait of an artist in creative mode. it'll be a montage raging a tight rope crawl across a razor and right now it feels forced. man need a fix. the only thing i thought ever came close to synthesizing that feeling of falling madly in love and all floaty and thinking thinking only of her and those soft massages of euphoria and all those other crazy drugs the mind produces and pops off and the memory of her perfume is like schiziod halluncinated olfactory heaven. even the way you walk the ol' cliches like you're walkign on jolly fucking air," fuck that because it's like a car crash or the end of the night being smashed you're fucking unsteady down for the pink world count of those bloddy valientine notes dripping sweet honey all around. those hairs on the back the neck. the excitement. giddy. a good word cause it forces you to ride it. up and down but quick stutter steps avioding the envitable come down and the answer isn;t always more towards that junky's end route. no way man not these veins not THIS heart. but it's too late when the flashbacks come back with haunting precsion. those fucking ghost voices of old loves the memoeries getting that old newspaper yellow flavor and you can't can not pinpoint the necessary train of events that led to what? bed hopping like the bar wasn't just keeping that feeling so you needed something novel, couldn't wait like a fucking comic book fetish for the next issue.

take a breath. pause. whew. wipe the sweat away.

hot hot sex. the smell of stale booze sweated out in the topgraphical map of crazy sheets on the bed. yeah i could see the poetry of burning the bed we once loved in. was it love? fuck you doubting voice. fuck you insecurity. didn't you see the sadness in her eyes when she spoke about the cancer the fear of your reaction when she said i can not have kids. ouch. yeah fuck you doubting voice. that's right but those were mad times/ mad like the world was crazy and angry all at once. mad like the fucking crazy people on the train who suddenly found momentary instances of clarity in their gruff voices and started shaming all of us for the trickery of that bitch fate. watch a mother. when she loses a child. that was the madness in their eyes. hasn't it happened to you yet? that screen door kiss that window that begins to pull away out the drive way and takes those treasured memories from you day after day and while the realization keeps taking more and more a hold of you in the depth of shock and sadness for that love who has just died. perished. more prefable word here. withering away. rotting. only the chemilcals stop it for a second. but even that got the sweet smell of rot in 'em. old bannas gone bad on a hot summer day. but way way more subtle. ever laid on a grave in country where they don't embalm? a hundred and twenty degrees and you'd think the smell would be sickening. but it's like a dying rose like the synthetic flavor of candy bannana.
so when it hits it rips and in some places people start tearing out their hair and going mad with their sadnesses. mad because there in their hearts they can't help but see so clearly in memory the life. and the first thought you're gonna have is of them having agreat time. so much fun. something small and insificant you'd never thought would come back to you. them answering a phone and in their goldenest voice and shimmering shower of a smile ever they spoke to your heart. ask yourself, how do you remeber someone close to you. you want to make it chic cool. stylish. but life is a funny stupid thing. and i celebrate by asking her to dance in a square where the only music comes from the frothing city summer night: cars honking breaking, music blaring bass rattling in rust trunks, beggars asking for change yelling street wise a just come on come on man you'd make my night man and those almost kisses out there where hearts splinter at the turn of a cheek, gasoline vapors, clubs still trying to contain the deep sexual thuds closing time and those light in a mini piazza trapped around bumper bumper cars young kids playing at adults playing like kids with teasing ohhs and ahhs and get some. i held my hand out to hers. drunk. admitting you like someone. a too intellctual way of doing it. drunken philosphy on city streets walks lasting forever around beauty you can't afford so perfect a backdrop suggesting the desire to kiss. she has to bend down from way up there. on unsteady legs. the song hasn't been written yet. and then finding yourself on the beach when the sun rises because that's what you're supposed to do.
well that's it for now. to be continued.

anyone like? what do you think?

chris