Junkyard Bastards

Well fuck. The power just went out, again. If I were to tally the pros and cons of the Canada House building my graph would likely tip in the favor of the cons. This is not a place of efficacy or construction. This is not a place of pragmatism and order. It is certainly not a place that makes sense. Nonsense reigns supreme in the citadel of madness that has enveloped my life. This is a monastary of chaos and we, as the new order of tenants, have read the rules. No upward momentum, no clean counters, no decent brooms, half of the recommended equipment, socks must be sacrificed and the final rule, drugs everywhere.
In here, my body becomes a refuge for wayward chemicals on the run from the law. If my eyes aren’t chemically peeled back by amphetamines, my legs are wobbly from alcohol. If my head isn’t sunk into my chest from vicodin, my skull is on fire with acid and if we’re dry in the department of felonious drugs, then we go back to smoking pot. On the occasion that we’re all the way out of all the good shit, we smoke cigarettes. I hate cigarettes. I smoke them anyway.
Those fucking cigarettes. I’ve quit smoking them five or six times but every time I get drunk, I can move backward in time to before I left those glorious cylinders of tobacco. It’s ridiculous. I loathe the acrid whisps that slither down into my lungs. I hate the black loogies that crawl out of my my sinus but it’s all worth it to satisfy an image. There’s something Sysyphian about lasting a week without the bastards and then, come friday night and the battalions of liquor, landing back in the junkyard with a well-packed bone rolling in my fingers. I look at it, remember the most recent promise I made to myself, nestle it in my lips and ask for a lighter. Once I reclaim my post outside the bar, I search for an attractive stranger to say nothing to. Luckily, those kinds of strangers come in droves.
Imaginary conversations leading to love-making in cars and the nights Steve Mariott sings about float around my head while I eye-fuck every filled pair of jeans that passes by. Leaning against the wall, trying to look aloof while simultaneously looking around for a pair of glazed eyes belonging to a woman as sexually frustrated as me. The eyes never float by. Maybe I don’t wait long enough, maybe the hours are fucked, who cares. Either way, I offer a final prayer to the mistress of the night and walk back into the bar to nurse my whiskey back to health. After all, you wouldn’t want to go into the chaos unprepared would you?

He gets it.

He gets it.

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