NOTE: Written in early 2014 while I started working on Idiot Savant. I think I had a couple shots of whiskey halfway through though. There's always choices in life. Or maybe we just have to close our eyes and go along for the ride. If you can attach both, you attach a lucky stream of mental consciousness in areas created for true methods and in depth story lines. And you are reading:
-the-storyline-
The Last Train to Toronto
Walking
down the streets by myself can be hard to grasp sometimes.
The
crawl, I crawl like a baby wandering aimlessly in the summer night and she
lifted me up.
Was
this a plan? Did I miss my cue?
Yes
and now I’m stuck in the gutter in the barren wastelands looking up at the sky
crying severely and it all begins to make sense now. A coca cola can thrown at
my head. Get out of here and I could have but I wasted out and left the doors
and the sirens in their sewers guided me to a den where I was the winner making
silly tee shirts with round circles upon them.
She
was there. And all I did was run on the spot and jump and make silly faces by
looking in the mirror which existed only above the spotlight.
Going
nowhere and fast.
I’m
done and down and uppers and rounders and little stories in my brain haven’t
clicked in yet. She deleted my work with a harsh fuck you and I don’t swear
anymore except in the shower when I try to masturbate but the radioactive
material in my cell phone carried in my pocket has left me limp.
I
can sell Viagra to myself, dropping the blue pills in my Coda soda and coffee
and spilling, no wait, tossing the only thing I have left in this city.
You
are 60 feet tall as I sit on the couch and I think and I’m in my own little
world sometimes but that’s what I want you dear reader to think since I rhyme
so hyne with errors and spell checks in my brain as I sit there, mouth ajar and
whistling the song of the saint in the background.
The
background to the movie I'm making and I remember that it’s a movie and the
whole world is watching it. Dorian on the couch. No legs no bottoms no cottons
no linen. Only lust and envy and glutton and shame. She took my hand and he
handed me a bottle of water and I slowed my perceptions down to smile at the
licensed event as I begin hitchhiking home waiting for something beautiful to
pick me up while my thumb is out.
And
my friend did.
He
picked me up and his car blew up and the engine light went on so I left.
Is there a common theme here? My love tells me
to publish but I know the hackers have entered the building and are doing that
as fast as possible at the moment. Jobs won and lost and buried beneath the
sand, growing pleasures in the innovation that is being created.
Nobody
wants to play with me.
I
could write a song but that would be shameless. Entering the backdoor when the
sign clearly states that it’s only reserved for the picture beauty queens and
my offal face is unable to look itself in the mirror.
A
book read at you and me changed the story-line quickly. Leaning on the side of
the white bench and the bubble to confess my sins to the almighty then and him
a clean slate. A sponge grasping every single inch of information non moment
wise because i'm slow and I just reflect after words.
Is
it beyond a doubt that i'm in cahoots with my friends date, as she paints in her
villa shots of a backward stranger comparing art to the words written beside
the works. Again, you me.
The
whole city laughs at my medium and I walk briskly down the street feeling like
an ape in an air filled balloon. Ooga booga. The past haunts me dramatically
and I need to find someone, well for them, I need to find someone to work with.
And we’ve hit realization.
What
am I to do? Isn’t that the unique question we have? Besides what will happen to
us next or who we are really? What are we really? I ask questions and don’t
listen to the answer. But the pen is on fire. Ripping through the paper so
thick and bound and here’s the full account. The confession of a half blind
chemist.
She was there dancing. Toronto . And I missed the
opportunity. Confessions of a half blind chemist.
Eyes closed and tongue in the air. Montreal . Take the bus.
Confessions of a half blind chemist.
Teeth chattering, cold rain. Budapest . Run across
water and salt. Confessions of a half blind chemist.
Pink tutus and wine. Paris . Tip your hat to
the new foundation. Confessions of a half blind chemist.
Time spent behind a desk. Brazil .
Throwing pencils at the ceiling. Confessions of a half blind chemist.
Now
kneel and create your own religion for we have just received 5 confessions of a
half blind chemist. And the tweets will begin for I have joined sides with the
machine and have frankly lied to myself. I am ashamed to pick up the phone and
call the people I care about because I’m not the person I want to be yet and
feel as though I have failed. But I love them so much and I will sacrifice
myself for the greater good to save them. I’m a good boy. Boy. Pan is now in Hamilton to shoot clay
disks for the weekend. And he left.
I
could have tried to sneak into the set with martini in hand, but I know my time
will come when I look through the lens of my masterpieces and all those who
humiliated me (and there are lots) will smile and make eye contact. I need more
friends, but the key is to approach me. I will be your best friend if you
approach me. Had this dream stopped? Or maybe I’m just a hack writer with my
sunglasses on, reading the cahier, and pointing fingers where to go for the
sympathy of the one below. Get rhythm if you get the blues. The pillow is weightless
as I do my sets and build my muscles in my legs to a shattered dream of
bartending, not smiling, but I will. I always smile, in my head.
Stop. Attention CK. Stop. There’s
been a slaughter here. Stop. Sending for the shipyard. Stop. All steam ahead.
Stop. Sincerely, Dziga. End. Or beginning? Or does the ending foreshadow the
beginning. You must have the start to have the end. This is the start.
And she left on the last train to Toronto .
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