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skonen_bladesIt was the kind of night that made you think that maybe getting a couple of neck tattoos wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
I woke up with three blurry stamps on the back of my hand and four on the inside of my wrist.
Three bars, four clubs, two women and one relationship all in one evening.
My head hurt from the glory of it all.
I know how that Wright brother must have felt.
I stagger from the bed with the black satin sheet wrapped around my waist.
The year is 1985. The year after Orwell’s fictional 1984. Big Brother never happened.
I have my windows dialed down.
America is rich.
I puke into the black porcelain sink and turn on the chrome taps for hot water to come and wash the last piece of last night down the drain.
It’s a haggard face that looks back at me from the mirror growing cloudy with condensation.
Kind of like Iggy Pop mixed with Jim Carrey splashed over the rocks. You can tell I’ve done a lot of laughing and a lot of crying. It’s a little pathetic.
I can hear sheets rustle in the other room. Gwendolyn? Mary? I hope I remember their names in the shower and which one I brought home with me.
My life has been a succession of stray dogs and luck.
I turn on the shower. There is nothing in my entire bathroom that isn’t black or chrome. I’m already standing straighter under the hot spray from the shower.
I turn my face to the shower head and close my eyes. My fingers trace the scars on my chest.
I can hear feet padding around the hallway.
Fabienne. That was her name. How could I forget?
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I woke up with three blurry stamps on the back of my hand and four on the inside of my wrist.
Three bars, four clubs, two women and one relationship all in one evening.
My head hurt from the glory of it all.
I know how that Wright brother must have felt.
I stagger from the bed with the black satin sheet wrapped around my waist.
The year is 1985. The year after Orwell’s fictional 1984. Big Brother never happened.
I have my windows dialed down.
America is rich.
I puke into the black porcelain sink and turn on the chrome taps for hot water to come and wash the last piece of last night down the drain.
It’s a haggard face that looks back at me from the mirror growing cloudy with condensation.
Kind of like Iggy Pop mixed with Jim Carrey splashed over the rocks. You can tell I’ve done a lot of laughing and a lot of crying. It’s a little pathetic.
I can hear sheets rustle in the other room. Gwendolyn? Mary? I hope I remember their names in the shower and which one I brought home with me.
My life has been a succession of stray dogs and luck.
I turn on the shower. There is nothing in my entire bathroom that isn’t black or chrome. I’m already standing straighter under the hot spray from the shower.
I turn my face to the shower head and close my eyes. My fingers trace the scars on my chest.
I can hear feet padding around the hallway.
Fabienne. That was her name. How could I forget?
tags