no grey clouds
hovering over our heads for once;
no rain, no
snow, only the absolute graveyard silence
of the lonesome
streets, the locked windows; nothing can come in
abandoned ghosts struggle through
the mist to
reach the coveted exit.
seeking for meaning,
the one lost so
many nights ago
snowstorm in another land,
so far away,
yet I can still feel the warm
hand in mine,
the words of passion echo in my head
where are you?? I wake up
screaming. no reply.
gone. and the night grows older,
making his first appearance, radiant red rays
shower us all
with new false hope, new promises to be broken by dusk.
and the ghosts
remain in the cold, within the mist,
searching, still fighting, still surviving.
all the hollow
moments, the shallow evenings,
the dives and
the whorehouses and the shooting galleries and the dark alleys,
has haunted me as much as the fallen angels,
of the night, the midnight rides,
from here to the North Pole.
all there ever was, a constant state of decay,
meaning in glass-pipes and needles,
until it was
all taken away, for good; ever since, Ive just been
about, another ghost in the mist.
would you ever
believe Id make it to twenty-fucking-nine?
the age of the
outlaw poet and Im swigging down bourbon;
reach an equal amount of shots as my age.
gives me a
reason to hope for eighty.
when I turned
twenty, you were there. we polished off
a couple of
bottles of Jim and too drunk we tried to fuck.
youre too far gone; probably nothing remains of you
but the imbued
memories in my dazed head.
down from morn till passing out; my whiskey girl
been eight long years since you stayed in the flaming meadows.
chasers; I edit the manuscript, going back to those
back when junk heaven gave purpose to an otherwise
pharmaceuticals took Hank away at my age; yet,
too much, Ive done nothing yet.
recognition? am I as good as Poe and Kafka?
you said yes; I
never believed you.
time to sink
the shot and head for the bars. one free shot at each.
distance to cover for the twenty-ninth.
well tequila in attempts to convince myself
modernity; social media, self-publishing, positive messages, etc,
nausea returns and I subdue it with mezcal.
nowhere to run to, no hiding places; not enough money
for a cabin in
some forgotten by civilization woods,
wherein to drink my dreams to oblivion.
crowded by ghosts streets, wondering whether
throw a second glance.
and beer in the bars, trying to block out
girdling me. drowning in the modern world,
Im different, not because Im marginalized.
represent myself, but, no one likes that, because
the poster boy for change.
another shot of
mezcal, trying to combat the urge to jump from
the roof, while
I convince myself, still not drunk enough to succeed,
to enter social
media, start the self promotion horseshit,
bonfires, the dreams, the hopes, long lost loves that would
have at least
encouraged me with a smile and a kiss.
all alone, no
hope, no light at the end of the tunnel.
only a poker
table with Emily and the Devil; waiting, calling me.
cant stand the torture, the needless days, the purposeless nights.
better to drink
Makers Mark with the Devil, shoot junk with Emily;
where I belong, with those I used to drink with.
nothing but the mist tightly engulfing me, the beasts
Im done for.
here it comes, the step into the void of social media.
enough. getting there.
bottles almost empty, Ill pass out before
I jump into the
pool of piranhas.
went to my
dive, shortly after another attempt at a relationship had the usual
bad ending you
wont find in all those damn books you find at the
fuck have you been? Jim asked and handed me a double rotgut.
house, he winked. for being alive; thought the booze had
done you in.
if only I
was so lucky, I choked it down, cleared my burning throat.
for a short
while, Id been on a break from my greatest love, hooch,
for the sake of
a pair of lying brown eyes.
tequila? I asked.
whatevers fucking cheapest.
in Denmark, so, I got some brand of well tequila I cant
three shots in
a row; my mind in a haze and Jim confiscated my phone.
bad habit of
drunkenly calling anyone under the sun and he knew the routine.
shots, I shot poolprobably.
seven shots in,
I couldnt remember the cold embrace I wanted to forget.
an angel walked
into the dive; her wings nowhere to be found, but,
her bright blue
eyes talked to my perishing soul.
ten shots in, I
sat on her booth. I smiled, she smiled.
shot of well tequila, gagged, yet smirked.
huh? she giggled. yeah, I nodded and got us another round.
the past down to the fucking ground, a new beginning
the tequila fumes that made my breath flammable.
bourbon, she said, when I got us a third round.
Jim handed me,
on the house (bless his soul), two Jacks neat.
better, she swigged it. indeed, I nodded, already
in a spinning
how we got back
to my apartment, Ill never know; she examined my
while I drunkenly fixed us two arid martinis (failing even
cranked Hank up
on the computer and she kissed me,
tears in my
to the day, I
dont remember her leaving. I dont recall her name.
only her bright
blue eyes and the way she smiled.
I was back at
the bar the following night, Jim confirmed
hallucinated her. she never returned.
I drank rotgut,
chasing it with draft beer,
and waited for
the next angel.