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1 AM Saturday Morning |
So there I am, another crocked night, another night back here, with the whiskey and the coke and the late night TV, and no girl, the girl I want away, away where she goes. And I watch the crap that floats across the TV screen, I get drunker on top of drunker, and smoke on top of smoke, and wait for it all to make some reason to the small little brain that's ticking over in my head, and it still makes no reason, and it still makes no sense. I feel deeper and darker and older and bluer, and I pile past recollection on past recollection, and none of it makes substance, none of it with the slightest substance, I look at the mouths yapping, the hair tossing, the bowels moving, and my head grows slower and slower and slower until I come upon the same recollection I come to every time, that with these dark hours upon me, in these dark hours with nothing else left, I'm left with me, just me, and the memories of the girls that came before, and the memories of the guys that came before, and the memories of the nights that came before, and the memories of the friends that came before, count for fuck all, count for nothing, when in the one o'clock hour, or the two o'clock hour, or the three o'clock hour, just me, and my words, and my thoughts, my silent belief that it don't amount to a pile of shit at the end of the day, 'cause it's me, it's thoughts, it's words, and she's not here, and where she is she doesn't need me or want me, as much as I need and want her, and all I can do is silently turn myself in on top of myself, reach for another cigarette, reach for another whiskey, reach for another drop of coke, and hope that I can find some late night movie that'll draw my attention away from the silent suffering inside, that can draw me away from violent beating of a cold heart, and take me to where I want to be, and take me to that dream of leading ladies and Hollywood and sexy co-stars all wrapped themselves up around the directors chair.
And will it happen ? And will it be ? Who knows ? Who cares ? We know at the end of the day I'm a weak, tired, half thought out, half figured out shell of a man, a shadow of the man I really want to be, and I sit here and dream of a woman who is above me, beyond me, a woman, not a girl, who can take all my undersized, petty, corrupt yearnings and crush them into a tiny tight ball of tinfoil and throw it back into my face, 'cause she has seen, she has learnt, she has been where it really mattered, and all my pathetic whinings in the middle hour of the middle night mean nothing against what she has seen, and again I come to the proof that she is better than me, above me, and in the cold tight loop of things, I'll be left with my own miniature victories standing in an empty room, in an empty hall, with random bullets of someone else's hatred riddling my back, and I may be carried away from this tomb, and left with one burning image of my own cold inadequacy, and how my life has been left wasted upon the shores of what might have been...I retire...retire to the bedroom, the room where I sit and think about things, the bed I shared with her on one, two, maybe three occasions, I can't remember anymore. Have I shared this bed with anyone else?
But I can't remember that either. The bed where I sit and listen to music and smoke, and smoke, and dream of other things, and other sins, and other things, and the world of what might have been, and the world that could have been, and my wasted words. I wait to believe that some day I will be the almighty, the great, the unheard of, the unknown, the new...genius. And do I want it all...?
And do the other people...? I laugh at their memory, cry into their begging bowls, because I'm too young, too rotten, too frustrated to understand all they sacrificed, and I light up another cigarette and listen to the strange music of strange men from strange lands and let the impartiality of alcohol drag me away from the reality of dreams corrupted and cracked...
copyright 2005
Kenneth
Hickey |
