One for posterity.
I didn't know what it meant to fall for them all.
It's always been that way, though.
Lucien with his Mien Kampf glare (all apologies to my girl Sylvia), spinning analogies three seats back about the relationships on stage -- painfully wrung out by foot-shuffling, hand-fretting, messy haired, chain-smoking, compound word cliched, junior college artistes -- and the movement on the western front in some obscure historical battle. You asshole. Pretentious now, idol worship worthy then, I would split the room in giggles so he could know, "I get you, man, I get you." A three piece suit, a briefcase, a natty pea coat, a scarf, a fedora, like he just walked into his separate-bed, no-toilet-having, pastel colored dream house and bellowed, "Honey, I'm home." An antiquated anomaly. Not the James Dean throw back found in rockabilly boys with their rat rods and shitty backroom ink blood blasted skin; a genuine rebel in a crew cut.
The idol worship became idle worship and then worship fell away completely. I don't know when the bloom fell off the rose, but it was somewhere around the time I recognized the limitlessness of his derision, and the cross hairs that surely included a point between my unmanicured brows. Sitting at a table of these criminally sub-par actors, beside a giant mural of french doors overlooking a colorful country garden, my eyes drifting across the acrylic brush-stroked tulips, I snapped. Words pooled out, full of all the righteous indignation only a sixteen year old could muster. Precise, low tones issued between teeth set in a line, with a tongue that hovered in prolonged fricatives, and the drawn-out sibilants implied in "seethe."
"You think you're so great." The 's' like a slow sweeping kick, the 'o' dipping like venom, "You're not so great." So beautifully clear. And the teenaged girl shed a burial shroud.
There was a lost minute where the grown man lapped up my lack of adulation, as I threw down a few dollars for the table and the time and dessert sitting uneaten on my plate, and I was out the door, the coffee still bitter on my breath. I licked it off my teeth, and for my victory it might have been blood.
Sometimes I think he must have been a spy. He doesn't seem to exist, or have ever existed. Except as he exists in a moment critical then and distorted now where I once again lost sight of the line between predator and victim.
We're all sparrows and vultures, ennit?
I didn't know what it meant to fall for them all.
It's always been that way, though.
Lucien with his Mien Kampf glare (all apologies to my girl Sylvia), spinning analogies three seats back about the relationships on stage -- painfully wrung out by foot-shuffling, hand-fretting, messy haired, chain-smoking, compound word cliched, junior college artistes -- and the movement on the western front in some obscure historical battle. You asshole. Pretentious now, idol worship worthy then, I would split the room in giggles so he could know, "I get you, man, I get you." A three piece suit, a briefcase, a natty pea coat, a scarf, a fedora, like he just walked into his separate-bed, no-toilet-having, pastel colored dream house and bellowed, "Honey, I'm home." An antiquated anomaly. Not the James Dean throw back found in rockabilly boys with their rat rods and shitty backroom ink blood blasted skin; a genuine rebel in a crew cut.
The idol worship became idle worship and then worship fell away completely. I don't know when the bloom fell off the rose, but it was somewhere around the time I recognized the limitlessness of his derision, and the cross hairs that surely included a point between my unmanicured brows. Sitting at a table of these criminally sub-par actors, beside a giant mural of french doors overlooking a colorful country garden, my eyes drifting across the acrylic brush-stroked tulips, I snapped. Words pooled out, full of all the righteous indignation only a sixteen year old could muster. Precise, low tones issued between teeth set in a line, with a tongue that hovered in prolonged fricatives, and the drawn-out sibilants implied in "seethe."
"You think you're so great." The 's' like a slow sweeping kick, the 'o' dipping like venom, "You're not so great." So beautifully clear. And the teenaged girl shed a burial shroud.
There was a lost minute where the grown man lapped up my lack of adulation, as I threw down a few dollars for the table and the time and dessert sitting uneaten on my plate, and I was out the door, the coffee still bitter on my breath. I licked it off my teeth, and for my victory it might have been blood.
Sometimes I think he must have been a spy. He doesn't seem to exist, or have ever existed. Except as he exists in a moment critical then and distorted now where I once again lost sight of the line between predator and victim.
We're all sparrows and vultures, ennit?
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
thefuckoffkid:
paix:
Thanks!