Saturday, July 11, 2009

Sun 4:06 AM

Twine, Kristyn Janae

it's long after the amphetamines have stopped working , the clarity is gone , the silence. i notice the huff of my own breaths, and my heart's less intense , skin doesn't tingle. the fake breasted, cold faced strip club dancers are gone. the girls in the streets, down the mall, with the fake blonde and high-heels. the cold creeps in . mcdonald's wrappers . and cleaners with shaven heads and bushy goatees pressure hosing the sidewalks . the voices have stopped , the thinking ahead and planning the next thing to say. the banter has stopped . the distant eyes , the red eyes , the unhappy looks . the bumps as you walk . the light burps- the gaseous taste of redbull . the frequent, bored escapes to the bathroom where you wash your face and are surprised by the feel of it . the noisy cars are gone , the streets are full of zombies and drunks and stumblers stumbling home . shouting and moving in the cold , their breaths hanging in the air as condensation a few moments . the taste of lips is gone . my fingers smell like women's saliva . in the distant some youths scream under a yellow streetlight . police officers with bored, unhappy faces stroll past . the printed t-shirts move through the cold air. chubby girls with barefeet move along, heels in their hands . the loud sound of men laughing, the pats on the back are gone . the women's hugs, the lips lost in hair, trying to find ears is gone . the feel of bars against your stomach , the thumping noise of sound-systems seems soo far away . my own voice seems so distant, misplaced in the cold somewhere . kicked along like an empty can . the man peeing against the wall is gone . the young boy with the closed eyes, face to pavement spitting out a sickly white , who knows where he is . the blonde guy with the cut on his face , the three girls with the ugly laugh on the streetcorner . the ID cards are put away . the cabs drive too fast , swatting at them like butterfly nets .

i arrive at the water, soaked in moonlight and urine-tinged streetlights . i feel comforted by its sound. repetitive. perennial. the sand must be soo cold right now. consistent rhythm. unwaving like electroclash fashions and the club-of-the-week flyers . i feel defeated. destroyed. like i have lost a great many things. i cannot remember the laughs. i'm scared to speak. i won't dare eat. this is a terrible way to have died.

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