I was headed to Zion to hike the Narrows when it all went south. Sin City sang like a naughty mermaid. 24 hours later…
Hell, I’m left here in echoes, points on a map I can’t figure out. I woke up from a retro-rave at this seedy nightclub, entirely washed out and hung up to dry. Hung or hanged?- I’m out of tenses. I’m over hung. Feel like parakeet poozle. The Scoobie-Doos must have been laced with inferior ingredients- sucrose, peanut butter, shit like that. This behemoth next to me could shake the earth with his snores. Absolute baritones so loud Neptune himself would applaud, trident up raised in some melodramatic farce. I have spent the last twenty minutes watching his chest heave like a drunken ship, up and down, in and out, like a woozy accordion. He breathes in like he’s catching his last breath and then gurgles out as if he’s drowning. With each snore he mumbles something oracular, divinatory, like those chicks in the Delphi grotto. He gets up and I hold his hand. Walk him around the room. He’s in somnolent trance. I’m on his shit.
“Hey, where’d Mia put the silver sauce pan!”
“Where Papa bury the gold?
“Where’s my true lover?”
And of course I know none of these things. Nothing adds up. But it’s fun fucking with him.
Last thoughts out: Did I actually do the acrobatics with him? This rubbering- slumbering walrus? I remember being upside down at one point. I resolve to never get that far into the sauce again. The very thought gets stuck like chewing gum on a wall I will pass again. I retrieve my panties and hit the street. Go meet Cinderella.
“There is a heavy, gloomy feeling of someone not quite at home… aware of a lot of things but not sure of anything.”
Feral Trek couldn’t agree more.