| | 25 days before Christmas I sit here, listening to Chris Martin’s rendition of ‘have yourself a merry little Christmas’ that was recovered, established and played on an old cd in 2006. I’m nothing but an empty bottle of fizz and air, smoking weed, watching 4 Christmas’s and downloading techno. Waking up at11 pm and staying in the sheets till 2, orangina, playboy peppermints, making my bed, licking sweetener crystals off the table, dusting the space between the perfumes and sink Moisturize, energize, I want to commit, expose and be crimes. I’m a fucking burn out, I have no excuses, I eat gravol at night to get me to bed and dream of being an assassin with clickety click heels and whip like scarves and long thing strips of new attitude and crippling blows lining my pocket. Like that Gen De Mode art project, you stop being a bad imitation of yourself and order Philippe Version 2.6, Amelia Version 5.3, and with a click, a fix and a mailed order, there you are, a box full of fantasia light cigarettes Vodka and lime, a new hat, a new sweater, 400 new parts of your new self. Just like Unknown flowers on your dress, it spreads, like maps of Venice through the lines on your palms, sweaty and stitched like a patchwork quilt. You lower your thoughts, from those dreams of silver and leather and metal, into peach trees on a field, the ocean, how the rain glows against the streetlights. But EVERYTHING! IS! HAPPENIN! SO! FAST! , you said, making that cut on the car, scraping your heels against the pavement as you turned the corner to the mall, you destroyed your own spare change by throwing it through the window of a cab, and wore your sleeves pulled down, the tips of your fingers were the only things that felt the air, that finally, finally got so cold. Your hair was swirled into itself at the top of your head, blended like cappuccino’s and no fat latte’s soaking in the smell of damp air and sugar, so it smelt like a small half and half TCYB that you got at the theatre the night before. You kept rhythm with your ball point pen clicking the surface of your cell phone, your head shaking in repetitive motions, you pretended you were an MGMT music video, you pretended you were the kid in the GAP commercial. The things you’re feeling now, you swore you’ve felt them before. And then- You saw your reflection. All haggard and unconscious that you walked that way. With your hand in one pocket, the other on your lips, your eyes open enough to see the top of the skyscrapers. And you never felt the same again. |
