Always a tad on the sardonic side, I tend to view my life as a pitiful cosmic farce played out to a humorous but melancholy tune. I mean nothing major, but the devils in the detail then isn't it. Just the regular mundane maritimer "Allison is coasting"- que sera...melodramatic childhood that whole grab-bag of sordid adult affairs, even an evil step-mother to call my own: that rare harpie the kitty bitch.
Day like another in the haze of summer, stumble silly stoned for an extraneous course in Latin American History (really only there for Magical Realism's sake) mediocre mumbling too many tablets, vice like pills that bring repose to the anxious mind. Blurry lens of ink smudged page and candle light that flickers, less fickle still than inspiration.
A sip of vodka more.
Penance, bare-foot rain drenched through barren humidor streets, empty city in deluge as I trudge home empty handed.
For the naked sole grass spooks filled with specters of hep c, needles, beer bottles. This is inner city foot crime- the latest among worries. Another day, Another Night without that Sacred and Elusive Fan.
The hunt for cool air continued from fluorescent store to fluorescent store carried by tunnels, by foot, by mania and by heat stoke. Ah those funny little failures.
Let me put it this way, I'm the type of gal who gets tonsillitis during a heat wave. The kind to hide from her shrink for 2 months, and when she sucks up the courage to go ends up almost missing the appointment due to a flooded metro stop. My stop, no less.
I guess you could say I just returned from Spain more blonde, more boozed, more brown and more adrift than before
Between schools, between vices. Praying to Santa Sangria while worrying for my bloated temple of flesh and yet seeking dope daily. Weaving through a forrest of foreign cigarettes and falling into valleys of sweet summer grass. Impersonate the cottage life, keep the phone off the hook and play Board games to pass the time. Yahtzee, is this the summer speeding before my eyes?
The rain falls like any other sultry storm, penitent for the sin of heat. Absolving and yet degraded. Drenched through like some hopeful Magdalene--
Soon the heat returns and the air is a thick shroud.
The city rests content in sin again, just as the cigarette above my chin.
Chased too many waterfalls and too many benzos with vodka.
Big author's little stories; poems...this is a non-commital thing, as all things seem to be. Roots are puzzling, do they keep you resting where you were, can you grow them a-new, what is it to transplant (resist urge to make rancid pun here)
But the vultures circle overhead. How did they find me here in the wilds of Quebec, floating in balconied limbo above a motorway like the others, named for Saint Urbain. Urbane, oh how it all becomes. But we all have our Saints don't we?
Arrow ridden San Sebastian, or a sacred Voodoo Bull, the Catholics, the Atheist, addicts all the same. Santa Vino, now that just rrrrrolls off the tongue. Twenty and nothing better to do than to lay below the vultures and try to shield my eyes, a pity it would be to wake up blind.
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