Stolen Lives
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Have you risen above that which you feel is so persecuting you?
I remember intoxicating days when I almost had what it was that I desired the most in my life? everything.
All I could see were these dark city streets, warm winter winds and vodka in my head.
If I could have sucked the poison from your innermost sore, I would have ten times over.
There are nice black shoes and knee high boots with perilous heels.
Attitude and arrogance are the tandem taunts of the norms and the nothings.
We are everything that need be so.
Strolling down on the strips that the bold and the beautiful live on is such a trip.
There are many bases to cover in this single night of money and moods.
Look at all the people ? they stare and don?t know what we are.
I catch a reflection in the wall of mirrors of the first floor of a high rise?
I don?t know what the hell I am looking at either.
In and out of taxi cabs spreading the wealth around like it was water.
We should all try to be like water.
There is dark hair and a darker brow.
Lips have been made full by the artist and her mirror.
She has the good strut ? some call her a slut ?
But only with their eyes,
Only with their eyes.
Do you feel more integrated in your isolation?
Do you feel more positively persecuted?
Have you looked around steadily and realized that it is better in this cage than out there in the enormous fellowship with no love?
I have released my grip upon love and life.
I do believe that it is my world and mine alone.
Nice coats are bundles around brittle bones.
A wind carries her hair and breath about her head in the same swirling fashion.
Her eyes dance in their holes.
Her pupils dance in her eyes.
There are only a few more places to go.
There are only fours hours of the cloaking eve.
A light fantastic will trip the black and stab substance abusers in their brains.
At that time, we will look for a change of place and space.
Coffee is good.
Gossip is good.
I will enjoy both of them in the morning.
Still in the black.
And there are loud systems with various artists professing their demons to the depths of whatever hell they are living in.
Oh shit ? what about that party by the lakefront?
And another cabby is summoned.
To the big hotel where there are many mucky muck mucks waiting for our arrival, regardless of how late.
And in with the wind we go.
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© wakefield brewster, 2001-09-28
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