The West End (in soft imprecision)

At "the end," alone, avoiding eye contact and wondering what the fuck I have come to.

The fumes and sting of his aged breath line my lips, like cocaine lipstick.

And I think that I should get out of here as soon as I can because something about this is VERY wrong. I just don't want to be home... not without my blades. I just don't want the end of a night.

I only came here because Poly told me they were here.

Anyway... writing like this is forcing the smoke left-hand. And I wonder about the pathetic screens cast over my wild eyes.

God... I hope I don't see anyone I know.

God... I wish someone would be out with me now...

I can't go home... I can't!

And I look in the mirror and wonder how the image has perverted so much without the hair of my eyebrows budging. And then I remind myself of my bottle of Jolen and swallow my doubts. And even here, with all of the bars removed, the glass of my window is too clouded with yesterday's greased prints to see through.

As soon as I finish the beer I will go. But the longer I write, the less it seems like I am here and the more somewhere else.

God!

Maybe I'll go for a walk through campus.

And my wrist is swollen and hurts and I wish the year were 1955 and I were a poet, or else dead.

God-- I have to get out of here. FAST. I am losing my fucking mind.

And oh, my fucking eyes burn!

I hope I'm not drunk...

I need to go to the bank and some old guy is blowing smoke at me across the bar.

Shit. I have to go.

**************************

Alright... About ten minutes later on a bench between Butler, Lowe and Dodge. Cast in the the all too familiar moonlight of scarred paintings and bleeding babies' cheeks. And I missed them and nobody called.

"When I pick up the phone, nobody's home."

And when I glance at the moon (inconstant moon!) it is blurred with a soft halo of imprecision. And I wonder if it is eternity or my own fucked up sight that creates such peace. And I sink the the gratifying conclusion that it must be my eyes because all of the lights-- the lamps, the yellowed windows, even the blackened flesh of the sky, glows with a fuzzy dense air of spun silk.

And I can't fucking even think coherently anymore and wonder if I should worry about getting home even though I can see the house form here.

And I hear a bird and two people walk by and I am confused that it is almost morning and my tongue rolls out of my mouth and my left foot swings and I glance at my watch and it isn't almost morning. It's almost 1:00 AM and the thought chills me... or was that a gust of wind?

And I long to hold out my hands with my palms up to the sky, to test for rain, or better yet... become a Southern Baptist.

And something tells me to go home and sink into bed now... fall into the warmth and nestling pillows...

Rehearsal is on Wednesday again, and after all, I will miss my bed when I'm in Russia.

God, help me!

Please! God, help me!