Gibberish
After reading to much Henry Miller this came out. Tried to re-write something old but instead it turned out something new and more...surreal. It's not meant to be understood in the common meaning of the word. It's just words in some semi-random order. But it makes me happy to read.
Stas came to my funeral, then he helped me steal a car and drove me out into the desert. We had it figured; an hour. That's what it would take before the authorities - society mobs of angry fathers, mothers, daughters, sons and the police - those nazi whores, would start to chase us down. Like fucking dogs, man. The desert was our last resort. A god forsaken wasteland of dunes, vultures and cacti. Some long forgotten suicide space machine taking pictures of Mars or this place, who could tell the difference? This really was the final showdown; country Armageddon.
The tank was half empty but it didn´t matter. No way back. Not for any of us. Not for me. Not for Stas. And certainly not for those left behind in the wake. Those grand cities, the last bastions of a dying civilization and their crumbling Babylonian towers. Good meals and warm hopes served on the need and despair of others. The price of humanity being humane was to ignore some of those hard earned principles laid down by greater men from a greater time. A tank of gas, a drum of oil, to the price of a few hundred casualties in some backstreet in Bagdad. The world coming to an end by the sound of super highways going silent. Perhaps to be found later by some future generation of men and women dressed in animal skin. They would tell their children bedtime stories about concrete cities reaching for the sky. It was never supposed to last.
What would we find down this road? No one knew for sure. A vague promise of a bright future, here at the ass end of civilization? Probably not. Our radio was busted and Stas was singing. I had always imagined the world coming to an end to the tunes of some crazed Russian composer. Chaos all around. Everyone abandoning ship, jumping overboard, swimming for their life, to the tunes of Prokofjev or Stravinsky. Me and Stas on the keel celebrating our masterpiece; having kick started the apocalypse.
It´s a bad start, I know. But this is the way it has to come out. There is no more order and the only way to say it is through senseless gibberish of a fleeing man who once had bought into all the dreams fed to him through his life. Leave it be, I tell you, and listen. The hour has come. And ours has just come to an end.
A few weeks ago they had me locked up. At the funny farm, as the word goes. Dead set to cure me one pill at the time. A bump in the road and a crash behind us.
"Whore! We dropped the TV, man.", he roared.
"You want to turn around and get it?"
"Damn man... nah."
The car steamed on like a torpedo set for destruction. Small gizmos and cogs manufactured in some factory, inspected and then put together with the sole purpose to make some yahoos day really really bad. Machines have purpose. We, people, we just are. The problem of course, as always, was people telling people they could be something. That they could make it in this foul world. Some of them did, but they aren't the ones we read about in the history books.
