Saturday, September 24, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Heart of Darkness

My thought process has turned as dark as the water in the bottom of the bath after a hard day's work.  Not to say that I'm falling into a depression or anything, and fuck know's I'm either to stubborn to die by bleeding out, or too chicken shit to try, but the moods, the thoughts, the emotions, and the cravings have turned "dark."

I find solace from this state standing under the hot rain in the shower, a reflective time, to think about what is going on, the sounds of the H2O and dirt pounding on my skin and the plastic under my hot pink toenails and cracked calluses.  The isolation helps, my own version of the padded cell.  Sometimes I hear a sad piano playing softly.

I don't think much anymore when I'm in the "real" world.  It all looks 1940's Film Noir anyway, black and white, lots of shadows, even in the daylight.  That's where I've ben thriving, in the shadows, the ones under the cars, adjusting this or that, turning eccentric cams and making the red box turn to green.  I don't even have to look up at the undercarriage, the naked and exposed beauty of a well crafted frame, like a proper stripper doing her job really well.  The curves, the heft, the sensuality is gone.  It's all the same.  I'm Hollywood Goth again I guess, all dark and depressed, black clothes hung on pale skin. 

Self-medication, if possible, would probably entail Zolfot, Trileptal, Lithium and Codine.  This cocktail would probably end up killing me, but strangely, I seem rather okay with that, going out in a blaze of OD glory, the fields of white chrysanthemums billowing in the breeze, the clouds in thier white fluff, marshmellow paste in the sky, edible, if only they could be reached.  The lone jet fighter streaking across the blue, chased by long trails, a road for the cowboys and wranglers to follow.  The apple trees would be dancing, humming hymns, Amazing Grace, Swing Low, the notes and keys marching on the branches.  A ladybug crawls onto the green leaf, spreads it's wings, and I lay back and close my eyes, rocketing to the dusty plains of Mars,

Johnny Rumble

Thursday, September 01, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Hater Face

It's been an interesting week.  Between all the shit has happened, the amounts of liquids I've inhaled into my stomach, and the seemingly ever increasing tiffs that occur in my our house that have led up to this week of raging hormones and no-sex, my nerves have been, well, fucking shot.

I know this, because I kicked a guy out of my creeper chair today.

"Dude, get off my chair."

"Hang on, lemme finish..."

"Get th'", I don't know why, but I've been dropping letters out of my vocabulary when "The Hate" hits, "fuck outta ma chair, and lemme do thi' muttafuckin' alignment!"  Boot.

I was approached later by another co-worker.

"You got your Hater Face on."  We all have one, mine's just a stern, slightly pursed lips, eye brows lowered to my cheek bones and eyes wide for trouble kind of Hater Face.  I use this face to tell other faces to get the fuck out of mine.

"'Cause I'm fuckin' hatin' on all you motherfuckers, you irritating shit-stains, you..." I veered off into a rant that I don't remember most of what was said, but it was a five minute tiraid about how everybody could go drown in a pool of chlorine and ammoinia.

He looked at me with a bit of his Hater Face.  Sizing me up, I guess.  Didn't matter, I was squeezing the life from an already inanimate spanner.  "You cool?"

I drank in the soupy air, the non-chlorinated brake cleaner, the NOx, the hot dino-juice, and all the tension in my veins.  I softened and smiled.  "Yeah.  You cool?"  We pounded fists and went about our days, better for everybdy involved.

Lovin', and Hatin',

Johnny Rumble