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Posts Tagged ‘prose’

Set the ships to drunken sails and recognize a second rate, land dwelling pirate’s tale as it’s spun from the gallows. The recesses of the places where the brain’s gone swimmy. If it’s that time again, then you know better than to pause and reach for the remote, but to go for a long shot and pour a stiff, demanding, engaging, glass of golden whiskey from the beveled decanter of your fantasies because we are about to tie one on.

It’s what goes bump in the night that makes it worth living. It’s the serendipitous encounters and casual, unhinged conversations laced with unintentional, impassioned, stranger spit in your face, or incessant arm squeezes in the name of emphatics and whoa! that make the night. It’s the soft feeling of ahh, and the loss of interest in being proper on any level where the buttons may be too tight. Where hair comes down and the neighboring table becomes your best friends, never to be seen again.

It’s these moments that make me wonder in their wake. What lies behind being intoxicated- to the fullest extent of the word. What spirit level of the decadent Gods do we submit ourselves to  and is it in safe keeping? Are our soul’s viels spread thin or are we safe in our temporary state? Do we all come equipped with our own self defeating mechanism? Is it a balance regulator? What we feel feels so true and then reason and logic inevitably show their disaproving faces in the morning time.

It’s 3 something in the morning. I drove myself home and I probably shouldn’t have, though it sure is hard to tell these days. My estimated average being 5-6 drinks in four hours. Normalcy? I accomplished a small amount of karaoke and am still trying to get to the bottom of why it’s very important for the human race, but fall sleepily upon these keys at my attempts to spew what have you at what who you. It was a nice night, watching everyone dance and sing. That is some company I can keep and can get behind this every now and again.

Welcome to the feverish swells, in a world where the protagonist, a young woman, had to pull over on her way home and purge-write the ramblings down. These days find her like a fisherman, grasping a giant net and hooping stars to ride, hoping for trails of new theory to push into pockets and come out producing beautiful  print worthy pieces. Under the glory of a squat, humble, halved moon- the only witness to the madness, the love, the atrocities, the unspeakable acts of devotion. I’ll be the first to admit that I did briefly wonder the secrets and what that glowing orb did see and what she knew and how it may link back to me. It was a night of fun where we sang from our depths and drank like sailors, though nothing unknown. Momentarily did I wonder about where the ghost of the heart that is not mine yet and that I couldn’t call for because the phone would ring to nowhere was. But I put my blinker on again and kept driving.

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