Monday, February 26, 2007

Dreams of the Father.

Your Reporter has copped out as a schizo possession case...

Awoke with a hangover me and I sit outside the cafe drinking coffee - I am drowning in depression and under the sky, that shattering bloody blue sky of Mexico, the plaza specially designed for containment of ghosts: precise, prosaic impact of objects... washstand... door... toilet... bars... there they are... this is it... all lines cut... nothing beyond. Dead End...and the Dead End in every face.

Chuck ´the canuck´ - his face retains its form in the flash bulb of urgency, subject at any moment to unspeakable cleavage or metamorphosis. It flickers like a picture moving in and out of focus. His voice drifts into my consciousness from no particular place...a disembodied voice that is sometimes loud and clear, sometimes barely audible, like music down a windy street.

"He´s a good boy." or " He´s such a thief - boy would steal his grandmas dentures for a hit of ice." And Joselito who wrote bad, class conscious poetry began to cough.

Bum kicks wrack my form. I pulled a peso note out of my pants pocket pay the jovencito for my breakfast. Adios to my company and I stroll out of the Plaza lighting a Faro - the way is strewn with broken condoms and empty prescription bottles and K.Y. tubes squeezed dry as bone meal in the glaring sun. Walls of street and plaza are perforated by dwelling cubicles and cafes, some a few feet deep, others extending out of sight in a network of rooms and corridors.

One´s Reporter walks past the hustling taxi drivers and dirty Indian family - hands out blinking in the sun - to an Internet cafe to converse with a young lad in Costa Rica and it was dull my God - I have no feeling for no one. "You need to get down here quick, I am tired of waiting." Shaddap. Bored of this tripe, I repair to my small blue room and undress, I fall asleep.

Broken images explode softly in my head...I am living in my parents house and can´t leave my room to look for a job on account of viscous black guard dog roaming the halls - argue with my father - long tableau of quarrels that had last a lifetime. I realise what I have come to accept - I loathe and hate the old monster. Pure white hate.

Wake up flesh dead doughy toneless, bitter and strictly from the long hunger, jet to corner taco shop for a couple of carne asadas. Waitress notices my funk: "Don´t worry about the past or the future. Live for the moment, live for the now. Life is good!"

I take a walk down the strip and ignore the barkers pass the casino under the watchful eye of The Man into the Plaza for a coffee and a smoke. Fags pass outside in droves as I sit and think and think hard. Radio plays national program in Spanish about catching crabs. The bar across thumps where fraudulent Rentboys put the make on you in favor of The House and there is no health in them clap boys rotten to the apple corer of my unconsummated cock.

Yawn and sigh I head back home ready for the long day of job search. The way is long. Hard-ons and bring downs are frequent.

1 comment:

Unknown said...

luis im sorry, i never thought u could get angry for me saying that i was impatient, but i said that meaning that i cant wait to have u near of me, not like an order,anyway im sorry.
i like the way the waitress thinks hehe ;)