It has nothing to do with hearts. Or the turtlenecks I wore in 6th grade that were printed with tiny little replicas of hearts. They were related to Izod somehow; maybe they were Izod. Or Izod's buck-toothed little cousin who peed a little when they laughed always. It has nothing to do with my overwhelming 6th grade desire for Zena multi-colored pinstriped jeans. Oh lord, I woulda pinned the shit out of those motherfuckers; I woulda had the tightest little strangled ankles in any American suburb anywhere.
I didn't get those Zena jeans cos life's like that; you turn a corner with your paper bags of groceries and a Mad Max looking motherfucking motorcycle messenger jumps the curb and clips those sweet tight ankles.
You have no tendons, no Achilles' heels, and for that you, too, are a motherfucker. You wanted to be sad all the time, tho, so suck it up.
You are indestructible as far as I know, now.
I'm ready for happiness & I want the ravers out of my head. They're all high on E and mentholatum and their sick masks scare me. The speakers boom, and water bottles roll across the dance floor that is my neurons. My neurons are bumping, bumping and abused. My neurons hate the glow sticks and pacifiers; my neurons are sick of being stepped on. My neurons are sick of the 1-2-3-1-2-3 steps white people count as getting down.
Even if it's fast, it's still 1-2-3...
& you and I have been playing chicken with our hearts for such a long long time. Now you have no Achilles and now you have no fear.
The ravers know nothing about how you swerved first then I jumped then you swerved then I swerved and it goes on and on every time we get together we fuck and fuck then swerve and jump. All the ravers know is the beat.
The ravers know nothing but raving. Dumb ravers.
The ravers don't know fear, either. Except for the fear that the music will end or they'll come down and see themselves all sweaty in the light of day, googly-eyed and sucking on pacifiers and twitching. They keep that fear down deep and hope and hope it'll always be night and they'll always be high and the DJ'll spin forever and evah.
The ravers always cheer the DJ. All of them always wear sunglasses and tilt their heads to the beat. The beat is the sound of my bike crashing; the beat is the sound of me hitting the pavement. All tucked up in a tiny ball, hurtling away from a motorcrash.
The beat is you and me and how one of us always get through and how we live to talk about it and how we meet up again and there's always a raver waving a white flag and how the hell did you get out.
motorcrash
Your chicken,
Ry
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