They start young-- selling weed at school, wearing tie-dye shirts, long hair flowing and wavy, unbrushed. Consorting with philosophers on telegraph. Sucking on necks, both his and hers. Packing delicate joints. Painting their nails.
They watch things that drown out the respect they might have had for their female friends, wacking off in the tool shed to idealistic scenes yet mysterious. Enticingly foreign and handy props, giving false justification to the camouflaged sadism.
They drop acid, go shrooming. Smoke their American Spirits and space out to the Doors. Buy ‘40s of Mickey's, 20-packs of nitrus. High in their jerk-off circles. Wandering golf-courses. Starting in on the meth. Just for fun, cause no one loves them anyway.
One death.
At least they don’t take a bunch of people with them as they’d so insinuated.
Beer and wine, tequila, mariachi. Sloppy longing for everyone else’s partner. The frenchman cleans his fingernails and waits for the skirted remnants. He says he can tell that the waitress enjoys having breasts. And he wants in on them.
They line up their coke and share. Downsize to crack-- cheaper. More shrooms from unsourceable sources, blended with chocolate, taken with drink and snort.
Another death.
Mixing cocktails, orgies of flavors, everything together, finishing everyone else’s line, toke, or drink. Weed smoke, dreadlocks, storytelling, fabric of history. Something clear and brittle. They try unnamed hallucinogenic fancies. Crepes and hazelnut.
A third death.
They sit on the edge of the 3rd story ledge of the cheap motel—the kind geared toward hourly rates. Lurching forward, holding tight, fingers loosening. Discouraged. The next day, bread-delivery-man announces a death, a female, out the window. Someone else.
They want to slit their wrists, pop handfuls of pills. They stand on a suburban rooftop and get shot in the head.
Another death.
They smoke from hazy yellow pipes, hiding them behind their lover’s dressers. Spilling resin on the carpet. Tracks of powder on bathroom counters. Little baggies and corners of white thank-you liquor store bags that smell like the moldy ships they traveled in. Hiding things in their underwear, in their socks, behind their ears, in the freezer. They go shopping in the parking lot at night for an engine head. Bang a prostitute along the way.
They own homes and sell homes and buy homes and trip and trip their balls off. Drinking to the sense of pleasure that befalls anyone who forgets where they came from. Or stuck on the idea that they are worth more than everyone else.
They ogle specific parts of bodies, collect the pretty pictures, watch and watch the flayed innards as they fizzle. The inside-out dolls of soulless wonders, waiting to be raped again. They laugh and admire, scanning breadth and girth, dimple and shake. Juicy bottoms. They gape at women in front of other women. They can’t help it, they say, as their eyes trail movement like hunting day.
They smoke and suck and try to fondle. Shave their butt-holes and wash them in the bathroom sink, hanging just short of the faucet, ass-crack breathing against the metal, steaming up their gradually shrinking world. They lose their drive and blame the women. Gamble for a few winnings to pet the ego of yesterday’s lust. If you’re hooked on drugs, it’s always someone else’s fault, or so they insinuate. They are manly, but helpless. Trying, trying, trying...gone.
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