“He was so gorgeous… Kurt. I don’t know how I got lucky that way.” - Courtney Love
In which he relates to the legacy …
Half my life story has been hastily jotted down on post-it notes. A biographic prose idly constructed from obscure song references, prophetic quotations and fuck words. There’s little time now for the loose change, for dialectic meandering. I feel this crooked hand drawing out my last ache. What more can I hope to relate but a fleeting distemper. A bile of expressions for to savor, cross so few a palate!
I am pontificating to a congress of garbage. Here you are want to find an epicurean joy … nor a tepid last word, aged, incontinent, and slipping into autumn. No comfort from the hells. And, Oh to the great hells we shall go. This pen, this page is my umbilical to your supple natal core. I shall strive to nourish you with fetid and ruinous ichor. But still you look to me, i am lies. You picture me in childish hue, a hero. I am the father of your lost years, to ages of storied excuses. Inflaming your heart and soul with treasonous tempers. Sweet progeny, I am your ruin, your wreckage. Pity me nothing, look away from the soiled life I have carved into bespoke rage.
A perilous diet of vocabularies.
Nous sharped incisors upon the carcass of gods, the love of dead parentage, weaned from breast to the dark corridors of dementia’s farewell.
Dresses in red
Wallow in silence
Silken promise spits eye
Holding onto linoleum
and dream we’re together
Shaken lack of shadow
Hands my head
Lipstick on the exit
Noir pools the youth
Lines down the face
Lines cut everything
Lines on the heart
Clinging to linoleum
Spit promise kiss
Blood lipped girl
Skin like ashe
Where two humans find one another between glass and love and needles.
I was a shambling corpse on the nod at this point that was true, without question. Yet still I walked the district every night. My eyes they could see but I was blind, my bed had been cold now for years but yet I was burning. I had known all there was to know of love yet still, here I am, wretched … I had lived the great lie of life.
That was long ago now … Now I am here among the canals and old streets of Amsterdam.
A smack puppet making my way along this tapestry of expletive human flavor.
It was spring and De Wallen was alive with the red, with sex, drugs and youth, the effluvia of decadence. It flavors the air, like a sweaty old uncle who hugs just a little too close for comfort, a holiday ass grab that sticks with you longer than you’d like. You shake it off, but it’s still sweet and so damn real. Here was real! Dirty and alive and Fucking gloriously real, this brilliant new grave. It was more life than I had known anywhere else and NOW just as much my newest excuse to be alone. Alone and around these bellowing crowds of the darling living, the sweet life I remember, the farthest dreams I cling to … Old and lonely. I hate it and want to kill it; still I want it all the same, to remember, carefree, and to remember that long lost feeling of new.
The noise of the streets burned into my ears every night, always the same. I would make my way into Oudekerksplein, the Old church square just a few steps from my willowy bed. Every night the same, a needle to hold me up, up until I could forget … just one more to get home. Home, there’s no such thing as home, there’s no such thing as home, there’s no such thing …as.
Until One night I found a reason.
I had made my way, sore veined and fueled with the social blackness, I saw her. A statue of perfection she was clearly of old lineage, from a world torn asunder by capitalism and democracy. From an old grey world now a weeping wound left by the fall of the east, a disemboweled soviet union, spilling forth beauties into the west’s greasy palms. Hungry and horny.
She was a flame, a red haired creature to be sure. Pale and distrusting, wanting and calling, aching. She was the definition of desire beyond desire; soft and ethereal, a lost innocence, a dead voice calling from the long dark halls of her eyes. The grey of her pallor faded into white seas of ice, an age of sorrow carried on the backs of prideful generations. There was nothing else in the universe I wanted more. I had to know the carnal whole of this bleak goddess of death and sex.
So there I stopped. What else could I do? She was my hope, my angel of death and love demanding obedience from my senses. I wanted nothing else but to comply. This and every afternoon I took pause at the edge of my dimes worth to look upon her. The most beautiful girl, she “achter het raam zitten”* … Every night I walked past her eyes like a fresh new poison, selling a death I could hardly deny myself of. I wanted her like how opiates that held up the ancient world, my beautiful whore, my soma! She was some princess of defiled purity tempting my eyes with a future shit love story played out in the gutter of life. Every night I stopped and looked upon her. She had the bluest eyes. Blue eyes and all I could hear were fucking blue! Blue like the sounds of the local mockery, hope, collapsed veins and Placebo from the cafe’s speaker system - “Something borrowed, something blue …” I couldn’t wait to know her name and give her my money and everything else that was left of me.
All generations have been brainwashed. This one is having it done by trained professionals.
Let us this night make new time,
as we open and close
all that has now past.
Through Janus we shall transition;
through gates, and doors,
through our endings
and our beginnings.
And through our time;
returns to love
fades to age
and life to dust
to time again
to brand new us
Day dream belief,
on winds an old tale will pass.
He has managed to become the character,
he that comes and goes.
You think that he’s the protagonist,
but the story seems to be carried on the backs of others.
He becomes the story told with in the story.
Only spoken of in circles of friends he has passed through.
"You remember when … "
A seasonal moment in the lives of others.
He has become atmosphere.
Tsarevich Nicholas Alexandrovich and cousin Prince George of England. 1893