In essence, the essence is filth. In poetics, the poets slip skin. In the midst of the grit you choose to remit cleaniness as part of your soul. There’s more to life than the thought you abhor, you choose to embrace all the animal’s and all the whore’s; aboard kind green tracks from the south, passed Village up to the depths of the hundreds and on and on. Choose to score, choose reckless abandon the colour of life among crime with the depths of your inherited shame propelled like the spit you launch at the pigs when they try to arrest you for feeding your fix. Let the shakes drive the car downtown passed the bar, baby by your side, your hand on her thigh and you kiss, feel the bliss, underneath the B line, train tracks catch your eye and now you’ve been running for most of the time till your spent, till your bent. The taste of some queer kind, the love for the melting sky, the choice to escape before you can face all these lies - there’s no need to sigh.
I once ran to the docks in search of my loss, could not contain all the feelings I’d baned, refrained by societies limits on play, on games without rules and rules without slaves. I live off the sweat and the lice of the wilderness in some such concrete jungle, among urban decay - an urban lust and a decay of scum-bucket conservative morals, of norms. Sat at Norms, 4:45 a.m., waiting for a friend…it was time to fix again, again. But I knew when Rachel’d appear, she’d have no more than a Lincoln and a Hamilton and poetic schysms that would add no more for the medicinal but sure enhance this breakfast edible, and Oedipal insecurities that throw themselves out when you plead upon your knees. Hell, I was no star child but I knew my talents to write, and though no easy ride, I pledged for life. Hunger for seed, it caught her eye. I loved her, that’s a fact; and I’ve loved him, though I never could call back. I wish I could kill the demons that keep me up at night, but that might just undue the work I’ve done to yield do, long overdue, like the library book I kept since 2010 and read, “Hippos were boiled, in their tanks”, junky itch, dead-bodies snitched, neurotic psychosis, New Amsterdam Murder Mystery, no mystery, and a construct 25 years ahead of his time. But still, I knew not where I’d find harbor - was it by the bay? or by Teenage Mary at Union Station, now most underwhelmed; Seasick Sarah and Beardless Harry - lost souls among lost boys, thrown toys and evangelical ploys. Headed towards Coney Island and, no, I ain’t ever even been to New York City, it’s just those thousand plus words that painted those pretty pictures, and it’s the six-string sound of the Purple 7 - Flushing, or the Z - Williamsburg, or Jimmy D at the corner panhandling, the sights, the smells, the burn, ran across the street for smokes and they don’t know me and I don’t know them but $26 in my hand, how’d I end up at Lexington/1-2-5? Lost but not forgotten, now post-Brownstone, spiked, tear-eyed if only at some bike at Randall Island ‘cause I just don’t know. Feel like a man yet? I guess I just don’t know. I’m far from it but not that long-aways away now from the false-coloured eyes where she stands waiting, that little tease, what a date awaiting. Femme fatale and then comes relief at the bottom of the bottle, and this plunger stuck till tomorrow, but that’s just another day. The point I’ve tried to make, I think, through all this toil and trudge - is the pill meant to be so hard to swallow? Unlike Little Joe, who made it pay, or Candy darling with her highest of highs “hey babe, take a walk on the wild side” or lowest of lows, “I’ve come to hate my body…” and the rest that we just may never know, for the secrets of the secrets - those marginalized by societies cleanest, often queerest, deserve voices; and often the Queen herself must smell the stink she emits without the slightest of grins if for her to forsake her own ego for reality - so we may know we all knew it well, all knew the truth prevails and puts deception to the test.
But ohh, oh, it’s made out of sand, and ohhh, oh, time’s in your hands - it’s got nothing on you, and you got nothing on it, just run run run till the day your heart quits. But don’t stop believin’ in feel, and no don’t stop honest schemin’, today’s as good as tomorrow and maybe even better than yesterday. Like the swallow fly on to the things that don’t sound hollow, keep a keen eye for sorrow, and the affliction of the undeniable, unrefinable. Faith in the face of disgrace, Jesus, help me in my weakness, for I’ve fallen from grace - the strength in the depths of the gallows, pickin’ us up after a splash to the face for pale blue eyes to watch my guise, I know it was a sin but I’d gladly do it again. You’re my bestest friend, hopes we’d never end; I glassed you that day, and you kissed me, then “hey!”, lost my wind, confidence wore thin, convinced I could kill and afraid of all my weaknesses within. Too bad though, you were glad I came back, not sad. For Sister Ray came callin’, I was ballin’, I woke up with a stomach filled with Tom Collins’, and she told me with her wave of chaos and feedback, there was nothing to fear - these things tend to happen when you’re afflicted by the fever - for richness of existence, artistic drive to quell this sickness, self-pity - what a pity. I found a reason, a reason to live, it’s the music I’ll make till I quit, till I’m whipped and I like it. It seems to me to believe I’m like Severin, there’s sado-masochistic’s within every slim - the artist is driven to pain, plays that fiddle like it’s his game, whip him, chain him, stain him, then remit the slits he cuts into his wriist.
Forgiiive me my unworthiness, forgiiive me my uncleanliness, for if Godliness I’ll miss for these times I spent among septics, I can’t take it back, won’t turn my back. So baby turn to me, sit down upon my knee. ‘Cause you know, baby, I keep my pimpin’ clean. Some kinds of love, though, live to deceive. But as Marguerita told Tom situations arise because of the weather, and no kinds of love are better than others, even if something told left you incapable of breathing. No it’s never been easy to move on from black and blue. Berlin behind, and little by little, I’m beginning to see the light, and baby, you can work very hard, never make it to the light but I’m beginning, I’m beginning to see something nice, it smells so fine. Can’t hop off the see-saw quite yet, though, with another bump of cocaine, another shot, another glass of wine…to the memories of yesterday’s crown. And from there I’m set free, to find a new illusion. I lived a life so profound that I’d never found….time to be more than me but what if I’ve never known me? Ah, illusion, it lives to deceive, and when I act I find myself down upon my knees ‘cause I still need to be set free, I need to nut up and be me, Lou Reed, you helped me see - some kinda truth. There’s more to this than what everyone expects outta you - that’s never meant shit. Lead. You gotta make ‘em see what they they’ve been dying to see, through the copper lenses, and the glowin’ light of such delights - music which tastes so bright and leaves you copulated by the side of the road with your ass naked and wind ahold of your pride. So when your head’s laughin’, layin’ on the ground, remember then, you’re set free.
Time keeper, let me in on one secret, do I see thee? When the curtain falls, another opens, do you oversee those scenes? Does you eye behold both misery and ecstasy? Devoid of judgement do you smile upon these humble citizens of self-satisfaction, confusion, and hopelessly optimistic oblivion? In my drunken humiliation and cancerous see-saw of emotional recoil I begged for an answer, and that’s the story of my life. But luckily, in guidance, I found some beacon of wisdom, of bold, wide-eyed depravity that would only yield more fruitful bounties, a prairie, a new, high-held plateau where these games would now yield cascading intimacies and relations that were never before figured attainable. Just true you, true me, true be. And after hours, after they’ve closed shop, last call called, last drink drunk, see-stains stain the scene…he’ll be there - You’ll be there, glass raised, Mercury rising and the tides a-changin’, his eyes preaching always be ahead of the wave, always be the one who tiptoed nonchalantly ahead of the break. It’s no challenge, “…we do it ‘cause we love it, beautifully, hoping they’ll love it, beautifully, too;” sometimes they’re just late to the party. But that’s okay too, better late than never. Thanks Lou, my life was saved by Rock & Roll.