segunda-feira, 19 de abril de 2010

Yard Bird in Veins

Just a rotten carcass, a few walking scraps sniffing out for something to shoot up in. And he was not the only prophet seeking visions in the Manhattan’s swamp of needles: one thousand fleets, along with their illuminated crews, sunk in those poisonous mud seas.

A business man jumps out from the mist. “Peace for sale”, he said. Besides the effects in trembling hands, there is no better medicine for peptic ulcer pains, annoyed lungs, unpleasant thoughts…

The dream powder is a bit of desirable death. Pity we can’t put it exactly where we want. Oh, it’s done!

And there he was. Trickling down the streets, testing, after a couple pinpricks, how soft can be the sidewalk beneath his feet. Eyes half-shut, an almost audible melody springing out of his numbed throat, the black fingers moving in response…

Perhaps obscure places are cozy for some souls. Perhaps inspiration means nothing but a necessary alignment between two worlds so a bridge can be settled. Perhaps a genius is one that can easily turn himself inside out. And the mess can be contagious: brilliant minds always give us something like the taste of their disease…

That night on 52nd St. was memorable. Goddamned sweet trauma… I’m still searching for my guts. The holly ripper! Charlie Parker was his name.