Solo/s

“let me put you in the picture”

So. We’re not alone. but those like us, will not seek us. nor do they flash by current spectacle. Here’s where all cheesy remarks are legitimate, and advice from anyone no longer touches any valid ground. Now listen to this.

So where do we sail from here? And who put the Benzedrine in Mrs Murphy’s Ovaltine? I have no answers. Both questions are equally absurd. This mere journey we’re locked in is a literal proof of the shortage of physics. We can no longer explain this as a developing consciousness of a cluster of matter. Nor can we, any longer, attribute such madness to alcohol. I can no longer sort words in any comprehensive form, which makes this poetry, some say. Which categorically allows one to say this while I sill owed myself to that.

It’s all too surreal now, past the validity of expression. Yellow skies, fireworks and policemen. A parading circus of lustful drunks seeking things at the bottom of wine bottles. People in white cloaks with speakers on their backs carried-in some Indian Shamanic music, if yet to make this weirder than it already is. But the weirder it got, the more at comfort I was. It is by proper context one begins to unfold. Waves of drunks, junkies, aliens, pirates and dogs were set loose, that was it. All creatures and mammals that don’t belong in a cattle. There’s many of them loose on the way from Leicester to Soho, and I had to run into every single one of them — after all, I was strolling towards crowds and hymns clueless without a penny and intoxicated in the middle of London on a new year’s eve.

Shit, wow.

I figured we sail towards the one party I’ve already booked. At the end of one alley, passed the security check, down some narrow stairs, I arrived at a capsule of extinct sounds, and people, and colors. I was suddenly thrown over to the crowd which ate Syd’s brain. Which killed Morrison. Which still danced till morning. Which still didn’t bother pick up the fallen seekers passed-out in every corner. A few were old enough to having been there at the UFO,.. Good people. We were all good people. I was particularly as good of a person as I could possibly get. Far nicer than that who picked up groceries for old neighbors, far more interesting than Interruption’s peak. Far more honest than mourning martyrs in Barze. Far more vivid than the things she liked about me. Far more conceivable than politics. Far more indulgent than ambitions. Far more inevitable than death. Far less drastic than handling the walk back to the hotel across the city.

Consequences thereafter lead me through the day, through the night, through a Belguim girl’s dress, through sleeplessness, through check-out, through arguments with the bank, and through the rain - southwards, through to where I now reside. Far from home, and sailing away from a beautiful year such as 2011. Year of the weary, year of conquests, year of deprivation, year of doom, fate, fear and loathing.