Give me a highway that snakes through the ghettos of my home and I will show you the location of every place my soul has ever been re born.
Do you really want to know? As you drive i will point out to you - "That one...That one...That one...That one...That one...."
I am just the same as you but I know the secrets of all the places you go right past. When I think of paradise its a porcelin sink and a noisy vent blowing above my head. My promised land is a 7 by 7 square foot patch of tile with a good solid lock.
Some of them are all the same. Dunkin donuts for example. Theyre a good friend cuz you can always count on them. dont fuck around in the ones in the hood they know wat your doin , you up to no good. However, 85 cents and a strawberry frosted donut changes everything. One bagged confection later and youre welcome to have a upset stomach and really need to use the bathroom as long as you want without nobody knock knock knockin you out of your fleeting bliss.
Then theres the restaurants. Kiddies and moms peeing together, wash your hands, I SAID WASH YOUR HANDS, NO that does NOT mean to play with the hand dryer! Sit deathly still tryin not to spill your prized possession of the moment, waiting for the sound of ripping toilet paper and flushing and the slam and draft of the door shutting so you can go over to the baby changing station and make better use of the flat surface, cuz who wants to mix their shot on a toilet paper dispenser or a tampon disposal box. and the back of toilet tank is out of the question becuz while its nice and big and flat, God already hates you and you aint gonna take the risk of placing your dope no where NEAR a pool of water with the power to destroy your precious cargo. Shit I get the heebie jeebies just thinking about it.
Wanderin out to the smell of fries and back into the cold light a smoke as soon as you pass thru the doors, mission successful.
But my favorite is the lonely back rooms where you get a key attatched to some impossibly large object to make sure you dont run off with that shit. Dont nobody want to go in there. You know that aint no housewife with her kid who "really gotta go pee-pee, mommy," is gonna lower her self and her kid to THAT grimey ass excuse for a toilet. So you go inside and buy the cheapest thing available since those old middle eastern or hispanic guys dependin where you at , dont like people playin in their damn bathrooms. "you buy" they say, and you toss em 50 cents and walk away with the key to your private motel room for the next 10 minutes. Not bad rates I got to say. Ill come back next time I need to stay.
A cracked mirror under a half burned out bulb awaits you and a soggy mop bucket covered in gray slime rests in the corner. The white grout of the tile floor long since turned black. The sink with a bar of brown colored ivory soap, dried up crust where the outlines of where bubbles sat about 2 years ago which was the last time someone used that soap. a paper towel dispenser with nothin to show when you crank the knob on the side. Now thats wat Im talkin about you think. Ever so gently arranging the tools of your trade like a surgeon ready to dive into a triple bypass you lay out your cap, your q tip, your set, and checking for any drop of water before you make a move you see that its acceptable and briefly rest your bags down on the rim of the sink.
Time is tickin, dont wanna go slow and use up a 'take a shit' amount of time with no stank to leave behind so you better move your ass. its second nature, even tho you are satisfied in your logical mind that aint nobody gonna even remember your ass in the constant stream of travelers passing in and out and youre safe for the moment and then some.
I like those bathrooms. It might be beauty in decay. Or maybe its the feeling that everything else on earth that I want I cant have, too poor, too much of a junkie, not enough education. A lexus and a credit card aint never gonna be mine. So I will enjoy the last scraps left over that nobody else wants. Its ok that its dirty cuz you know why its dirty, its from people like you, Its just the same things you are used to. We got super power anti germ protection. We aint scared of no damn dirt right. Shit, your q tip fell on the floor, well wat the fuck are you supposed to do about it you aint got no more. 5 second rule. and you peel and pull off a little ball, pinchin the top off so you know, its like the part that touched the floor is gone , yea, so its ok.
When its ready you take the plunge, whew its done, and stare up at your flickering florescent sun. You survey your kingdom from your throne which happens to be standing backed up against the wall because theres barely enough room for the shitter and the sink in the room. Raise your scepter and use it to shoot the blood tinged water up at the ceiling splattering browinsh pink water in a nice fireworks type of pattern on the chipped cobwebbed plaster. Job description? Interior decorator.
Yea man, I got it good you think. Everything I need right here. For now.
In your quiet tomb , echoes reflect off the tile walls, the light keeps stuttering and a moth flutters around it with a death wish. The rusty sink drips and the brown streaked toilet bowl sweats rust tinged condensation down the side of the pot.
And at that moment that the divine light hits you, the moment you been waiting for, it all stops while some shitty radio station travels from the back of the quicky mart thru the exposed insulation into your presence and you cant even hear the song and you dont care, and the door is locked firm, no one to bother you, to take you out of your day dream, a wall of scarred up graffiti covered industrial steel bars you from the outside world and you from it, and the sink drips in a dopehead lullaby symphony , and your body hits a climax of the ultimate not giving a fuck about the fact that you are surrounded by filth and no one in the world knows where you are....At that moment of salvation, of a diesel powered freight train runnin through your veins, of nothingness and nowhere, you are, Supremely alone. And thats the point, aint it?
Do you really want to know? As you drive i will point out to you - "That one...That one...That one...That one...That one...."
I am just the same as you but I know the secrets of all the places you go right past. When I think of paradise its a porcelin sink and a noisy vent blowing above my head. My promised land is a 7 by 7 square foot patch of tile with a good solid lock.
Some of them are all the same. Dunkin donuts for example. Theyre a good friend cuz you can always count on them. dont fuck around in the ones in the hood they know wat your doin , you up to no good. However, 85 cents and a strawberry frosted donut changes everything. One bagged confection later and youre welcome to have a upset stomach and really need to use the bathroom as long as you want without nobody knock knock knockin you out of your fleeting bliss.
Then theres the restaurants. Kiddies and moms peeing together, wash your hands, I SAID WASH YOUR HANDS, NO that does NOT mean to play with the hand dryer! Sit deathly still tryin not to spill your prized possession of the moment, waiting for the sound of ripping toilet paper and flushing and the slam and draft of the door shutting so you can go over to the baby changing station and make better use of the flat surface, cuz who wants to mix their shot on a toilet paper dispenser or a tampon disposal box. and the back of toilet tank is out of the question becuz while its nice and big and flat, God already hates you and you aint gonna take the risk of placing your dope no where NEAR a pool of water with the power to destroy your precious cargo. Shit I get the heebie jeebies just thinking about it.
Wanderin out to the smell of fries and back into the cold light a smoke as soon as you pass thru the doors, mission successful.
But my favorite is the lonely back rooms where you get a key attatched to some impossibly large object to make sure you dont run off with that shit. Dont nobody want to go in there. You know that aint no housewife with her kid who "really gotta go pee-pee, mommy," is gonna lower her self and her kid to THAT grimey ass excuse for a toilet. So you go inside and buy the cheapest thing available since those old middle eastern or hispanic guys dependin where you at , dont like people playin in their damn bathrooms. "you buy" they say, and you toss em 50 cents and walk away with the key to your private motel room for the next 10 minutes. Not bad rates I got to say. Ill come back next time I need to stay.
A cracked mirror under a half burned out bulb awaits you and a soggy mop bucket covered in gray slime rests in the corner. The white grout of the tile floor long since turned black. The sink with a bar of brown colored ivory soap, dried up crust where the outlines of where bubbles sat about 2 years ago which was the last time someone used that soap. a paper towel dispenser with nothin to show when you crank the knob on the side. Now thats wat Im talkin about you think. Ever so gently arranging the tools of your trade like a surgeon ready to dive into a triple bypass you lay out your cap, your q tip, your set, and checking for any drop of water before you make a move you see that its acceptable and briefly rest your bags down on the rim of the sink.
Time is tickin, dont wanna go slow and use up a 'take a shit' amount of time with no stank to leave behind so you better move your ass. its second nature, even tho you are satisfied in your logical mind that aint nobody gonna even remember your ass in the constant stream of travelers passing in and out and youre safe for the moment and then some.
I like those bathrooms. It might be beauty in decay. Or maybe its the feeling that everything else on earth that I want I cant have, too poor, too much of a junkie, not enough education. A lexus and a credit card aint never gonna be mine. So I will enjoy the last scraps left over that nobody else wants. Its ok that its dirty cuz you know why its dirty, its from people like you, Its just the same things you are used to. We got super power anti germ protection. We aint scared of no damn dirt right. Shit, your q tip fell on the floor, well wat the fuck are you supposed to do about it you aint got no more. 5 second rule. and you peel and pull off a little ball, pinchin the top off so you know, its like the part that touched the floor is gone , yea, so its ok.
When its ready you take the plunge, whew its done, and stare up at your flickering florescent sun. You survey your kingdom from your throne which happens to be standing backed up against the wall because theres barely enough room for the shitter and the sink in the room. Raise your scepter and use it to shoot the blood tinged water up at the ceiling splattering browinsh pink water in a nice fireworks type of pattern on the chipped cobwebbed plaster. Job description? Interior decorator.
Yea man, I got it good you think. Everything I need right here. For now.
In your quiet tomb , echoes reflect off the tile walls, the light keeps stuttering and a moth flutters around it with a death wish. The rusty sink drips and the brown streaked toilet bowl sweats rust tinged condensation down the side of the pot.
And at that moment that the divine light hits you, the moment you been waiting for, it all stops while some shitty radio station travels from the back of the quicky mart thru the exposed insulation into your presence and you cant even hear the song and you dont care, and the door is locked firm, no one to bother you, to take you out of your day dream, a wall of scarred up graffiti covered industrial steel bars you from the outside world and you from it, and the sink drips in a dopehead lullaby symphony , and your body hits a climax of the ultimate not giving a fuck about the fact that you are surrounded by filth and no one in the world knows where you are....At that moment of salvation, of a diesel powered freight train runnin through your veins, of nothingness and nowhere, you are, Supremely alone. And thats the point, aint it?
![:\](https://bluelight.org/xf/BL_Images/Orig_Emoji/wrygrin.gif "wry grin :\")
with any luck, tomorrow...