Streetlamps

The GTO’s have been put up for the season. Batteries sit losing charge, and the thunderous rock song they sing, and the scent of raw carburetor love sits in slumber until a warm season change. It seems the cough, and wheeze of the first, choked start up will never arrive.

Mercury halide street lamps burn a warm orange glow, as you cruise your silver Chevy through the melancholy white powder of an early February snowfall. Uninsured, and uninterested, the gears slowly shift.

So peaceful she drifts to the ground as the songs of a years gone to rest sways into a direction of peace, and memories. The thought of passing the old high school to live a moment of nostalgia, fades as the headlights soon over power the orange glow of the streetlamps. Music from the past, warms the emotions.

All for naught, one winds up home to carry the weight of a past taken for granted.

Advertisements

The man who turns his back to the audience.

He plays a thunderous string.

Back to the crowd he cries for silence.

Alone he spills a drink next to his oil lamp of self loathing, and hatred.

No band to accompany he plays alone.

He lays it down with anger, and rage cries out.

Seeks the woman with lobotomy eyes, amd cold comfort.

No reins only distance, in which he hates.

The thunderous strings refrain.

He is no longer willing to make them sing.

Love, faith, and infatuation.

Summer just began to heat up. Steely Dan came on the radio. I refused to do the dirty work, but I slammed her against the shelves in the vacant store, and held her.

A feeling of, passion, and overwhelming joy began to overtake. I rubbed my cheek against hers, almost in tears because the woman I had an attraction to for eight years, was letting me touch her. Little did her husband know.

I backed off covered in sweat. Not intending to commit infidelity, but her husband was a thing of the past. He never knew. I grabbed her by the waist leaving finger print bruises, and she turned, and gave me the most stunning kiss.

“I feel like an asshole! ”

“Don’t!” She said.

“Infact come here.”

I did. Post cigarette I forgot to light. She kissed me again.

For all it’s worth I miss her more than anything…

The beginning. Fear, and an introduction to an author with no pen name.

As is goes, I am yet again alone in this world. As the common denominator in failing relationships, I intend to use this to read, write, and hopefully pass time in a manner in which helps me get past the fear I have of sharing my writing, or lack thereof.

Bukowski, and Hunter S. Thompson are amongst my favourite authors. It’s been some time since I have been able to delve into a novel, let alone take a shot at writing one.

Short stories seem to be a perfect form for me, seeing as I have tendency to lose all train of thought, or completely give up leaving a cliffhanger, of a young adult who wanted to up, and leave for the west coast, with absolutely nothing, but a harley, and a few minor possessions to his name.

A computer in which I cannot connect to the outside world, leaves me with a pad, and pen that occupies me whilts I waste my breath on a pack of Marlboro Reds cursing at how terrible the world is. Having the best of intention I can never seem to be the best.

Random thoughts I know. Most thpughts don’t interconnect in my mind. Very intermittent, with sorrow, and guilt for the past in which I have dealt others.

Settling in for a Midwest winter, I intend to share many stories. Slowly I might add. The terror of being alone, and scared to write casts a dark shadow on who I want to become. I have welcomed death, and abandonment of myself to the point where it seems ever so normal. 

I intend to share the most wonderful of my memories, and carry on with my head in the sky. Though the weight bears heavy.

The Amateur Without a Pen Name.