grass construction workers out to mislead the public about the substantive nature of the ground the grow their food in. its really shipped in from overseas, where small children from needy nations knit it together from polymers and refurbished nike t-shirts. the woman who works at receiving whispers with open eyes, "Is it all true?" and the man with the impatient solid face rubs his eyes and mumbles something about bliss and ignorance. or bliss and fabrication.
bliss and polymers.

old city is a perpetual breeding ground for first dates and last calls. A reproductive slum for all the single cell anti social amoebas that squirm the streets with tails flicking spastically. Looking for the wrong guy or wrong girl to scoop them up and sodomize their brain with a meat cleaver. We should be so lucky. Will natural selection actually weed out the shallow unfit seas of unconscious corpses roaming the streets? Will they eventually dry up into the rotten cores of meaningless flesh that we see them as? Does god have a hand in balancing out this fucked up crumpled sports car that we call Friday night? The answer is no. No, no a thousand times. And we'd be better off if we didn't drown in the details.
The deep mascara driven eye sockets of girls with no home to go to plead on and on about their hopeless predicament. I'd be inclined to agree with them, and even sympathize, if there were just a dozen fewer of their kind.

This girl gives her girl friend's ass a firm smack, and I'm in love. It's unrequited love but I'll take it. Just to see your body flex upward, with arms and thighs aching to touch. But sadly you don't feel the same way, as your body makes its moves to far ends of the club, and the contrast which you gave to your surroundings fades out and everyone becomes the same thing. A sea of dancing contours, black opaque silhouettes, among a flashing strobing backdrop.

"lets turn up the ampage on his brain a bit." The doctor, somewhere out of vision, suggests.
His finger tips turn to mush and he's bleeding static.
His formless hands try to hold on to a railing, but the fingers(?) just gum together and the bar slips from them. He tumbles into the vibrating landscape and can't find his legs, just some mutual appendages hanging off him. Steadily, his body is blurring together, disrelating itself to itself. He watches as parts of him shift into other parts and he has become a disjointed sack of things, helpless in the hallway.
"Hmmm, I'd say that was too much..."
"Oh I agree, let me get him back up here."
He can feel knobs being turned, and a crust starts forming on his body, gradually hardening into legs and arms and feet and hands. Soon he is a self again. Not himself, because everything is brand new. But he can point, and be pointed at, and given that, what needs are there?

Her basic intentions were good, but wolves can hunt their prey without ever knowing it. The instinctual body movements and hand motions. The repetition of familiar word combinations. The scanning habits of the pupils. When the cognitive mind isn't in control, one wonders why intention should be brought up to begin with. The words still grind against the brain. They still cut through the emotional cortex with incisive precision. Regardless of intent, the suffering is the same.
And good intentions can still tear your throat open.

some days flick by so fast you're reading a flip book with single frame events picked out from the details. feeling is lost. people have blurry edges. the wind carries them away. life becomes a distraction.
other days grow roots and wedge themselves in the concrete, with violent vibrations rocking your center of gravity away from its resting place. the belligerent days refuse to go unnoticed, and they will hurt you if they have to.

Crowded bars. Where silence and noise accomplish the same ends. Squelching out any chance of connecting with a stranger. Scanning heads in the desperate search for a friendly face, or just a face. But when you look you only see the underside of shadows and their voices have packed into all the others so you can't make out a word.
100 backs are turned away from you- alone in a crowded room.

Japan is getting bombed, and we're getting trashed. Reggae music interspersed over military footage makes a surprisingly good soundtrack for a run of uninhibited binge drinking. With cluster bombs and jello shots, both signaling a kind of impending doom. A chaotic moment, everything jumbling together at once. The seconds slow, the world fades away. Unconsciousness takes over, friends and strangers, dropping to the floor. War is such a horrible thing. Alcohol is such a horrible drug. But we need them both to live. It's a truth: we need imminent death and unthinking stupidity if we are to survive.

collections mapped out and snagged on rough metal wires, skewered through crumbling wooden posts for the reading collection of thousands. regurgitated, recycled, the same thoughts flicking off the tongue through the pen onto paper and tacked up again like some amnesiacs private ritual he keeps forgetting he already did.
forgotten and repeated, times and times over.

It begins with blood. The music is turned on, and the scent of dancing wafts out into the streets. Then the sharks swim in. Girls with tight skirts and long legs flicker about in their seats, while their boyfriends talk softly and look oblivious. No one saw it coming. This is shallow water, and the scent of hard steps and dipped shoulders can be detected easily by the predators. They attack in packs, abandoning their escorts and surrounding their prey, grinding with long thrusting hip motions. The fervor heightens, and as the contact becomes more and more physical someone screams in sexual hysteria. Ooooh! The prey and the predators have become so entangled its hard to see who is attacking who. Both are fighting - no one seems to be resisting.
At the end of the night, the sharks return to familiar waters, but a dangerous flicker of the eyes can be observed. The chances of a second attack are impossible to predict.

Possibilities
Here I'm not at a club. With pounding music instinctively gyrating muscles. With a jungle of female hips and arms to brush against, passing from one part of the floor to the other. This did not happen. When 7 hot girls come up to you on the street, and one smiles through you and extends an invitation to come along? Of course the answer is yes! So why aren't I here? Here on the bar leaning eagerly into her face with a bottle in queue inches from my mouth. Here with the aroma of cigarettes and aphrodisiac perfumes rising up out of the dark wood stained floors. Her face is alive and fiery with octagonal reflections and cheap plastic laser light substitutes. Or it must be- From someone else's perspective. Someone else's bar tab. Someone else's awkward internal monologue, constricting dialogue inside his brain. Someone else's disappointment with the shallow insides of the cute girl with the misleading glasses. I'm not here because in my subconscious, I know this. But consciously, I'm still clicking through the possibilities.
Disaster.
Danger.
Regret.

Fire crept up from the inside of the earth and exposed itself to the sky. Extending in a molten spiral up into the clouds.

Attacked on all sides, the claws clicking out - jaws snapped wide. Scatter backwards up a vertical pole extending to air. Freedom safety, guilt, remorse. Sometimes, you get to the top, you wish you hadn't climbed all the way. Because now you can't get back down.