The bars are open and the lights are glowing like dreams. The shadows pull long into the alleys. In there you can find the abyss, that legion darkness playing on the brick and moss between close buildings. The wind picks up the moldy stink from the docks and the moon sits low over dead streets.
You are tired, angry and alone. You have become sick of all the charms and splendors of stupid lives. Their thoughts rolling out dullness like swarms of locust. All the holidays, anniversaries, cause célèbre ad infinitum… It sticks in your throat like so much heavy phlegm. Your clothes are dispassionately worn. You carry the cold of the night in your bones.
The alleys keep growing. All that silence in there, with the black feeling of contentment calling quietly. Instead of the alleys, you enter a bar. The name on the oak door reads “Shovel House” and it’s loud and dimly lit. You sit at the bar on the far end, near the toilets. The air filled with a vague musk and hunger. You drink deep. Whiskey, beer, more whiskey. No one notices you and it’s just as well. Save the bartender, the room is occupied by blurs and mumbles.
Drink after drink the memories are swallowed. Her smell, her smile, her beautiful face, all of it drowns with your sickness.
As you stand to leave, you hover over the bar stool. The world swirls around you, leaving no one thing stationary. You make some remark about what a shit feels like floating in water and leave. The jukebox fades and you wonder if you even noticed it to begin with.
You see the sidewalk and pull a smoke from your jacket and light it. A drunken man stumbles from that long alley all webbed with shadow and you walk to him. He smiles and falls to his knees. A loud crack from the bones and cartilage. A shivering finger extends and makes its way up. Touches his forehead and drops. As you take a drag a second man exits the dark. You exhale and through the smoke see a gun point and fire. The man on his knees falls forward his brain all over. The man with the gun jerks his chin up, seeing you. He strides back into the alley and slips away.
You know what has happened and are not afraid to breathe deep the stink of gunpowder and blood. This dead man’s brains seep into the streets mixing with the water and dirt and oil and leaves. You do not stop smoking, you don’t question. The nicotine hits you and calms you. Your sobriety suddenly upon you yet somehow warped. You think that what you feel is something vaguely similar to the bends. Stepping backwards your eyes sharp and focused on the dead man. The streetlights do ugly things to all they illuminate.
People shuffle out of the bar you came from and do not notice the body. A car passes by and keeps driving. Perfume stabs the air. The smell of a dead cat draped in potpourri. She is cackling with a fat man and a skinny man in a blue suit. They smile wide and thick sounds come out. The woman who stinks laughs a lot. Her dress shines phosphorescent and yellow. Her long legs are thin and disgusting. The men howl and jeer. They may be waiting for a cab, their suits say limousine. Behind you is the body.
The dead man, his brains and blood pouring out of his blasted and cracked skull and into the gutters. You think of his lifeless body and you find it relatable. Your existence is uncertain. Whether alive, dead or dreaming you have more in common with a dead man than with the jolly terrifying fat man and his friends. You accept this dead man without remorse. You wish he could do the same for you. His death passed by your conscience without worry. You mean nothing to each other.
The fat man, skinny man, and the woman are all involved in themselves, caught in their eroticism and decay, her mouth now around the cock of the fat man. The skinny man lifts the back of her dress. His dick fills her and slaps into her. You hear the sex. Their juices. The heavy breathing. She moans like a whore. You suck your cigarette. The fat man breathes fast and loud. They stand in front of the bar, seemingly rich enough to pay anything off. They fuck without care. The skinny man in the blue suit pulls out of her and his right hand grips her ass, his left assists sending his cum down her leg. A perfect black car pulls up. You watch the fat man half-heartedly pull his pants up. He hasn’t come yet. She will continue on him into the night until it’s over.
You think of your wife. Her blue face, her arms spotted black with bruises, her cunt bloody with your identity. A piece of you screams into nothingness and hears no answer. You think about the dead man. His loose skin - his limp body. The image of his legs around your waist fills you up and you finish your cigarette and stab it out on your dirty shoe.
