abstrect-christ Posted September 25, 2011 Share Posted September 25, 2011 Oh the mountains! The dark slabs of coal. A monotonous droning of “glad you came”’s and “I hope spots are left”’s then he chimes his hopes of sites to be seen! How car’s bore the fuck out of me. I. 1920’s Model T’s, 1930’s Cadilac’s, the Buick’s of the 40’s, GTO’s and Cuda’s -- The good years of vehicle’s. But at what cost? At what cost does such a burden of metal and chrome balance out to both green and morals? Why the fascination?! This poets mind cannot comprehend! Or is it my youthful rebellion concentrated among a fathers vision? No. It’s a rebellious act among a family of drivers -- why spend thousands for steel and an empty wallet when I live in a city with Eco friendly buses and when a vacation is needed I just need ask someone of an opposite philosophy? Back to the subject at hand: 357’s, 490’s. Sure they sound and look nice, but to sum up my point: I couldn’t give two shit’s let alone a fuck. Most of these drivers are unable to adapt let alone comprehend my artistic sense of the world outside their generational gape, mournful part being the religion of, is like a religion of holy matrimony: They carry their philosophy’s unto the youth and willing. Even this dreg of a highway where they leave their mark among pictures I’m forced to see if, not for a book I covet in my desperate escape from a mobile torture. Stories of past trips to such rocky regions and crude jokes abound, this twilight of flames relaxing if not for a conversing distraction and thought of some activities enjoyed, a dip in a hot spring a girls lips to caress, anything to vacate me from this rapping tune of cars, relaxation and glad you came’s! II. Car’s, Car’s, and Car’s, a fatherly heaven continued; but all I wish to do is read... a Plymouth passes here, a Judge there, I have to get a picture of the tail lights and side cause they indicate a cars year and model, then the mountains and their beauty! This beauty is unmoving frozen in time yet moving through tectonics, can I please just read? III. The precipices turn to foothills, rolling to prairies and my consciences reminiscence of days past, speeding through Okatokes, new roads here, old there -- the housing even! Civilization my end reward at the cost of “You know” he said, “I get the feeling you could use a nap.” He nodded. “There’s a rest area up ahead. Why don’t you pullover and sleep a few hours?” Interrupted by an old tractor or farm house. I instantly understood what he was telling me, but for some insane reason I shook my head. “A nap won’t help,” I said. “I’ve been awake for too long -- three or four nights; I can’t even remember. If I go to sleep now, I’m dead for twenty hours.” A camper noticed before in the mountains pass us, and a fifth chat about the trip as a whole. Good god, I thought. What have I said? This bastard is trying to be human; he could take me straight to jail, but he’s telling me to take a fucking nap. For Christ sake, agree with him: Yes, officer, of course I’ll take advantage of that rest area. And I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this break you want to give me . . . . a crooning of “you’re just like me” and memories of Red Deer. But no . . . here I was insisting that if he turn me loose I would boom straight ahead to L.A. which was true, but why say it? Why push him? This is not the right time for a show down. This is death valley . . . get a grip of yourself. A story of the edge of a 76’ Trans Am engine along a stretch of highway from Slave Lake to Red Deer. Of course. Get a grip. “Look,” I said. “I’ve been out in Las Vegas covering the Mint 400.” I pointed to the “VIP Parking” sticker on the windshield. “Incredible,” I said. “All those bikes and dune buggies crashing around the desert for two days. Have you seen it?” He smiled shaking his head with a sort of melancholy understanding. I could see him thinking. Was I dangerous? Was he ready for the vicious, time-consuming, scene that was bound to come if he took me under arrest? How many off-duty hours would he have to spend hanging around the court-house, waiting to testify against me? And what kind of monster lawyer would I bring in to work out on him? I knew, but how could he? “OK,” he said. “Here’s how it is. What goes into my book, as of noon, is that I apprehended you . . . for driving too fast for conditions, and advised you . . . with this written warning” -- he handed it to me -- “to proceed no further than the next rest area . . . your stated destination, right? Where you plan to take a long nap . . .“ He hung his ticket-pad back on his belt. “Do I make myself clear?” He asked as he turned away. Ozzy Osbourne blasts, “I'll never stop loving this music, it’s rock n‘ roll forever, I don’t like any of this newer shit.” I shrugged. “How far is baker? I was hoping to stop there for lunch.” by Jeremy Swyck (09/19/11) Quote Pinhead "Unbearable, isn't it? The suffering of strangers, the agony of friends. There is a secret song at the center of the world, Joey, and its sound is like razors through flesh." Joey "I don't believe you." Pinhead "Oh come, you can hear its faint echo right now. I'm here to turn up the volume. To press the stinking face of humanity into the dark blood of its own secret heart." "There's a starving beast inside my chestplaying with me until he's boredThen, slowly burying his tusks in my fleshcrawling his way out he rips open old woundsWhen I reach for the knife placed on the bedside tableits blade reflects my determined faceto plant it in my chestand carve a hole so deep it snaps my veinsHollow me out, I want to feel empty"-- "Being Able To Feel Nothing" by Oathbreakerhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aBPy3xNwwL8 "Sky turns to a deeper grey the sun fades by the moon hell's come from the distant hills tortures dreams of the doomed and they pray, yet they prey and they pray, still they prey"-- "Still They Prey" by Coughhttps://soundcloud.com/relapserecords/sets/cough-still-they-pray Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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