102309
trick or... true?
pt. 1
I have a nefarious pursuant in the spirit realm. well over a decade ago, young and troubled, I subconsciously agreed to this harmful contract for the return of companionship and protection, but this partnership is now parasitic and vexatious. I'm a prisoner to this entities rapacious drive to survive and devour. he is large, canine and black. his body thick, muscular, with short bristly pelage. he snarls ferociously, revealing deadly dentition glazed and dripping with slimy acidic saliva, warding off all those who dare to come near me. he laps up my life force with his coarse tongue. I'm surrounded by his pulpy disgorge. days spent lamenting in lackluster, fatigued from resisting total consumption by him. the sludge of his viscous droppings envelops me. it's like sinking in quick sand. melting into in the malodorous musk of his monstrosity, muculent, mildew and smut. my belongings marked by his presence, smeared with fried grease and hell batter.
my mortlity feels inescapable. avoiding the rot of humanness is a tiresome and insurmountable daily endeavor. I'm trapped in maiden-form. entombed by the litter of "woman"; a hedge of fallen hairs, image altering utensils, endless accessories, toenail clippings, make-up residue, broken accoutrement, dead skin, beauties sediment, dingy undergarments, crumbs, and strange creamy substances. the ever present stench of stale sour urine and rancid boiled fish. I'm an excrement machine in a little black dress; a tender tortured soul peering out through the peepholes of bulimic bloodshot eyes, feebly attempting to conceal sempiternal sadness with the forced upward curvature of vomit lined lips. the damp and phlegmatic decay becomes me faster than I can digest my most recent dose of antioxidants. my chattering carcass is chicken feed for the tenebrous chill appetite of death. these words, my hearts epigraph, hissing steam rising from the of pile of decomposition that is me in physical manifest, passing through this dimension briefly, with just enough time to leave behind a message in blog form...
downtown la is saturated with the dark energy of depravity and addiction. over the years there have been many successful efforts to revive this region, with a smattering of gentrification, gallery row and a burgeoning art scene. the romantic appeal of destitution draws many aesthetes to this specific los angeles precinct, who bring their vision and talent, illuminating the locality like the sun at dawn. hundreds of suits, art connoisseurs and creatives storm the streets during business hours, but the regions infamous skid row is ever prevalent, and at dusk the shadows take over.
on friday and saturday nights I work in the little back bar of a downtown punk-rock dive. this back-bar is a make-shift bar in a hot small room inside of another small hot room way deep in the dead end of the establishments large space. it has concrete flooring, a sink, and a craftily devised door being the sawed off back half of an old van with a converted counter top. its a shanty set-up. I only sell beer and have a limited selection of the essential liquors. I have plastic bottleneck canisters for juices and a large tupperware basin for ice. the bar has a kitschy low-brow appeal, but working back there is an insult to my skills in this "profession"...
(to be continued)
