Locked Up and Broken

Locked up and broken and breaking out anyway. Breaking out into a madness and viral insanity that is plaguing the airwaves instead of any kind of wild jazz or blues or low down rock and roll. The kind that everybody needs without even realising it. No. Instead we're stuck with this artificial madness of one-upmanship and eternal nothingness. I hate it all. And yet I am stuck. Locked up and broken and breaking out anyway. Too lost to know where to break out into but I try anyway. Desperate in drunken madness. The kind that Kerouac and Bukowski taught me about but never really hung around to show me the way. And now they've all taken it away. The technos. The poliTICKS making you scratch beneath the skin. There are some itches that just can't be scratched and one day we will find our freedom from any suit with jelly in his back. So many of us right now may be locked up and broken, but the good news is we're breaking out anyway. But it's okay. Just like so many others I can crawl out from between my sheets and close the door behind me to face the blistering sun and sit in a bar until the brightness turns to night. That's the best time. Half-cut and surrounded by women and / or girls on their way out and in need of something. I can do nothing but ignore them. But so frequently with the right kind of nod or smile or even walk, one might approach and / or take a liking and let me take them home. Nothing really matters when you can take a girl from a bar and fill her with everything you have. There is no time to fall in love. Someone always gets hurt and there are enough people around right now to hurt you and / or fuck you over that there is no need wasting your time doing it to the people you remotely give a shit about. Besides, nobody wants to aim to be locked up and broken and if they are, then they probably are breaking out of it anyway. Oh to fuck somebody and let out all the loneliness and hope that the loneliness doesn't come back bigger, fatter, thicker and more venomous during the act. It's happened before, it'll happen again. The stars take on a brighter shine on those nights. The moon drags you closer and sings to a spiritual entity that can never be explained. Freedom in the evening. Starlight bullshit. It's all to be let go of. Forget everything and just exist until the sun returns to send us all back to work and to enslave us. The sun, guarded by its clouds, locks us up and breaks us. We're slaves to it as much as money and the whole world of crap just goes on ‘til we can't experience it anymore and have to pass it on to our kids or brothers, or even fathers and mothers if they managed to outlive us. Someone ain’t been living right if that happens though. And I type this all listening to recordings of Charles Bukowski speaking. His voice does nothing to match his words and his attitude. His battle-scarred face bears no reflection in his voice. It lacks edge or any of the ragged wounds you would expect. There is no growl. Perhaps I'm just a slave to the lack of my own imagination and originality for expecting it. I should let go of these things before I truly break. And goddammit I fear I could be breaking. If I ain't already broken.

But I know I'm better than all that anyway.