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"If You're Bored Of the Planet Earth" [Bottled Whispers |Engage Time Machine |Channeled Spirits|Magick Mirror]
Jack Babalon

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Confessions of a Fuck-Up Artist [Mar. 9th, 2017|01:23 am]
Jack Babalon
[Tags|, , , ]
[Current Location |Agnes Town ]
[Psychic Weather |Drunkish]
[Aural Atmosphere |Weird Creepy Ambient Shit As Usual]

You could speak of Terminus without speaking of her trains, but to do so is to speak of the Sahara without mention of her dunes, or to offer London without reference to her streets, to promise New York City minus the ghosts of Old Times Square. No, that will not do and we both know it. Terminus, with her iron streams of commerce pulsing with wail and rumble that serve as spectral Greek Choir to the Dharma, Drama, and the Dream of our city's heritage. For Terminus isn't like the other metropolises of the East Coast. Hatched from a nest/nexus of rail lines converging southeast of a future empire. Raised from iron, blood nourished, wild sister to neighboring Agnes Town, rail-wise beyond her years, Fortress of the Pax Confederate, burnt down to roaring ashes off a spark lit off the very tracks from which she was born, and with a phoenix disposition rises up. Harlem South of the Bible Belt, Southern Fried Gotham, Engine Town, Cemetery Mill, Mechanicsville, Five Points Greater, Five Points Lesser (aka Vampire Country), Snake Nation, the Wilds of Techwood, the East Side Drag, the Buckhead Mating Crawl, and through it all the steel banshee roar of the rails pierce the Great Appalachian Veil to launch her song out across the vast American night.

And it's almost midnight, meandering home from Write Club, where suddenly I'm standing under the tunnel of US 23, just a long block shy of Vampire Country (where I passed in pleasant inebriation amongst her ghosts remembering kisses and threats dearly). Above me the boxcars are rattling out, clanging, grinding, shaking the concrete tunnel walls, dispatched to haul west nocturnal, and I raise my arms (Sign of Typhon Triumphant) , and I just scream.

I scream at the quarter-million dollar lofts perched on the edge of Seaborn Avenue the way relatives perch on the bed of a rich aunt who can't die soon enough. I scream at the shopping center where junkies once shuffled promising oracles for spare change. I scream at the burnt down house where once gutter punks offered swigs from 40s and hits off blunts. I scream at the ghost of my brother suicide-lost who once ruled the ragged of these streets with charm and violence. I scream up at that train now picking up escape velocity, thunder chugging until the walls tremble, and it doesn't disperse my scream but rather absorb it. Makes it a part of her song, a sample slipped into the mix, and later tonight - when that CSX comes wailing down the predawn streets to waft through window open on early spring where it will wake you from a dream forgotten and you will hear faintly beneath the cry of her haunted whistle my scream and you will know that scream as your own when back to sleep you slip.

Last steam of the bourbon alchemy fading with work early in the morning and this is where I leave you alone but not unique.

Word on the Street
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(no subject) [Feb. 17th, 2017|01:11 am]
Jack Babalon
The Invisible College in flames, the Library Alexandria burning, tinderbox now our Rome ambitions, and we the last adepts bare witness to the teachings of our sacred masters now in the unseen hand of an undying enemy. Once we proudly snarled at the Normies and the Straights declaring R.A.W.'s maxim - "Reality is what you can get away with." In a world where our schools, our churches, our commercials, kept trying to mold us into a herd we didn't want or simply couldn't fit in with, there was something revolutionary in those words - "Reality is what you can get away with."

But now, now 'Reality is what you can get away with' is the Mission Statement for the Administration presiding over what's shaping up to be the Last Days of United State's Democracy. 'Reality is what you can get away with' is the underlying message of the Trump Regime and who knows that better than a real estate mogul turned reality star?

Everything we learned in the appendices of the Illuminatus, that we used to navigate rough psychedelic voyages, to confront the worst aspects of our character imprinted into our nervous system, or just ponder naked in a bed filled with books, pets, lover and/or lovers, they used to turn the Great Experiment of our nation into a Plutocratic Empire. The conditions were right, the ravages of globalization were felt hardest by a segment of the population unable to accept the social ramifications of the 1960s and heard exactly what they've been wanting to hear. Now, what they don't hear simply isn't true. It's Fake News. What agrees with their narrative of a America for Americans (by which we mean a certain flavor of American) is Gospel and everything else is Fake News.

So, that which does not agree with Emperor Trump is false and all else then is superficial.

How?

"Invoke often!"that's how. The trick we learned in our robes, in our secret temples, in our sacred stoned headspaces. It was a trick we stole from Madison Avenue and we used it to become ubran shaman, mortal vampires, postapocalyptic industrial warriors. Now it's the mantra of an Insurgent Nation within our own - one armed, drugged, and scared of what don't act like them. Just keep listening to the President, to Fox News, to the fat, angry white man on the AM radio, and they keep repeating over and over a doomsday America. Opiate ravaged ex-coal miners and forgotten vets of the Oil Crusades scrounging through ghost towns under the shadow of rusted heavy machinery. Meanwhile, out yonder in the city, faceless immigrants who gibber in strange tongues simultaneously steal jobs while collecting fat welfare checks for their anchor babies or next jihad all at the expense of honest, real, Americans that have very strong opinions about who pees where and ensuring unlimited access to a wide arrange of firearms. Tell them otherwise and they'll paraphrase Crowley's Book of the Law - " Enough of Because! Be he damned for a dog! But ye, o my people, rise up & awake!”

The power of stories is no longer solely the domain of the esoteric shaman pondering their tomes, but is now an incantation of serious level black magick that has been used to weaponize the mob to install the Iron Empire into power.

So maybe it's high time we learned that reality is no longer what you can get away with. No it's the Weapon and Battle-Field in which the War for the American 21st Century shall be fought.
linkInvoke

Leonard - General Master of Sabbaths [Feb. 15th, 2017|01:01 am]
Jack Babalon
Despite what it says on my LinkedIn account my knowledge of demonology and the ways of the Left Hand Path is primarily derived from old comic books and Penthouse forum letters. So maybe I'm missing something in the Gematria but it seems someone on this list of the Damned's High Command got screwed when they were handing out names to the Fallen. I refer of course to Leonard - General Master of Sabbaths.

I mean seriously how exactly does a "Leonard" find himself hanging out with the whole Paradise Lost gang in the first place?

SCENE: Lucifer on his burning throne summons his Rebel Angels to gather before him, where they will be named and given rank in his new kingdom.

Lucifer: Alright, let's make this quick people, I ain't got forever here...

Infernal Attendant leans over to whisper in Lucifer's ear

Lucifer:... okay, yes technically I DO have forever here but that ain't the point. The point is I'm a busy guy with a lot on his plate. I gotta invent language, bury a bunch of fake dinosaur bones, win a fiddling contest, and plot to overthrow the Almighty. Which means in order to keep things running smoothly I'm going to have to delegate some of my responsibilities. That's where you mooks come in. I mean look, I can't just be appearing out of a puff of smoke whenever some asshole utters some butchered Latin and Hebrew expecting me to pop out of a cloud of smoke and make them invincible with X amount of wishes.

Well, I'll tell you this for free. I sure as shit didn't become the boss of Hell so I could do shit-work for the mortals and I sure as fuck didn't bring you all along with me for the company so here's the deal. When I call out your name you step up, receive your ranking sigil, do a little bow, and then get your ass to making this organization ready for Armageddon Time. Okay?

Rebel Angels murmur discontent.

Lucifer: I said 'OKAY'?

Rebel Angels through fakes smiles answer OKAY as one.

Lucifer: There we go... now who's up first? You, dude with the head of a cow.

Moloch: Mmmmeerrrroooooo

Lucifer: I like your attitude, you're gonna be my Prince of the Land of Tears.

Moloch: MMmmmmmooooooo...

Lucifer (laughing): This fucking guy over here. You're killing me, okay... next we got... you the dog with wings.

Marchocias: S'up?

Lucifer: Marquis of Hell. Next... uh, you naked dude with the head of a cat.

Nickar: I am NICKAR!

Lucifer: Right, uh, I'm gonna make you...

Nickar: NICKAR!

Lucifer: Ohhhhkay, Nickar... you're, shit, you're just Nickar. Think you can handle that?

Nickar: NICKAR!

Lucifer: Great, let's see naked guy on a bear playing the trombone you're a Prince. Viking guy riding an alligator...

Sallos: Crocodile, m'lord.

Lucifer: What?

Sallos: It's a crocodile not a...

Lucifer: Hey! I didn't invent language so you could get pedantic with me. I was going to make you the General Master of Sabbaths, which is only the sweetest job on the list, but you had to go and run your mouth. Now you get to be just a Great Duke of Hell, while the Master of Sabbaths title goes to the guy next you... you, yeah, fancy pants with the coat-hanger horns.

Leonard: Yes, Your Royal Infernalness.

Lucifer: What's your name...

Leonard: Leonard.

Lucifer: What?

Leonard: My friends call me Lenny... well if I had any friends that is. Funny thing was I didn't even know you fellows were going to overthrow the Almighty. I thought the whole rebellion was just a support group for angels with self-confidence. Next thing I know... here I am. One of you guys.

Lucifer: Yeah, that's... great. Okay, Leonard, you're my General Master of Sabbaths. Your job is going to be to lead the witch orgies and help future rock stars get their hands on fatal amounts of cocaine.

Sallos: Aw, man...

Lucifer: Well... 'Lenny' think you can handle that?

Leonard: Actually I was really hoping for something in accounting.

Lucifer: Sorry but I already got a numbers guy. So what's it gonna be 'Lenny'? You my Sabbath guy or are you going to be Leonard General Master of Cleaning out Hell's Shithouse?

Leonard: Fine...

Lucifer: Alright, now what we got next? You ostrich face...

Leonard - General Master of Sabbaths & his friends
linkInvoke

As Long As It Takes [Feb. 14th, 2017|10:42 pm]
Jack Babalon
Every Valentine's Day my ex-girlfriend leaves a dead bird stuffed with candy hearts on my doorstep that she wraps tenderly in gold painted barbwire. Usually there's a note attached and written in a collage of letters normally reserved for a ransom note she enlightens me to her blessings. How the husband finally got that big promotion at that local publisher. How her daughter was turning out to be quite the budding scientist. Also about how she burns a stack of my social media posts she's printed out in a state of the art grill out on the patio whenever she's been drinking a little too much wine. She ends each letter the same, sans signature with only the phrase - "As long as it takes" - to let me know it was her.

Last year it was a Red Breasted Nuthatch whose eyes were replaced with two chalk candy hearts reading "I LUV YOU" & "Be Mine" and along with it the note spoke of a lost night between us. We hopped the wall at Oakland Cemetery after she got kicked out of Masquerade for snorting a little blow in the Lady's Room of Hell. She still wanted to dance though and specifically at a graveyard. Oakland would have to do. Lacking music we sang old Sisters of Mercy songs and danced around the graves of the Confederate Dead. Later, beneath a statue of a weeping lion, we fucked on the dirt and beneath me she flipped off the Terminus skyline segueing out of the mausoleum rooftops. Back at our apartment we got drunk and she cried until dawn and asked me how long we had as people who weren't completely boring.

As long as it takes, I promised holding her against me while we watched cartoons on cable TV hotwired through the VCR.

Promise me something though, I whispered to her feeling the warmth of her tears on my chest, promise me you'll never forget me. Remember me as... I dunno... an uncaged bird filled with poems and love but sharp as barbwire. I didn't think much of it. Figured it for the wine and the weed and the post-coital bliss and the no-cocaine jitters and the children that lived upstairs from her getting ready for school.

She raised her face from my chest, her eyes blazed with the reflection of an unknown flame, smeared black lipstick curls into a break-all-hearts smile and she promises. Promises the way the good guy in the movie promises to avenge the death of a friend or true love.

Seven months later we were broken up. She caught me cheating on her with a nasty little Klingon at Con. I hadn't been working as I had gotten fired from a steady customer service gig after a random quality-assurance recording caught me on tape threatening to fist fuck some douche out in Fly-Over Country, USA. The lack of money I was bringing in was just enough to put the financial burden on her secretary gig. Instead of looking for a job I spent my days writing bad poetry and hanging out with an old shipmate. Well, when said ex-shipmate was able to score me a free pass to the Con (just me though not her) I couldn't say no. And feeling drunk and feeling like the real victim I allowed myself to be seduced in the name of intergalactic diplomacy. Don't ask me how but by the time I woke up covered in scratches and regrets my ex had already found out about my indiscretion. When I came back from Con it was to find my shit tossed all down our apartment's hallway. With my shitty credit it was just her name on the lease and that was that. Well except the getting screamed at and slapped and kicked in the balls.

But since then, every Valentine's Day, she shows me that she's kept her promise. That she'll always remember me with wings of flight and magick words.

Happy Valentine's Day, REDACTED... I whisper and stuff the red breasted nuthatch in a plastic grocery bag that I gently dump into the trash.
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Terminus [Feb. 12th, 2017|05:38 pm]
Jack Babalon
The Word on the Street in Trump's America

Checks Cashed

Dusk on Memorial

20170126_182346

Adventures in Public Transportation

8488

Nocturnal Bloom
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Blueberry Pie [Feb. 12th, 2017|03:30 am]
Jack Babalon
The Bad Place is not one reached but arrived at without warning transposing itself over even the most mundane of destinations. The Bad Place is a geography of chemical imbalances, tempest lit, a long walk along the shores of black drowning waters lapping at your steps. You know you're not the first person to have it show up suddenly at a bar or a job or a lover's bedroom but empathy sours and even an active triage would register as nothing more than a shrug. People will reach out and a voice disguised as your own will whisper in your head that it's always the wrong ones. You will behold the world as if you were a ghost and see that life goes on not only without you but as if you had never been there at all. People laugh, people cry, fuck, dwindle, die and in between do all the wrong things at all the right times and vice versa.

But don't think you can hide from the Bad Place but not going anywhere because then it can arrive in a room full of books and music to become a prison shrinking down coffin tight. Hide is what you got to do though. At least it is if you give a fuck about anyone you know. If you're lucky you've had some experiences with a bad trip or twenty and know how to ride it out with grace, with dignity, with noble silence. If you're unlucky you take to social media.

Your best option then is to get out and not go anywhere at all. Leave the car at home, ignore the bus, resist the urge for an Uber evac, and walk. Walk, as far and as long as you can. Past when the feet hurt, past the first dozen places to buy a drink, past the places you once lived before the Bad Place found you there too. By doing so you will make the Bad Place have to keep up with you. You don't give it time to settle into the details, to render bland the little miracles, to rob the laugh or awe at some random spectacle.

Which is exactly what I did tonight.

With wireless headphones broadcasting trip hop scratches and Raga beats. With brand new Chucks with a rubber tip white as a specter's grin. With the streets of Terminus under a six week early Spring bloom so that the wind is pungent with a scent vaguely floral, vaguely sexual. With just a whiff of a drizzle on the breeze. In a grave yard that serves as a backyard to an elementary school I performed magickal solar invocations beneath a iron dusk and watched a cloud that looked like an starship sized hawk sweep over the trees ahead. I stood inches from a roaring CSX just a stone's throw away a factory that makes what it claims are the 'World's Best Pies' and feeling the roar in my ears cackled manically just for kicks. Marched through Vampire Country and blew a kiss at the tender memory of a friend most precious who toasted me as I walked by the Admiral's Grave.

Finally a skipped lunch and a pinner smoked through a hidden nature trail along Memorial drew me to Mannie's. Haven't been here since they closed and reopened. It was packed but as luck would have it there was a tiny table unoccupied and wedged over by a window. Got a big glass of water and ordered up a plate of chicken parm substituting the salad for steamed broccoli. Patiently I waited for the Bad Place to catch up but then my food came out faster than expected and Fucking A it was just what I wanted. Meat and marinara and pasta and it all drizzled with what we used to call in the Home Country - "Moose-a-rella". Ravenous as I was though I didn't wolf that Shit down. Nuh-uh, went all Zen Monk about it. Savored every fucking bite I could before the Bad Place could ruin it. Eyes closed and relishing the steam across the roof of the mouth released with each bite. Then, done with my meal, I ordered a Jameson's and broke out Neil Gaiman's Norse Myths. In the introduction he's talking about how he got into the Norse mythology the same way I did - through Jack Kirby. When it was time for my second drink I inquired about getting a slice of blueberry pie. My waitress apologized telling me they only had pecan and apple. No worries, I told her, but when she arrived with my second drink she had a big old slice of blueberry pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. She explained that she found a last slice in the back.

And never before has a single slice of pie ever tasted so good.

Suddenly tired, not as if I had just walked from Fall of Rome Belvedere to Vampire Country, but as if I had been doing a 20 hour shit-shift back in boot camp. Still there was one last place I wanted to see before going home and there it was. Seaborn Avenue, a row of brick buildings across the street from a rail line and MARTA station. where I lived with Bud and Winter and Kid Stopper and his girlfriend who's name hurts too much to even write. Where I owned enough clothes to stuff in a duffel bag and a stack of books and a .22 that I never once fired. For all my troubles here, all the danger, all the drama, all the drugs the Bad Place never once found me here. Though I never felt like I was a punk rocker or a skinhead or a raver or drug-thug they made me feel as if I was family. As if my nervous silence and awkward banter was naught but a quirk. They made me feel smarter than I was, they made me feel invincible, as if invited by the coolest kids in the world to an endless party that laid beyond the responsibilities schools or jobs. When I was here I knew that no matter where I went in this city I would never be alone. I held the toughest son of a bitch while he wept here and held a gun behind my back while some frat fucks started static with him looking for a refund with a return of goods. It couldn't last forever, nothing worth a damn does, right? But a whole year of my life would I trade for one more night inside that apartment way back when.

Satisfied I summon an Uber and before the Bad Place can find me I'm already home.

Free, maybe just for tonight, maybe for a few months, maybe long enough to do a little good in the place I'm at.
link1 Summoned|Invoke

(no subject) [Feb. 10th, 2017|01:33 am]
Jack Babalon
“All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you, digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning and full of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed.” ~ Richard Adams, Watership Down

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(no subject) [Feb. 5th, 2017|01:21 am]
Jack Babalon
[Tags|]

"What you want to strive to be as a man is the taint," she told me last night, "that special place between being an asshole and being a pussy."

Patiently, I accepted this advice even while reminding her for the third time that I wasn't the guy she thought she was talking to.

"In fact," she continues indifferent or oblivious to my insistence with a sip of some gin contraption. "a taint would be the perfect candidate for the highest office of this Land."

Yeah, that's great but not this book I was reading at the bar before you attention-jacked me great, so if you don't mind...

"You know," she speaks as if I possibly could, "someone who's not too Democrat Pussy but not too Republican Asshole. Is that too much for a woman, I mean a voter, to ask for?"

Ever the diplomat, I point out that real life often isn't as easily framed into the dichotomy of our metaphors.

With a sour twist of the face she snarls - "When'd you start talking like someone trying to imitate a professor, Hal?"

Wrong Hal, I lie, my last name's Jordan. Tell her I used to be a test pilot but now work as a beat cop in the GLC way, way OTP.

"Just saying it ain't much to ask for," she glugs her gin thingamajig down as if I hadn't said a word, "so why can't a grown woman get a little taint attention?"

The bartender turns around, toasts a shot glass at her, and downs it with an old "I'll drink to that."

Well, the beauty of paying cash instead of a card, is that a man can lay a twenty down for two drinks and walk his happy ass on out of a situation starting to sour weird.

"Where you think you going?," she snarls or laughs not really sure which to be honest.

Pause halfway between her and the door. There's a hundred ways I have of telling her to fuck off.
Most of them I could without her realizing what she's been told before I'm clear across the street.

"I just haven't been myself lately," I tell her with a fake smile instead, "but the next time you see me I'm sure I'll be the same old Hal you know and love."

Who Me
link1 Summoned|Invoke

A Pretty Thing Like You [Jan. 31st, 2017|02:16 am]
Jack Babalon
Don't you just hate it when you're in the changing room at the gym and the place is empty until you return from the shower only to discover that there's someone sitting right at the locker directly across from yours? I mean like, Really? There's what? four rows of lockers here and no one else but us and you have to randomly pick right where I was going to get dressed. For a recovering misanthrope such as myself it's situations exactly like this that make you question why one would ever quit being an equal opportunity hater.

But such is the situation at hand, here at the Y on a Monday night just fifteen minutes before they close down and throat checking a stranger's no option so I deal with it. The guy, kid really, lithe, swimmer's physique, pale of flesh with no body hair, the bangs in the eyes goth black or is that emo now or some new shit way beyond an old fuck like me's cultural radar. The main thing is that he's all just sitting there zoned out staring into the locker, naked, dangling between his lap an open bottle of vodka he's been sipping on. None of this surprises or offends except the fact that he's got the rest of the bench occupied with his clothes and gym bag.

"You mind?," I huff seeing as Little Lord Smirnoff here doesn't seem to be registering me hovering ominously over him while I narrate all this shit to you in my head.

Without breaking his attention away from the empty locker he offers up the bottle my way. He does so real slow, mechanically, vibing somewhere between shell-shocked and hypnotized.

The gesture throws me off guard and I take the bottle from his hand before really thinking about what I'm doing. I look at the bottle, it's perfectly balanced between full and empty, I look back at buck naked Goth Boi (if Lux Interior & Joan Jett had a baby) who still won't look at me.

"Go ahead... no one's looking," his words have that tone you hear from young men in animes, a defeated stoicism that comes before they turn into some kind of killing machine or hentai beast.

I study the bottle a good second, tempted, it's been a long time since somebody offered me a drink, even if that somebody won't make eye contact. Nervous for some reason and I don't realize how much until I tell him - "Uh, you know, it's like a total myth all that stuff about people not being able to smell vodka on their breath."

"Good," he answers with a smirk 50 years older than him easy, "why hide you want?"

Without an answer to give him I probably look stupid with my mouth open.

"Did you drive here?," he asks.

"Nuh-uh," I say.

"Me neither," he sighs, "so what are you waiting for?'

But I've got the cap off and already hammered back a shot halfway between the last sentence.

Shit burns from the back of the throat clear down to the chest where it disintegrates a good month's worth of cigarette damage gumming up the lungs. Cheap vodka has this taste to me like someone tried to make an antiseptic out of a potato and a pair of old socks. I fight back the urge to vomit it back up, instead I manage to pass the bottle back, pop open my locker, and dig out the bottle of water I had stashed there for the walk home.

Goth Boi takes a swig back and hands me the bottle.

This time I take it slow and sip gingerly while he clears me off a seat by moving his gym bag.

I take a seat and offer it back but he just tells me to catch up. We sit there a moment, me dripping wet still from my shower towel wrapped beneath a gut I haven't been able to shake in over a year and him wraith naked without a shred of concern. I bide my time trading sips off the vodka and the water bottle waiting for him to tell me whatever it is he has to say.

"Can you do something for me?," he asks blinking into the locker and taking the bottle from my hands for another glug.

"Uh...,"

"Can you tell me something pretty?," he asks the locker because he sure can't be talking to me.

"Come again," I slug back water and already feeling a little woozy from the vodka.

"Can you tell me something pretty?," he repeats into the bottomless void there in the locker.

I scrunch up my face into a comical scowl - "Why?"

"Because," he says turning to me with pale blue eyes blazing as furious as messiahs presented with the doubts of the unfaithful, "the world is very much lacking in pretty things right now and it's going to become a place much uglier than we ever feared. So I know you're scared and I know you feel helpless and I know you feel alone but if you have something pretty, something beautiful and wonderful in you maybe you can tell me now while we still have a chance for it to be spoken between us. But mainly, mainly, you should say pretty things because it can make someone feel pretty enough to take them home with you and in return make you feel beautiful, make you feel like a man or a lady or something better, something they don't know how to name because it scares them the way their fear scares us. So please, can you tell me something pretty?"

Looking down into the white towel over my lap and the bottle of water I'm holding I whisper - "I don't even know your name."

"Does it matter?," he places a hand gently over my chest.

"Whatever it is," I say laying my hand over his turning my face with lips a breath from his ear, "it's the prettiest thing I could tell you."

"Do you mind?," the old gray custodian asks standing with a mop in the opening of locker alley.

I pull back and the stranger, with his bottle, are gone.

"It's just we close in five minutes and you've been talking to an empty locker here for a few minutes now."

"Sorry," I laugh humorlessly, "long day. I'll be right out of here."

"Uh-huh," he says and walks off muttering to himself about fools talking to themselves when a man is just trying to do his job so he can go home.

"Shit," I tell the empty locker he was/wasn't sitting at, "I just wanted to say something..."

And it doesn't matter, does it? I dress silently, zip up the backpack, fire up the headphones, and it's a fifty five minute walk home or a fifteen minute Uber to a drink. Either option I arrive at the same place - alone, angry, scared at a world afraid of all the pretty things.
link2 Summoned|Invoke

Time Machines & Lightning [Jan. 20th, 2017|05:38 pm]
Jack Babalon
"Don't you dare tell me how far to set my time-machine," she says relighting the same cigarette again, "I'm going back to when being alive actually meant something. When the drugs were an escape from reality instead of reality being an escape from the drugs. When I could hold my whiskey instead of being scared of drowning in it after a sip. When everyone who mattered was still alive and still fun and still beautiful and so was I. When it was called 'drama' because people used to pretend to give a shit when you had it. No, you can't stop me. No one can. I'm out of here. I'm going back and I'm going to do it all again and harder and when I'm done I'm going to go back and find all the future monsters and all the assholes and steal them as babies and I'm going to take them to the forest and tear them limb from limb then shove their screaming faces into the mud and the shit they made of our future."

She puffs on the cigarette with trembling hands and at that moment realizes she's been crying now the whole time she's been talking.

Tonight, well last night technically now, marked one year since David Bowie died. We were both at a bar drinking alone and each of us reading a book. Her something about a ghost who discovered they weren't a ghost and the memories of their death was a lover's whose name now they had to rediscover. Me I was reading about a struggling stage magician who had to work as a mortician and used the dead bodies as props for his sleight-of-hand. Pulling knotted swaths of colored fabric from the throat of a corpse, plucking coins from behind the ears connected to caved in skulls, sawing a cadaver in half only to miraculously reassemble them with a yank of a blanket. Then the bar started playing Gene Genie and we caught each other singing along.

I gave her a toast and she picked up her book and scooched down the bar to sit by me. We got to talking about Bowie, about the books we were reading, and all that idle getting to know you shit. The bar was closing and we were both drunk enough to know where this was going. Told her I had a joint if she had a place to smoke it. She did. Walking distance. We picked up a bottle of gas station wine on the way and went back to her place. We smoked the joint. We drank the wine. The TV was on Adult Swim but neither of us were really watching it. The conversation drifted into that awkward silence when the words have done all they can for the bodies that produce them. Had that magnetic anxiety drawing me to a kiss I was having trouble knowing was there or not so she took the first step. She pounced, straddled, and kissed me like I was someone back from the grave after being given up for dead. Clothes yanked, zippers tugged, hands phantoms drifting across the geography of our needs. She pulls away. She gives me my marching orders to the bedroom and I'm told to wait there while she freshens up in the bathroom.

I sit on the edge of the bed, stripped down to my boxers, drunk excited, stoned self-conscious, distracting myself by rehearsing what excuse I'll use to call out sick tomorrow.

She emerges out of the bathroom with nothing on but scars and tattoos. I notice that she's got her pubic hair shaved into a lightning bolt that she's dyed blue in tribute to Mssr. Stardust. I'm about to say something stupid/cute about it when she starts up with the whole time-travel routine.

"It's too late, Rick...," she says sniffling and jabbing the cigarette into a porcelain statue of the Virgin Mary with its head cracked off.

"Jack," I correct wishing my cigarettes weren't in my pants back in the other room.

"It's too late for him too," she snorts wiping snot off with her forearm,

"I'm gonna hop on my time-machine, make a better yesterday and undo all tomorrow's pity-parties."

"Nice," I say encouraged that she's stopped crying at least, "but I don't exactly see a TARDIS lying around anywhere in the vicinity."

"Oh I have something much better than that," she says stepping over to the edge of the bed where I'm sitting and pushes so the top half of me is laying down.

"Yeah... what's that?"

"You," she whispers crawling then mounting herself to hover that lightning bolt inches above my gasp before plunging it down across a thousand lifetimes across the reach of my kiss.
link2 Summoned|Invoke

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