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Confessions of a Fuck-Up Artist - "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