Jungle Cats: Part II
Think I'm beginning to understand the futility of some fuels...scratch that. Engaging in suspicions that the elasticity of entertainment is only as good as the eclectic mix of elements that enter your ether. Essences engulfed in energy is the enemy of entropy. Style runs silky like EVOO. Strike a match, spark that shit that seems evil.
The first is almost always the best. Minus sex, but that's only retrospectively speaking coming from a male after gathering hella' data from females. Unfortunate biologic differences give us a leg up on shoddy sex. Finesse is a fucker, and any fucker worth their fucking has finesse. But, think about anything else revolving around creativity, right? A seemingly ethereal phenomenon that comes and goes like dances on a ballroom floor. There's no guarantee the next few come as easy as the last two. Music albums, movies, paintings, food, dance, athletics, contemplations, conversations - name your sensation. The first moment sticks, for better and for worst. You either look to avoid, correct, or pursue. Part I is easy to stumble upon. Part II is what separates the bullshit - unless we take it back to sex, because you can coast through life on some lackluster dick & puss. Nature is rude like that.
Looking up at floor to ceiling windows. Third to highest floor. Cubicles, screens and a various assortment of business-land utensil holders encased behind gleam, and under fluorescent, yet calculatedly calming, lighting. My light's still red, in more ways than one. Glare and ponder away. Elevator buttons only more intimidating than speedometers due to just-kick-it means of elevated emotions. Consider myself unimpressed while feeling unimpressible.
Having already transpired through such proverbial tunnels, I find myself walking through one in all actuality. Been in the Biltmore my fair share of times. Not in this spot though. This particular tunnel. Drove over it however many times, but that's just how life goes. You don't notice it until you do. Passing by someone else who doesn't belong, I walk up the steps to what I can only assume to be an outside cafeteria for this skyscraper. Closed now, obviously. Night owl. Present! My light's still red, in more ways that one. Glare and ponder away. Turn around and descend those steps. Passing by the same someone else who doesn't belong. Curiosity surrounding the lives of the cunts I serve leaves me feeling caged & confused. I don't long for this. Just want to know for sure that I don't want it. Misfired American Dreams.
Known for insensitive and merciless impromptu's. Hoarding pent up hauntings of the human experience...humor being my downfall & humble moves feeling a lil' hack as of this hour. Dry-heaving against the normal hunger. A hangover over hellacious thoughts for the heck of having them. No Hendricks here though. Only Hendrix influenced watch towers I watch from.
Frisk me and pat me down and you'll find papers that certify me as a shit talker. Face down to the ground, teeth to curb, and I'd most likely still say some smart ass shit down to the last molar. I think I was meant to do this. I say meant to like it was prophesized light years ago. Na. Not anything that special; I just know that the small satisfaction I get from walking away after dropping verbal bombs isn't something that just gets swept away as a phase. And if I'm wrong and I'm just a shitster of humor, then let me go down as the best of the worst. Cuz' I've been hacking away at this shallow niche for more than a hot minute. Fuck a payout. I have higher delusions of grandeur than this bullshit.
I always pictured that at this very moment, I'd have something beautiful to say.
Named to be a writer. Left with too much rope,
running in circles, twirling cords.
Decisions leaving myself,
While I hang from this mental limb attached to this proverbial tree existing in my own nonsense, I look down at this pool of myself. Maybe I'd rather sever this extended arm, cuz' it's not handing me shit anyways. Fall in the fire that these pools wouldn't subside. My body is electric with a dull pulse. Jade cats and jaded spirits. Take my loose arm and let it extend the other's reach toward the muse. Should I grab a hold of the sun, I hope that it burns long enough to eventually reach me. If that spark hits, may it burn slow. I'm not interested in a race against the world. I'm working to keep pace with my mental. Jaded cats. Wish I knew of them. Only long for the idea of them. I only know porous feline statues that I drive past. I don't hate them with the same disdain as I do the buildings they garnish the doors of. Na. They're dope. The kind of ridiculous excessiveness I tend to fancy. I'll take an old shitty nostalgia draped cat statue over the best watch any day - for no reason other than it's long since captured my curiosity with every passing. Just don't give me any details...I'd rather let it enshrine my wildest of thoughts than to know who made it, or what's inside the building. Don't break the illusion.
But do break the monotony. Sledgehammer your creative opulence. Poke and prod your ponderings. Boredom, jade cats and office daymare's aren't getting you anywhere. I think I need a trip to somewhere far, far away where it wouldn't be possible to recognize a single thing. Where I can't go through the motions. Where I have to contemplate every, single, terrifying act.
Or maybe something more simple, but equally terrifying. Stage, lights, here ya' fuckin' go. Fall flat on my face. Beautiful in it's simplicity - kill, or bomb. Ugly given it's third possibility - be average.
Just can't stay chasing illusions of jade cats. Either visit the jungles you envision them in, or let your creativity seed your own scenery. Don't stall out long enough to look back at yourself and say sick story, sucker.