Saturday night hum drums

Saturday night, sunday morning

i can see them there finding true religion in diesel - gossamer threads hanging from nose to lip waiting hungrily for the next fly to devour. One more night and it feels the same. Girls with smocks and long tube socks. Bongo drummers rotating the beats of an old DJ . Wondering what Axel Rose would say. Wishing, washing and waiting - another secret club introducing my Chinese to my Russian friends. Discussing Israel at 5 am with strangers at a place where you must know Luciano. Snap shots from a memory that's way to gone. Some what hazy recollections of a limo a cab an Italian car chase and Chinese being spoken better then I care to elaborate. The mustachioed man favors his left leg as he strolls the Avenue, humming Rolling Stones under his breath. Causing a commotion, starting something and finishing on the couch under the covers. Missing my dear sweet baby, paying homage to the King - all the while champagne in my hand, one man back against the wall, fighting tooth and nail against sobriety. It's all so elaborate. Know the doorman, don't know the bartender. Know the bartender but can't get in the club - shuffling to back doors and roof top fricassee. Combustible cosmic crazy kind of jive. Kaleidoscope of kooky late night machines. Bent, ripped, torn and definitely cut. Alive for alliteraion. Punished like Phaethon loosing control way before we had the chance. Soaking the best of our intentions in distilled fermented hazy attempts at outliving the moon for just one more night. Awash in anarchy - hiding in hazard, calm in the calamity our torches held high in arms way to tired to remember why. Longing for the last, trying harder with the new and vaporizing into Terry Richardson photos. Painfully aware that it doesn't exist if I don't have a crowd. Wishing I was Slash rising from the water playing guitar solo, cigarette dangling haphazardly from my lips. Strippers waiting in the green room. Tempestuous, tantalizing and titillating. Rock and Roll soundtrack to a silent movie type life. Trading in my mountains for a bay. Rehashing and rephrasing, can't believe that their buying it. Obnoxious, ignorant and blatantly stupid, sycophant of dark things and re-read complex issues.

Climate controlled chaos on a Saturday night. Waking up wondering where I am and hoping she still loves me.

Whistling to the pixies - where is my mind?