I fall. I fall down Parisian steps flowing with bleach in a straight jacket of my own design. I need a thousand dollars worth of dirt to heal my sprained ankle and rule the slaves in my back pocket.
I fall. I fall onto the head of a girl holding aloft a zippo lighter at dawn. She cracks a tooth on a zebra crossing and waves goodbye to party nights. Stop, she laughs, then jumps rope and fire.
I fall. I fall with a dream of techno clubs lost without a name. This time I shrug and pinch my shoulder like Spock. I need an anaesthetic, fetch me a rollercoaster and send in the dancing girls—let’s roll.
I fall. I fall into a bowl of tepid soup and swim to shore with orthodontic braces wrapped around my head. It’s a rainy day and bystanders are brought back to life from the ghetto. The next world is for loners only, riding skateboards, gobbling jambalaya.
I fall. I fall from a great height into the cusp of a wave and a jaded snow storm. What’s worse is my shoes are untied and I have to reconstruct the sixties. In the third world the smells reign like hollow earth theory, and no one wins.
I fall. I fall into a thousand arms spinning in the sea, aging like dogs. I’ve made my name with flyers and business cards but I want more—more minds, more water, more space for my last meal. Eat me alive, I beg you.
I fall. I fall into the blue sky, beyond the yellow clouds and hourglass chimes. Everywhere is fear—the weeds are reflections of ancient guitars and I’m sick of these bed bugs chatting up my woman. Pour me another cheeseburger and bring out the big guns.
I fall. I fall into the eye of the beholder and lock horns with motorcycles on plastic highways. The evening is the best time to stand tall like monuments and gather flowers from the teeth of a dime store woman. Surely now I have no need to fall feebly at her feet and pretend she’s my kind of girl.
Written by Tim Frank
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