The Weary Feet of The World

Madness. It boils and cools beneath the skin of travelers. The astronauts, the sailors, the pilots, the hitchikers. The misfortunate sons of our race that wander from place to place like lively spectres of human indecission. Through the raggedy streets paved with drunks that lean on spines of jello, absurd translucent whores, shadowboxing pimps, cockroach cigarette butts, manic neon billboards and past aimless street signs. The runaways always converge in the streets and glance at each other before they get lost in a penitenciary of forgotten memories. They feed on music from stores, passing cars or the humming songs of strangers. It makes no difference if you roam the streets of Marseille, Florence, Vienna, Bucharest or some dust engorged country trail in some god forsaken land. You are still alone with the spear of insecurity protruding your ribs. Weather I walk aimlessly in a direction or drive determined in another, I know I'll end up with the rest of the world in the place where all the souls allign. Not even Nature seems to encourage this senseless stagger. The clouds always seem bored and Nietzsches abyss never stares back into you. From corn fields to gangs of buildings, life ignores you and waits patiently until you mosquito life disperses into time. There is no certainty on the road but then again certainty lacks in all things in life. Being engorged with liquor or being liquified by drugs holds no importance. You will only be missed by those you owe money to. As a wanderer you only have one option. To say calm within the chaos. Ears might roar with the metallic cocaine be-bop, or pluck the hash calm jazz from the air, or mingle in the ethyilic blues of crippled rock'n;roll saints. Charles was blind, Waits was blinded, Cave was blinding. There is a sort of faith that deprives the soul of sight in all music that pours directly into the soul. It fills the arteries with the thick blood of nostalgia, it cloggs the heart with memories. The wanderers are the nomad werewolves of our era. They crawl, they writhe, they move frantically on the sidewalks, orbiting aimlessly, looking for a long gone northern star. These junkies of insecurity, always on the move for a fix of the unknown. They can never be in one place for too long. And if they are, The flies of depression seem to land and chew their way inside their organs leaving a  carcasses of hope, of dreams, of rotting possibilities unmet. These mutants that draw their energy from the blunt smell burnt gasoline seem severed from society. They can barely adapt. The perspective of looking at life from an apartment balcony at night seems further than life on another galaxy. Yet not impossible. Some get lost in the throes of rejection on foreign streets and die without an ounce of sympathy. Some wither in cities, within the arms of a significant other and they liquify their nature within bars. There, tequila worms sprout into butterflies inside their stomachs, or angels transfuse their blood with wine. The bars are only shrines of transmutation. Here, Waiters like bumblebees carry back and forth the sweat of America's most famous ancestors Jack, Jim and Johnny. under aged girls wave at barkeeps from behind glassy eyes suffering of the great liquid russian plague. The streets flooded with potheads fantasizing of robbing fast food restaurants while smack is carefully boiled on back alleys behind pharmacies. Each with its own recipe for ruination, clinging to it like a fat man to some miracle diet pill. The scarabs that pull and push the crap of full time employment seem trapped under porcelain cups of corporate dreams of instant opulence. The night, the Holy Friday is the one true Sabbath for those lives. It ain't even their fault. Our ancestors built the cups long before we were born. Now all we can do is peck with hatred at the walls in hope that one day a tree of banknotes will grow from the untended souls of oppressed borderline poverty. There is not much else to do for the dead than hate the living. Seeing pigs bathe in flower petals while lions feed on dirt, cannot inspire ambition, not now, not in a million years, no matter how hypocritical your soul might be. Sometimes I dream of poppy fields and mint and wake up eating an apple and smoking tea on the side of some strange and unfamiliar road. But what do I care of dreams? I'm just another cat patiently waiting for the 9th bell toll.