I’ve got a restless feeling by my side
Early dawning, Sunday morning
It’s just the wasted years so close behind
Watch out, the world’s behind you
There’s always someone around you who will call
It’s nothing at all
Sunday morning and I’m falling
I’ve got a feeling I don’t want to know
Early dawning, Sunday morning
It’s all the streets you crossed, not so long ago
Watch out, the world’s behind you
There’s always someone around you who will call
It’s nothing at all
Sunday Morning.

Yet another Sunday morning by my side, yet another opportunity to spread the dystopic and eerily soothing voice of Lou Reed to the archetype of my subconscious .

Considering the kind words received from my Lou Reed-inspired prose, reverie, imagery and alliteration of last Sunday morning, perhaps this will be a weekly theme to showcase the depravity lurking inside a life defined by the darkness and light of perpetual psychic discontent.

So silently in the pasture I would sit beside an old wooden pole with barbed wire wrapped around, stretching miles and miles to keep the cattle in place. At fifteen years on the earth, the escape from the mindless world of my own design and inception was sought at every chance. In the pastures of the front range, ignited by the insecurity of youth and contempt, the imagery of fanciful breasts and lips filled my head as the cum dripped onto the prairie floor. The dirt and cattle were the only onlookers as this escape would bring temporary relief before I would return to the mundane cold of the front range and a life I was running from at every opportunity afforded.

Around this period in my life I would Run Run Run and take that plunge into the self conscious creations of my mind. As I ran five miles per day, through pain and the prairies; the Velvet Underground’s Greatest Hits cassette played through an ancient device called a walkman.

I was taken away to world far away in an unknown land called NYC. To a creative lad with self-doubt simultaneously projecting and believing in the brilliance of his words, this NYC was the grit and reality necessary for escape from the torment of the Wyoming front range dissonance of my psyche.

For twisted pleasure and a belief in pseudo-anarchism for the suburban sanctity, I would escape at night for mayhem and mischief with the naive belief that actions of rebellion and destruction were the pre-revolutionary destiny of disenfranchised America; the place that I would loathe while lacking the proper channels to contextualize this self-imposed alienation.

The Men are Men. The Women are Men. The cows Run in Fear.

An escape from the mundane idle youth on the prairie was not far away, as a desert awaited nine hundred miles southwest. Perversity was sanctimonious and dishonest at best.  The life that would be forthcoming would be the sum total of psychological and self-obliteration that I had always sought.

At sixteen, the arrival to the cactus clad dryness and swelter of desert existence would be life altering and life obliterating as the new self was born, the other self dead. The longing for acceptance and self-worth would slowly crescendo toward my esoteric construct of manhood. In the desert and in the haziness of the heat drenched sky the boy found a lass that saw the brilliance that was nesting within the malaise.

The scribbles of thoughts and prose I had maintained were now to be shared and devoured by a partner in cynicism and contempt as we knew — as I convinced her to know — that my tertiary revolutionary understandings were but the beginning of greater social change.

Through self-delusion and allusion and a daily course of teenage fucking — the hard and pounding sport of fuck for amateurs — with copious amounts of marijuana and LSD fueling the feelings of alienation, the course of events for the next ten years would be set in motion. Events of solemn darkness and self destruction through contempt of global hypocrisy and the knowledge I was greater yet wholly inadequate would drive the path of brilliance and despair.

As we journeyed to the darkened and gray shadows of North Eastern blight — the sunny swelter of the saguaros three thousand miles behind — the converging paths of the intellectual and the self-absorbed/self-hating monster of my inner archetypes of consciousness reared their collective heads in an ivy-covered brick fortress in the inner city among the truly oppressed black and brown thrown into the congestion of of antagonisms and schisms in the making for the course of human history.

Darkness and addictions fueled the inward journeys while on the outside, a semblance of control, assurance, confidence and power managed to be conveyed. After one year of the schisms of my personality and the darkness potentiated by my archetypal juxtaposition were too much to bare, my partner in my twisted journey left me to fend on my own without having her to abuse emotionally as my inadequacies were manifested through contempt for those who tried to love me.

The path of total darkness and the self-propagated journey toward complete and total annihilation of the self and the soul were now in full gear. The academic wonder-boy of liberal arts and the self-loathing junkie co-existed, not in harmony, but in dissonance and disconnectedness with one another. The Last Shot wouldn’t come for years, and the introspection of the dichotomous creature that defined my life is still a heavy psychic burden to bare, yet one of my own making.

The last shot should have killed me, pour another drink
Let’s drink drink to the last shot
And the blood on the dishes in the sink
Blood inside the coffee cup, blood on the table top

When you quit, you quit, but you always wish
You knew it was your last shot…

…I remember when I quit pretty good
See, this here’s where I chipped my tooth
I shot a vein in my neck and I coughed up a Quaalude
On my last shot – my last shot

Here’s a toast to all that’s good
And here’s a toast to hate…

So that’s where the story ends for today. If the soundtrack of our lives were played to the world, the symphony of humanity might be a bit less conflicted, confused and determined to implode through cognitive entropy.