An open letter to: The Wiz. (2)

Another dismal morning. You know, it’s been grey for over a week. A dirty wash of consistent mundane madness gloomy death smothers the sky. Ultimate foreverfuneral-foreverhell. The winds whipping up and bodies scurry to and fro, across the street panicked anxious scarves in faces blinded car horns blaring children screaming fuck school ma the suns dead. I’m thinking about going outside, thinking thinking. Do a lap around the city peering into bars see what maniacs remain gaunt pale lobotomized from last night’s surgical interventions clutching to ultimate truth liquefied and overpriced. I might join them, but I don’t smoke anymore so there isn’t much point in doing much of anything. Never ending train of well-dressed bodies poorly disguised faces sluggin’ their asses through town now where in the fuck are all these folks going? How many buildings are packed full of sadness regretful spite spread sheet terror and deadline aneurysms exuding absolute resentment the smell must be awful I think that’s why they make so much coffee and the air-conditioning is always on. Janet from booth 33 thinks Andy from booth 31 is a quack.

They’re probably both quacks.

In fact, I’d put money on that entire floor being a smidgen away from cannibalism. Read it in the news. Although I don’t even do that anymore. Can’t won’t shouldn’t it’s terrible really. What gets me is the advertising. Cerebral invasion of the highest degree, total brain rape penetrating dimensions of consciousness before I’m greeted with a poorly written article about fucking nothing nothing nothing nothing of any significance. It’s brilliant. Reuters reports BBC reports CNN reports 123 reports 456 reports he reports she reports every swingin dick reports it’s like trying to figure out where on the mangled political spectrum you feel most comfortable being fed reheated shit.

I did go for the walk in the end and chopin makes my thoughts a eulogy for everything. I passed a hostel on the way home and pressed up against the filthy window laden with advertising for bands and events fun time nonstop pleasure monkey madness you know the drill – it’s cool – inside was adventurous jess and tattooed hands brad, jess had just spent the last two years on various pacific islands peddling hand made necklaces and funky sea shells brads dad played bass in a punk band back in the day and he was slap slap slap’n the air bass like a geriatric getting shocked and as cool as it would have been to join them for a conversation I bought another ten litre of paint as I’m about to lay the 96th coat of white on my bedroom wall you know you have to supervise it drying otherwise it doesn’t cover properly, so for that reason walked on missing out on all the stories brad&jess had between them shame on me.

– Rick.

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