Saturday, October 4, 2008

tell me how does it taste

One by one seven of us piled into the back of the car like circus clowns on their way to the big top, each clown heavy in make-up and ready to perform that nights disarrayed dance of walking a back their perspective dorm rooms, arms heavy with clenched purses and keys in hand. The distinguishably familiar stench of sweat and a long night lingered in the air surrounding each of us. I don’t remember physically getting into the car but there were at least three girls strode across my lap. My perception impaired; the deep purple lace trimming on the camisole of the occupant on my lap blended seamlessly into her brown back which in turn bled seamlessly into my surroundings. I felt an uneasy sort of lucid dream impairment in which I repeatedly try to awake from my nightmare but nothing changes as I close my consciousness and open it again. Laughter, incoherent conversation, slurred speech, and drunken noise. A mixture of orange juice, vodka, vodka, orange juice, and more vodka was bursting at the seams of my pursed mouth with the great force of a ferocious river meeting the cracks of the dam of my lips. Every time the car jerked and we came to an abrupt stop a little bit more of my raging river leaked from my seems, followed by a “hey are you cool, are you alight?” a divine power willed me to continually reassure “yeah I’m cool” for the sake of the ornate stitching on my more than moderately priced Nikes, the deep blue of my almost pristine unwashed denim, reputation, the leather seats I sat upon, and gag reflexes of everyone in the car. Finally reverse in the order we all got in, we all got out. As soon as there were no clammy, loquacious, inebriated body’s fixing me upright into my middle backseat I toppled over, scrambling for the door handle, my stomach’s bellowing voice spoke out, spilling its contents in protest to my actions, the contents of my night drenching my shoes, my jeans, my hair, and the poor unexpecting trunk of the pine tree I propped myself against.

blog slap:

dl:loose joints(1980)-is it all over my face

loose joints sampled in a cazwell's all over my face