Times At A Lost
* Hard eyed girls served him drinks in the girly bars, their hands massaging him like black moths. He didn't like any of it. The boys were out for a drink. It was their world. Naked appetites. Things not seen. Rooms. Places above the stairs. Levels of desperation. Hard, black eyes which never smiled. All was a farce. All was different. Beyond this point there will be no memory. He was shadowed by something he could not see. He was walking hand in hand with someone who simply wasn't there. He courted psychosis and let it die away, like an ancient breed. The world had become a very complicated place. He was skipping across fate lines because there was no choice. There were shadows everywhere, in the pot holed streets. Wealth cut swaves through the indigenous poor. Surely there were more important things than drunken westerners stumbling into bars, begging to be fleeced. There were other ways of being. Other paths. He was shot through with envy and happy to be alive; fragile, ques...