Fellow travelers roaring past, dodging cans and bottles, wrath and mirth, we light a fire to one another’s heavy breathing and toke it up, hold it in and get the elate. Dancing and supplicating gods and demons both, if there is even a difference. Supplied with pantings and screamings and moans, groans, lust and death, supplied with anger and laughter we stop and rest at a nearby fetid place and revel in the pods of muck filled with all that’s sweet and all that’s black (these the toads sell, along side the swamp) filled with all that’s sweet and all that’s black, excepting also what’s light be also included for the price of one dream and a portion of our last crust of bread. And enter now the salving dreams which come thick and coiled as any pythonic embrace. Our arms also, clinging tight. This and the warmth of fire.
Stars so many jewels in the blackest night, perfect and cold and desolate and so very far. We scoff and sputter well into this night. The violence of truth. The intangibility of happiness and the shocking and terrible ability of our digressions/transgressions. They cling to one, stubborn, like a fine mist or disease incurable. They isolate, decorate, marks of torture or badges of honour all. The violence of truth clashing on our shields of mirth and irony. Dance my love, dance, long into the gentle night.
Laughter in the dark and a stranger's knife in broad daylight, cold against our throat, waking us. Robbed of our last scrapings of sustenance and a few coppers we are free. Our steps so much lighter as we move once more, free and well pleased and placed. Hitchhiking our way down the well worn path to perdition. Skipping and pausing and lapping it up. Grinning like wolves. This case, as in most, the journey so much better than the destination…
By: Daniel Smallegange
