lokum & the clanging pangs

by dschapman

is he the foliate head, or the disgorging head? is he even a green man at all, or is he just a peasant, his feet bound behind his back, boiling bagels at three a.m.? he sends post cards his mother.
thank goodness god for proust, sitting alone all dead in the head on all fours. breathe out the window and lock up the doors and measure the space between the walls so when the start to sink in you can remeasure and gauge the depth of your madness and the intensity of your hallucinations. all the children are going clubbing and i’m sitting all alone. there are those nasty old books yellowing on the corner of my desk and sticky empty pints of lager and all those pencils and scarves and chocolate bars. they pass all night long by my window. maybe i will do my laundry… and look pathetic, sad and pitiful, standing around with my cock in my palms while the washing machine vibrates in the pale flourescent lights while all the other children run by laughing to the clubs. even the petty ones are sitting in pubs. and yet i am alone and ever lonelier. up in my room my sheets are tangled by own restless feet and just as the bitterness and hopeless self-loathing creeps like ivory-fingered hate over my shoulders to wrap around my throat i run to the window and smoke another dose and empty the pills from my pockets. thats what he used to want to do. taking drugs used to be a night in itself. the petty ones and the tools were going out while the lucky ones were hierophants with powerful dope spending the night in ecstasy. and now here i find myself alone with depressants coursing through my veins coughing toxins out the window to the children running by below, always in numbers, safety in numbers, to the club to have fun. just like the movies. that’s where things happen. in the clubs and pubs you meet people. and i just can’t do it i just can’t slip outside even for a minute and walk into the first nameless joint i see and walk up to the counter and squeeze my way between the patrons and order a whiskey and not know which label and gag while i drink it and stand there alone making daring eye contact with other people and feeling all spiteful eyes of the happy energetic elves on the dance floor or comfortable regulars sipping cocktails at the bar come down on me and know that i do not belong. so i stay in. it’s okay, there’s nothing out there for you – there is nothing to be jealous of. you could go if you had friends but it would be a drag anyway and nothing would happen and you’d come home tired. don’t be jealous! think of proust! one of the greatest, the ones you wish you could be, and his life was spent inside his room… talk yourself out of it, you weak stupid hack – you’ll still feel like shit, that pit will still stink in your stomach, for being alone.
i’m better than the rest of them, and my life is the life they couldn’t handle or understand. a night of cheap nickel-dye nosering clubbing doesn’t mean what it seems to mean. but the pangs jangle and clang in my heart and rub dirt in my hormones and even the steady drip of dopamine can’t soothe my conscious into knowing satisfaction. fuck you, proust, i won’t read you. i even have nabokov sitting here beside me and i won’t give that bastard a moment of my time either. it would break my heart to surrender. i will die like the whites of their eyes.

is he the foliate head, or the disgorging head? is he even a green man at all, or is he just a peasant, his feet bound behind his back, boiling bagels at three a.m.? he sends post cards his mother.

thank goodness god for proust, sitting alone all dead in the head on all fours. breathe out the window and lock up the doors and measure the space between the walls so when the start to sink in you can remeasure and gauge the depth of your madness and the intensity of your hallucinations. all the children are going clubbing and i’m sitting all alone. there are those nasty old books yellowing on the corner of my desk and sticky empty pints of lager and all those pencils and scarves and chocolate bars. they pass all night long by my window. maybe i will do my laundry… and look pathetic, sad and pitiful, standing around with my cock in my palms while the washing machine vibrates in the pale flourescent lights while all the other children run by laughing to the clubs. even the petty ones are sitting in pubs. and yet i am alone and ever lonelier. up in my room my sheets are tangled by own restless feet and just as the bitterness and hopeless self-loathing creeps like ivory-fingered hate over my shoulders to wrap around my throat i run to the window and smoke another dose and empty the pills from my pockets. thats what he used to want to do. taking drugs used to be a night in itself. the petty ones and the tools were going out while the lucky ones were hierophants with powerful dope spending the night in ecstasy. and now here i find myself alone with depressants coursing through my veins coughing toxins out the window to the children running by below, always in numbers, safety in numbers, to the club to have fun. just like the movies. that’s where things happen. in the clubs and pubs you meet people. and i just can’t do it i just can’t slip outside even for a minute and walk into the first nameless joint i see and walk up to the counter and squeeze my way between the patrons and order a whiskey and not know which label and gag while i drink it and stand there alone making daring eye contact with other people and feeling all spiteful eyes of the happy energetic elves on the dance floor or comfortable regulars sipping cocktails at the bar come down on me and know that i do not belong. so i stay in. it’s okay, there’s nothing out there for you – there is nothing to be jealous of. you could go if you had friends but it would be a drag anyway and nothing would happen and you’d come home tired. don’t be jealous! think of proust! one of the greatest, the ones you wish you could be, and his life was spent inside his room… talk yourself out of it, you weak stupid hack – you’ll still feel like shit, that pit will still stink in your stomach, for being alone.

i’m better than the rest of them, and my life is the life they couldn’t handle or understand. a night of cheap nickel-dye nosering clubbing doesn’t mean what it seems to mean. but the pangs jangle and clang in my heart and rub dirt in my hormones and even the steady drip of dopamine can’t soothe my conscious into knowing satisfaction. fuck you, proust, i won’t read you. i even have nabokov sitting here beside me and i won’t give that bastard a moment of my time either. it would break my heart to surrender. i will die like the whites of their eyes.

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