|In a forgotten valley in Nevada, a ghost town nestles among the sage and mesquite. A Conversation -
I was drinking my first cup of coffee, when the scent of your perfume stirred the air, the rustle of dress and hair, the sound of a page turning, you had arrived at the other table.
"what's to be of me, what am i going to do with the rest of my life, i need redemption, i need to dig out of the sand-pit,
should i choose the neon road, the pebbled footpath or the stone gateway,
am i done already, just a cigarette waiting to be stubbed,
can i bleach the walls of the brain, electrocute old dead ships and stare peacefully at a blank patch, once again?", i asked.
"You know the story of the somnambulist?", you say. "the sleep walker on the streets of blood dark, on the bed and into the kitchen sink to wash his hair, only to fall back to sleep again!
Your life is an ancient ceremony and you have been walking on ghost roads too long, retracing the water foot prints and the neon signals in your heart, you are a slave to love and flesh, vanity as passion and overgrown moss as nostalgia, you are an agent of an undead night of purple romance and deep blue sadness,
open the door and come out of the night, peel the walls of music and shadow geometry away,
you wear her dead hair like a jewel in your forehead, come back from the tendrils of the love labyrinth, no matter how their pink hiss embalms your chest,
come and have a coffee and a cigarette with me,
come to toast and bagels, red cushions and upholstery,
the solidness of the wooden table and the empty joy of rambling music and relentless conversation."
"But outside the roads are painted red, bills and money hang from trees, steel temples resound with the din of hungry people, like locusts,
An orange banana is sucked on by charlatans, dilettantes, poseurs and pimps,
the cult of the photograph and the actor is everywhere, the heroines line up like inflatable dolls and gaudy balloons make up for love, while culture drains out of fake whiskey glasses and well polished drains;
where can i go, but underneath the bed, in-between the brown paper boxes, where can i go, but down the road of lost time, calling out to the ghosts in the branches, licking on stamps stuck on the face of garbage tins, down to the spark, the beginning and end of the procession"
"There is no getaway from the worm in your flesh, the glow worm is you as it is your distaste,
the crucifix isn't a candy stick sold in heaps, you can only wade through the grainy, large, furry underbelly to find yours, the quest is only the search of light on mythical summer nights and the search of star dust on winter evenings, dreary and slumbrous, look around and find the river between the painted dead and the living citadels of sand,
make love underneath the sand fortress and let the waves take both away, the journey into life is only the exploration of the extent of sadness and the boundaries of joy,
you will be at that picket fence always, watching the sky change color and shape as you change lovers and faces. So shake the night from the sweat and dust in your lips"
She and i are walking now,
and there is a road of dissolution, decay, light and sorrow
ending in a stone quarry of silence,
i can hear the counting of time, of days and nights falling upon each other,
i can see the circus clowns and feast of numbness implode constantly and be reborn,hydra-like,
I see the unfettered,baggy, moist islands of sweet nothingness,
like air-clothing on her, i feel the conversation is not over yet.
She are about to say something.