Post by wilks davis on Jul 1, 2009 2:42:11 GMT -5
...and I hate the smiles,
and I hate the flies, that buzz around the bullshit,
...i can't to die,
so all the mouths of our vultures can be fed.
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The city was so alien at night, even to someone who'd practically been raised there. To see the dreary atmosphere of the humid day seem to dissipate, chasing the sun up and around the rest of the earth. It left the sky pale, washed over with the refracted light emitted from the moon, a perfect canvas for what stars could be made out. The city lights didn't really accommodate for that, but Wilks was a fan of negative space as it was.
Cracks in the sidewalk were the story of his time on this earth. Not the man-made ones, of course, but the unintentional divisions in the concrete. The break in something solid, something familiar. There were given stresses in this world, as with the cement's need to crimp into each other over time, but Wilks Davis never discovered any solace in those crevices. Rather, he forged his own, maybe an ode to bullheadedness, or just genuine originality. At any rate, the beaten path was the one place where he was actually lost. Ironic, isn't it? Well, concrete's not very ironic, but if it was, it'd be very 'wilks.'
This collage of cement squares twisted through patches of grass as he began to exit the luminescence of the city. A beat followed him as the drumsticks lodged in the back pocket of his cutoff jeans repeatedly met each other, providing the audible rhythm in the drummer's step. Soon the music walked from grounded concrete to hollow ground. The tunnel beneath was carved by a small stream that he decided to peer at, leaning over the edge of the railing on the brick bridge. The water was too dark, and moving to fast to get a reflection. But Wilks needed not the visual renaction of himself, for he knew exactly who he was. Where he was going, however, was the real question in his life. Maybe this is where him and the sidewalk started to dissent. The sidewalk always knew the path, whereas Wilks didn't. Maybe that's why he spent so much time walking them... trying to figure out...
Another step, and he was back off. Strolling only for the sake of it. He spent most of his time outside, meeting people, trying to find a friends couch to crash at for the night, or a quick dollar to make. It was hard for a man covered in tattoos to get a job. The fact that he almost never wore a shirt didn't help. A crazed man with a mohawk strolling around Bridges Park in jeans and size 11 PF flyers would have been quite the unusual site if you weren't privy to the drug deals that were frequent on the other side of the park. Wilks hadn't been to that portion in quite a while, and had no plans of changing that up.
Rounding a large arch, he came upon a clearing, with it's center marked by a grand fountain. It was a field of which's grass was obviously not kept cut, allowing weeds and flowers to grow rampant over an otherwise perfectly green lawn. A golf course manager's nightmare, but quite the pleasant change of pace for the citizens. Plus,there's not much golfing in the city, is there?
Further inspection revealed to Wilks the group of guys across the way. 3, maybe 4 guys all clad in popped collars and bottles in thier hands. Swaggering in nature, and clumsy in grace, they seemed to have noticed the lonesome boy at the same time he noticed them. He could read their thoughts out loud across the field. Wilks, sober, was able to hold a quicker pace, and closed the distance much faster than the entrouage of college kids, obviously filling each other up with the ideas that they're badass to accompany each swig from the glass bottle they took. There were way too many of these posers around the city, and on their newspapers. Tonight was a good night to get bloody.
"Let's tango, assholes."
T A G : Anybooooodaay
W O R D S : 882
D U D S : Read the damn post!
L Y R I C S : Vultures by Smile Empty Soul
