What you want

fantastic flavoured fancies sick like Sid and Nancy wicked as a joy ride jaunt

“You don’t seem like an ‘Oh yeah’ crowd,” she says, “but maybe after a few more songs about sex, we can coax an ‘Oh yeah’ from you. Yeah?” as the eighteen year-old next to me takes out his phone and starts texting. I glance at the screen as he taps away, “at nypc so wasted wer u?” I am here. She is here. They are here. The others are not.

I want to be locked away in some tiny concrete room, underground, with the others who get it. I want walls to hem us in. I want to feel the crowd around me and to smell the sweat. I feel bad for her, on this beautiful evening, in front of this crowd who stand and stare without moving. We are making a mockery.

Posted in Flatbeat on Thursday January 10, 2008.