A,

pretentious guitar wielding battle warrior quoting Nietzsche,

listening to old songs they don’t play on the radio anymore

and burning at night, burning alive with smokey lungs and charred fingers

and curls soaked terribly from desert rains in May,

lankey arms exposed for hours at a time in hottest weather, basking in sunlight,

still keeping pale but maybe his eyes darken a little.

marron, they say in french, those pretty eyes with lashes like down,

so long you could sweep the floor with them.

what a baby-faced angel sonofabitch smelling sweetly of **** in the afternoons,

a walking catastrophe Dean Moriarty flailing arms around,

a terrible dancer.

a terrible lover. a terrible terrible boy.

involved in a *******, no doubt,

by God he has all the little girls under his thumb,

under his bleeding fingers as he serenades them

songs they only know of because of him.

all the ***** characters from smokey back rooms in the 20’s, 50’s

he knows them all

and hammers out their songs bang bang bang on his guitar like a visionary

of jazz, ***, pills and powders all secrets hidden behind his eyes.

The ******* child of the stars

I am forced to hate him

But my love for him gnaws away at my sanity

all his friends are cracked,

deadbeat downtrodden unlistened to voices of our time.

he says he is a pacifist, but he’s killing us all.