Loaded.

She leans over the table pushing her smoke stained  hair behind a surprisingly delicate ear by way of preparation and I ache for her stupidity and youth.Snorting the thick rail of ketamine from the dirty tabletop she shook her head back like a filly and chided me while sniffing loudly “Don’t judge.”

Project much? I hadn’t said a goddamn word…..

I am so damn tired.

I have never judged.

My glass house is shattered so I don’t have a problem with throwing stones,don’t you worry your pretty little head about that action none but I do not judge.I have watched it go down for a million nights candy dipped ,you aint so special and none of this shtick is new,so baby?  Go on and do your thing just  excuse me for not getting down with my bells and whistles for your tired assed self .

I have held sweat soaked hair back from vomiting faces, poured sticky sweet shots with obscene names by the dirty dozen,scored for those to dopesick and paranoid ( Sabbath fuckin’rule!) to score for themselves,gone to the needle exchange,taken the pick from shaking hands hell bent on destruction and shot up into sore minced veins before they made a complete dogs breakfast of themselves….I am the last one to judge believe me.

I am  Florance Nightingale in a Thin Lizzy tee-shirt to these self medicated basket cases. Patron saint to the high and hopeless.Y’all should light candles and surf swooning on sandalwood at the mention of my name, you faithless motherfuckers.

So,last night decides to be a smart ass,takes a fistful of Xanax and doubles back on itself making fuck all sense and dragging on for-fucking-forever.I abused a dude who gave me shit so long and loudly that when I finally stopped due to running out of breath the whole line burst into cheers and applause.

Of course I bowed.

I was cold and tired before I even got started. The trains were down so it took me a million years to get there.My infants lined up in the cold behind the velvet ropes all asking after Blackie and sending their love,making me adore them even more.My knees aching with the chill,weight gain and fatigue. These kids seem to think that I am onto something.I’m not you know,I’ve just got more miles on the heartbreak odometer than the average bear.Keep in mind that this is nothing to be proud of. .

I dispense huge hugs and limited wisdom.I talk to paper by way of poison pen and hold my hemorrhaging heart because I cant seem to find the right place to bury the accursed thing.I can’t talk about what haunts and hunts me. I distill it,drip by painstaking Stooges scented drip into epic wailing songs for my band and keep this river flowing.

What we do defines us.What we leave behind is set to remind others of us in our hopefully lamented absence. Or not.I was sent a picture of my much missed hound looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,the little fucker.My clothes still in the closet of my old room in Long Beach,in storage at my Ex’s.I am pathetic,I still sleep with his tee-shirt wrapped around my ever clenched fist. I used to jump on a transatlantic plane as easily as I would jump on a crosstown bus. I have to remember where I came from and what lead me to this point.

Summer is stirring out on the west coast while here I bundle myself into nonnegotiable layers and sleep with the electric blanket cranked as high as it will go.The wind is a bully and cuts me to the quick while sucking all the dew and bloom from my feral face. Absolutely everything is too much effort and every destination too far away.I occupy myself with my beloved stringed instruments,silence,expensive skincare brought hot from thieves who circumnavigate security to bring me Chanel and spend the money that I pay them on crack,the gym late at night where I don’t look in the mirrors…..

I will extract hard won achievement from  the winter months if it kills me….

High-school politics ruled the roost last night. Wears me out.Makes my teeth ache and hum. Went to my happy place and thought about the beautiful line ups that I have in place for July and the exhilarating fact that my big brother is on the mend and will be back on stage again.

Lilli went on a shopping spree and I ended up with a new Ramones hoodie and tee-shirt and the cutest little bottle of the Bulgari perfume that sets my senses reeling.

Too,too sweet.

I didn’t get much sleep today.I feel like my eyes are hanging out of my fucking head.My spidey senses are tingling towards California.I worry.I receive no word and I worry myself sick. Guess you should never break the heart of a woman who prays to Elvis…Just sayin’….I was watching some old you tube shit toady.Fuck! We were just the cutest little killing machine when we sang and played together.Hot damn.

I miss him so much,for better or for worse.

So I have decide to re-up my body modifications yet again.My most excellent friend Joel runs the most hardcore body modification studio in Sydney by the name of “True Blood” on Willam St. (Just tell ’em that I sent you) . At the lowest and highest points are the best time,I find,to fuck with your corpse. On my left hand side,smack bang on the ribs,I have tattooed “The lost heart “. And why not? It is.

(“You got that because of him? he said amazed “Sure did” I shrugged.He gave me a look that invited tears and unwise relations.I held fast confident in my ink and its permanence. He , a true beauty,captured my hand in his as the world slept on,blissfully unaware of our dire electricity three floors below. Our fingers danced and my pupils dilated. “That” he sighed “Is the saddest thing I have ever seen.”)

I am going somewhere here,hang in there….I am what as know as a keloid scarer.Meaning that when I cut myself the skin raises up.Its common in people of darker European decent so there you go,you done learned a thing today.Feels good huh? Joel and his scalpel wielding crew do,amongst other things, branding and scarification which got me to thinking that beneath that killer tattoo of mine I need a big burnt in ropey scar,you know,to show where my once fully operational heart was removed.

Nifty non?

Its just a corpse people.Sheesh!.In lieu of owing my own property I am going to renovate my body.Its like a flesh version of aluminum cladding and it will look sickening in a bikini.

Cha,cha,cha….

I love my shoulder scars.I sat on my leather couch clad in a black silk slip with a straight razor a decade ago and made a big meaty mess achieving them.That’s back when it used to get me off.I licked the blood from my shoulders and grinned in the dark. Good times indeed.They still tingle when I am desired. They have not done any tingling in a hell of a long time.

Oh Elvis in neon heaven! They all ask me ,you know,why I don’t get high.

“Because” I say looking into their dead eyes and limited future and smarts “I don’t want to be like you.”

With no malice what-so-ever this is the verdict I deliver. When I think about who it has taken from me and the damage that it has done to the only one I have ever loved its a no brainer. They look at me all butt hurt.You don’t want the truth? Don’t come to me honey because I have a PhD in the handing of ass.I will hand you yours in a New York Minute.

People spending money on heroin when they should be investing in botox and therapy…just sayin’…. You could start with a bucket over your head till you had saved up enough Benjamins.Its amazing what plastic surgery can achieve these days and in your case it would be nothing short of a Jesus-in-the-tortilla miracle! Can I get an hallelujah?  Look into it honey.

I applaud you,really I do.Going through life as the female version of the elephant man as a junkie has got to be a hard yard…..

Wait…On second thoughts? Don’t. Stick with the bucket and dim lit corners and stay high. You can polish a turd its true but you would be stuck with that *ahem* quel charming personality.

Maybe a lobotomy?

Or a bullet…….

It was loaded.Pull the trigger……

bang.