Of Starbucks Baristas and Rusty Scythes
If mist and fern glens were more common around here, then there would be a lot more opportunities for cute Starbucks baristas and I to run through them toward each other, slipping on mossy stones and calling out the other's name. But it turns out Los Angeles ferns are indoor ferns and vomit has always been a poor substitute for moss.
I once compared the pain of unrequited love for a cute Starbucks barista to that of rusty scythe in the spine. My companions didn't believe me, so I wedged a rusty scythe in the crack of a stucco wall and hurled myself backwards onto it. It instantly cheered me up, and then they had to begin to believe.
"So you're telling us that doesn't hurt?" They asked, pointing with a sort of horrified awe at the rusty scythe jutting from my back.
"Oh, I'm not gonna lie." I replied. "It's not exactly a massage." Then I wet myself and frowned. "And it would seem I've severed some sort of critical communication link between my bladder and my brain."
They wrinkled their noses and took a step back.
"But all in all," I continued. "It's really not that bad--comparatively."
Then someone suggested we all go out for coffee, at which point my eyes rolled back in my head and I started hitting myself and shrieking in tongues. And then came yet another night that had to be deciphered from wounds and clues the next day.
I go through drinking buddies like a goddamn flay through soggy grain. And I rarely miss a chance to rhyme anything with pain. I thought that passion mattered, but like always, I thought wrong. For it turns out passion without misty ferns isn't passionate at all. The soundtrack of my life hasn't a single cheery tune. They all dirge and scrape and sigh and feature haunted, grim bassoons. But that's the way it's got to be, 'cause it's sexiest that way. And though we die we giggle through and there's beauty in decay.
(That's how I've been ordering coffee recently, when it's my turn at the counter. For a while the rumor was that cute Starbucks baristas like tortured poets--but rumors are just rumors for a reason, and most cute Starbucks baristas are already dating musicians. I took two years of fife lessons, but apparently that's not cool anymore.)
posted by Latigo Flint @ 2:12 AM
10 comments
10 Comments:
I really like 'wounds and clues'. When I learn to play guitar and form an Arcade Fire-style AMAZING BAND OF LOVESTRUCK TROUBADOURS, that will be the title of our first album. If that's okay.
Jeez, Latigo. I'm sorry about the unrequited love and all.
You should dine at the IHOP. Those waitresses put the hell out!
Thanks for teaching me the words: dirge, glens, scythe, flay, and cool.
"But that's the way it's got to be, 'cause it's sexiest that way.
"And though we die we giggle through, and there's beauty in decay."
Most outstanding poetry of the year, without doubt. Full of hidden meaning, onslaught-wise.
Fern glens are fairly common in BC, Latigo. However, and it pains me to tell you this, they are usually filled with transients and dire wolves. Only the bravest and manliest can frolic there, and I am but a cowardly fop.
I would assume that you, as a cowboy/gunslinger, would naturally master the harmonika (not the big german kind, the small mouth harmonika kind. The Good kind).
And chicks got to dig That instrument. Otherwise, I've wasted a Lot of hours...
What masterful poetry. I'm afraid I contacted you too soon.
Fifes are always cool Flint. It's the Barista'a that have lost it.
Poetic, man. I'm feelin' it.
And, if you are in need of a drinking buddy or two, I'm pretty sure Mr. Scoop and I can keep up.
Those two years of fife lessons are a harsh price to pay for yet another rejection slip from a hard hearted Starbucks Barista.
James Henry, I believe that when an Amazing Band of Lovestruck Troubadours asks to use a phrase as the title of their first album, one is bound by duty and honor to oblige. It is most certainly okay.
Thanks LBB, it's a real infection some days. And you're welcome--those words are all worth knowing.
I've always preferred to wear my hidden meanings on my sleeve for all the world to see Old Hoss--and then I take up those hidden meanings with my muscular arms and try to beat people to death with them.
Don't be so hard on yourself Trevor Record, Dire Wolves are unspeakably savage, and even the mere possibility of their continued existence cowers the bravest soul.
Rasmus, I've seen harmonica legend, Salvador Nightshade, in concert--it was enough to let me know I'd need multiple lifetimes to even be half as good. So I turned to the fife, not as much competition.
Thank you Solace Layfield. And there's always next April of course.
Thank you my dear Grublygold. That's what I keep telling myself.
I don't doubt it Amandarama. My only fear is that at some point I'd succumb to the convenience of passion and murder, and kill one of you to be with the other.
It's a wretched life Peter, no doubt about it.
Post a Comment
<< Home