You can bare your soul, give a little more of yourself without the inevitable pains of attachments and labelling. Love has been corrupted by insecurity. Me, more than anyone. A part of me died through the pain of my big break up and although it hurt to die I'm glad he is gone. Jealousy sits in the shadows of pride. A status. A handbag for the ego.
“Say sorry”. I said sorry and there wasn’t relief. “Ask for forgiveness”. I did, and she gave it to me. Young queen Elizabeth putting white sheets on the line in the backyard of an old lived in timber home on a horse breeding farm. “You have to say goodbye now Riley, we need to continue our journey”
“This is life in Jail baba” Shaking his head and making a clicking noise with his tongue.
I got lost and stumbled across a lawn full of hippies. As if they were pigeons and someone threw seeds on the grass. As if the farmer filled the trough with LSD
I guess I'm just saying, that maybe falling from the cycle of Samsara is a little more important than impressing your friends or a dead Bukowski. So, I'm going to the beach. The beautiful women I'm too scared to talk to await me.
A group of Israelies sit opposing me. Six of them, three apiece, each one as unique and attractive as the next. I fall in love through the scope of my rifle. So good looking I put my free Palestine flag back in my bag.
What are big giant tombs but a flex of the rich too scared to die, a reminder of the way they lived clinging to their identity. Whilst I pay $6 to get in and walk past the children asleep on the street. Maybe if those who could afford to build a memory of their existence put it towards the ones living we would all be better off.
Did he know it was this bad? Probably. But a part of him was happy. Not that she felt like this, he wished she didn’t, but to at least know she is sane, or smart enough to be aware, still be alive, still have a soul in there somewhere, however painful.
I sit there, between the scrolls I see my corrupted eyes in the reflection of the glass. You came all the way to India, sold your house and your attachments for the flight, to sit here and watch porn. Well maybe so, maybe no one or no place can fix me but myself. Or maybe, I don’t need fixing at all.
That’s when I met the big fella, that’s when I met the truffle pig. I called him the truffle pig cause all he cared about was getting pussy.
I don’t know what it was, but when I walked into the stadium, I had to hold back tears. They welled in my eyes and started to fall down my cheek. It’s as if, sometimes, your soul cannot believe what your ego has allowed.
I ordered a pina colada. “Sir, this is delicious” I said, “where do you get the cream?”, “Goats cock”. I ordered another three. Ate dinner. Didn’t get garlic on my roti. Sacrifices were being made. I message her around 7, “What time do you want to meet?”. 48 seconds go by with no reply, ah shit, she’s gone cold.