(muddled in prayer)

My brain is the line of tawdry angels keeping me one step ahead of the ghost that's been chasing me since i was six years old.

And even now, so many years coming (somehow) clean from certain lines of those ridiculous trappings, he still seems as real to me as that day in the backseat leaving the symphony for home or comfort or whatever the fuck it was were gearing towards (i don't remember. that part was long lost to the weight of the story).

Because this is death week.

First carl. then marie lou. then kiki.

In seven days i lost the three most prominent figures in my development. in my being. the fuckers who taught me everything about decadence. about living. about joy and drugs and fucking. about cigarettes and cocktails. about singing off key. snuff films. caligula. fighting. the politics of lies when it comes to writing worth a damn just to get your point across even if your first audience is the subject deflied for character development. about loving. about strength beyond strength when faced with your own body's opposition and the corrupt policy of social graces that still believes that there are sins in this world we all commit by just following our heart to some fucking orifice without bothering without the official sanction of a cunt representing the holy spirit who wouldn't dare spit in the nearest cathedral for fear of being associated with such insidious shits. about being a man. about being me in spite of my own shortcomings.

To be proud of them. to trumpet my failures as loudly as the matter of success they couldn't have really given a damn for because money wasn't a fucking thing (though there was the occasional lick at fame's swollen teet) worth considering so long as there was enough to eat and drink and speak of fondly even when they were dying.

The only one i said goodby to was kiki. i sat beside him in a room of queer mainstays, junkies and my mother. i was seventeen and he was the last.

I might still remember it perfectly but not so well to relate.

Everyone was crying (some bordered on hysterics though i had never once seen their faces or heard their names as i helped carry his hulking frame up the three flights of stairs to the fucking aids clinic to hear the next wretched mark in his fate) but i just sat beside him, whispering. i tried to crack wise now and then (though he probably wouldn't have stood for that thinking i was trite in my determination that he would, in fact, smack god in the face for sassing him the wrong way) but, mostly, i told him i loved him. his nose ran. i cleaned it and found myself amazed that even dead he could still be sniffling.

I didn't tell him i'd miss him.

In fact, at the time (and i still might even i ever learned of death, accordingly), i believed full well that speaking of the souls departure before they have time to break off into the next bardo is a prohibitive measure to peace.

Instead, i left him with a kiss on the cheek and i rubbed his bald head.

That was the first day my mother and i ever shared a drink.

Gentleman's jack.

It was delicious.