Crazy Girls

Rock bottom in America. Sitting in a third-rate L.A. titty bar on a rainy winter night a few days before this Christmas of the Apocalypse.

“What the fuck in Jesus’s underwear am I doing in this wretched hell pit, sitting beside some chubby-faced, capuccino-slurping plastic Hollywood Satanist?” I think as the next nightmare parade of flabby misshapen female carcasses stumbles around on the stage before my horrified eyes: eyes that have already seen too many whores, too many cracked out alcoholic wretches and wrecks and human disappointments. Too many human train wrecks and lost degraded souls. And I wonder if I will ever recover from loving them and coming up with ashes again and again? Ashes and betrayal and wasted time and tragedy, that’s all there is anymore. Lordy mercy!

But it’s when these freaks try to talk to ya, I think as some cow-eyed drooling barfly with a cunt makes her unsteady approach, that’s when it really starts to get ugly! When they wanna sit down and mooch a drink and share their sad little thoughts and mismatched ideas about Love and Art and God. Jesus, Joseph and Mary’s bleeding snatch! That’s when my skin feels like it’s about to peel right off my fucking bones! Fuck! I just wanna run home right now and take a giant dump. Yes, I wanna worship at the altar of Solitude and Rain and Wind and Death! And I will pray to see these hopeless streets of aimless poisoned fart gas burning and bubbling with the rancid Blood of the Martyrs…

But first, I look up and am mildly shocked to see a cherub-faced young whore prancing about up on the stage like an angel of mercy. She’s working hard on becoming an old whore, I know, and it’s coming up fast as a diving hawk to pick her sweet young gyrating blond carcass to the bone.

But for now, God love her, she will celebrate her only real virtue, her firm pink youngness, the miracle of a youth which is brief and treasonous and sad as this long howling Los Angeles night.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2011.

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