Yeats, Angels, The Stones, n Astro Traveling

I’m alone in bed looking at the ceiling, life is glorious, straight no chaser, goin downhill fast, burnin up, like havin an orgasm flyin at a million miles per hour.

My work is sui generis, feral, and full of beans.

Writing in first person isn’t easy because everything in you wants to tell a story.

Some time back I wrote a bit; Writing in First-Person Confessional, a story about Dorothy Parker, you know, 

Razors pain you,

Rivers are damp,

Acids stain you,

And drugs cause cramps.

Guns aren’t lawful,

Nooses give,

Gas smells awful.

You might as well live.

My read on this famous quote is that Dorthy was down, shaking it off using her mind-blowing wit.

I’m gonna strip bare ass naked for you; I’m a tetrapodomorph fish in the sea living at zero gravity buoyed by water.

Deep 6’d and afloat. 

Sluts hound me at Soi Cowboy, selling blow jobs,  nymphos begging for shots, you know I always give in, asking,

who’s gonna suck my cock?

Anyway, I”m scared shitless** aren't you? 

Posted on Twitter a few minutes ago with an Angel selfie. 

I love Angels;

when angels fly free so will we. 

When I think of Angels I think of Yeats. He knew Angels more than most,

Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!

Going to Heaven is easy for most. 

Those with good hearts are guaranteed a spot in the After Life. When they are ready, their souls ride a moonbeam to Heaven. 

Scoundrels like Stalin, Saddam Hussien, Pol Pat, Mao Zedong, Gaddafi, The Iceman, Hitler, any of em; don’t go to Heaven. By contrast, their souls evaporate into grains of sand lost in the celestial desert.

Onwards, I couldn't guesstimate how the Rolling Stones do what they do. But I feel the Gods play through them, they invented gunpowder, control the weather and the CIA; their tours are circus-like, goin from town to town, rows of semis, pulling the band's gear from the airport to the stadium while the guys in the band sleep in a suite at a ritzy hotel.

I know fuck all about the Stones, the CIA, or the weather for that matter. I’ve lived in Thailand for 20 years and don’t get the Weather Channel, I’ve never read a spy novel, a Fredrick Forsythe, or a John Le Carre, having no interest in the genre, you'd have to drag me over the coals to read the stuff.

I’ve never met a Rolling Stone, but I met Muddy Waters more than a few times in Chicago blues clubs; he always had a pretty girl on each side while sitting at a table sipping champagne, taking breaks to go to the alley, and blow weed. Man, nobody fucked with him because he was da Buddha.  

The only thing I know about the Stones is what I see on TV or computer. 

One thing's sure, Jagger/Richards are prolific composers as were and are, Ray Charles, Muddy Waters, Elton John, Miles Davis, Frank Sinatra, and Harry Nilsson.  

Elsewhere, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet ambiance is Astro-traveling through the universe on light beams at 5000 MPH looking like sparks spewed from Roman Candles.

More about me:

Well, I’m a sensitive person, but I've only cried once in my life when my old man Victor Lucowski kicked it, knocked out dead by dick cancer.

I’m overly sensitive to criticism, and nasty looks. 

Those who dare give me the evil eye will be reincarnated as a cucarachas in the next life.

I can’t handle being bullied, I shrink at the thought of fighting back, thus, internalizing my angst for days on end, until I feel safe to come out of my hole.

Thus surfacing I sharpen my antennae, walking forward and wavering slightly from side to side.