Chi
C'est la vie
She was awake by the time I opened my eyes, and she asked me about my love life.
I told her all I knew about it. I told her about my love sleeping in London's Flat, and the comes and goes I made per year, and my love's sad eyes when I left every now and then for America, my mistress America, and the way love half smiled when I drew her, and how she nicked useless stuff to pile up the corners, and how the dogs barked all night long when we were together, and how love and I were bound to be.
I threw the question back, and she said to be in love from a far as well. Told me all about him, and in the same time nothing really.
We set off to the street and talked again now in lousy french and poetical senses of all sorts, all arguments were solved down in a hungry.
"C'est la vie"
God knew we hated that saying, god knew, and god did not existed. We were hungry, and wandered the Italian barrios for some fuel. I liked to be hungry, starvation was so poetical for my means, but she wanted food, she wanted food like a wolf wants a dear, like a wolf hunts through the city and the cashiers and the nonexistent bucks she handed to oh so many dinner owners.
We sat with the Irishs and had their meals for a profound hour of perfect silence. Then we speed off to Chi. By this time we picked a couple of hobos by the end of the 80, they jumped down before Granger. We bought booze, but stole the groceries, and I rushed to ring Mia our Marylou of the low life alleys. She was a rough girl who knew everyone in Chi' passing through our beds and eating our food, she made a living outta fucking, and not one day of business, and I had no absolute reason to ring her.
The gasoline dried out in the way between Portage and Gary, and we pushed the Ol' Lincoln to the bushes where no bummers would look for a shelter. We shambled through the road til' we found an ol' trucker friend of hers the old man Sam knew nothing about anything and talked incessantly about the tornado that cut his wife in half while he drank a scotch from the past century.
"That is the Windy City! That is the power of the wind kid!" He exclaimed every now and then, as we picked a gypsy from the highway, then a drunk homeless, and a group of sick punkers with knives and leather, and the occasional little fuck I had with the newest fella that jumped our wagon of coal and ashes.
Everything happened.
I told her all I knew about it. I told her about my love sleeping in London's Flat, and the comes and goes I made per year, and my love's sad eyes when I left every now and then for America, my mistress America, and the way love half smiled when I drew her, and how she nicked useless stuff to pile up the corners, and how the dogs barked all night long when we were together, and how love and I were bound to be.
I threw the question back, and she said to be in love from a far as well. Told me all about him, and in the same time nothing really.
We set off to the street and talked again now in lousy french and poetical senses of all sorts, all arguments were solved down in a hungry.
"C'est la vie"
God knew we hated that saying, god knew, and god did not existed. We were hungry, and wandered the Italian barrios for some fuel. I liked to be hungry, starvation was so poetical for my means, but she wanted food, she wanted food like a wolf wants a dear, like a wolf hunts through the city and the cashiers and the nonexistent bucks she handed to oh so many dinner owners.
We sat with the Irishs and had their meals for a profound hour of perfect silence. Then we speed off to Chi. By this time we picked a couple of hobos by the end of the 80, they jumped down before Granger. We bought booze, but stole the groceries, and I rushed to ring Mia our Marylou of the low life alleys. She was a rough girl who knew everyone in Chi' passing through our beds and eating our food, she made a living outta fucking, and not one day of business, and I had no absolute reason to ring her.
The gasoline dried out in the way between Portage and Gary, and we pushed the Ol' Lincoln to the bushes where no bummers would look for a shelter. We shambled through the road til' we found an ol' trucker friend of hers the old man Sam knew nothing about anything and talked incessantly about the tornado that cut his wife in half while he drank a scotch from the past century.
"That is the Windy City! That is the power of the wind kid!" He exclaimed every now and then, as we picked a gypsy from the highway, then a drunk homeless, and a group of sick punkers with knives and leather, and the occasional little fuck I had with the newest fella that jumped our wagon of coal and ashes.
Everything happened.