Brie Fly (pt. 10)

ONE.
We are The Extremists. "Excess is best" - that's our motto.
Somewhere there are girls who love us.
We've been tossed into a perpetual spin cycle. Going in all directions, hoping we don't spread it too thin. That's a lie. We don't think about it - do we?
We are Maseratis in a traffic jam. Heads spinning. Power burning - exiting through our fidgeting fingers, our stomping feet, our wild, flaming eyes.
Excess is best. We deal in extremes.
We're sexual to the max - or not at all. Crazed, actually. Heterosexual, bisexual - it all gets you off. But some of it leaves you unfulfilled. That's ok. We leave that behind. We move too fast to have memories.
But, we do, sometimes.

TWO.
It's all unfulfilling. Every last course of action. Every friendship. Every concept.
I am unfulfilled. There is no hope for me. This is reality. I see reality. There is no fulfillment and I know it.

A few beers and a couple of joints and an old flame hanging on your arm, telling you how she's always liked you. She's drunk, on ludes and a user.
So, you hang around. So many mixed vibes and no place special to go. And no one special to be with. You think to yourself that you would gladly do your steady wrong tonight (she's away), but somehow, you can't let yourself go further than a "Hi. What's your name? Having a good time? Can I buy you a beer?"
You have friends in one bar or another. A few in a parking lot. Standing on the streets. Cruising.
At least it's not raining.

THREE.
Menial labor slices in and out of the overall flow. "Flow" is such a nice, soothing sort of word. Maybe it's a little less than "flow." It has a thicker feel to it.

I once had a dream. And, in that dream, I lay upon a bed - or, more accurately, half of me was on the bed, face down. My feet were on the floor.
I was naked. And so was my girl, who was completely on the bed, lying on her back. She stared down her body at me, wanting me to fuck her. And I wanted to, but I couldn't reach her in time - and I came on the bed, my dick rubbing on the sheets.
When I awoke, I realized that I had had a nocturnal emission. It was the only one I have ever been aware of.

FOUR.
My disposition changes with much regulation - up, down sideways. Sometimes, it floats in the gray middle. I call this "blah-ness." Real original, huh?
Creative forces come and go. Never very strong or clear. I have to pick through them and salvage what I can. And I have to do this fast, because once they come, they're on their way out. Like life: once you're born, you're on your way to death. Except, we don't return for another round. Or do we?

Atoms...Oh! Shut up! I'm no scientist! (But, I know what I like...)

Goethe said, "One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words."
God knows I try.