more notes from the Dirt Universe

2.24.13

I'm golden and fucked up. 

3.6 - 3.8.13

Beyond what little is known, in those days he bound himself together with household thread, his first fist fight was terribly lopsided, and his mornings were always hard.  As to the fight, the scuffle did not bear the distinction of being fought over a woman or even a bad debt; simply put, it was the result of an indelicate word deliberately rolled off the tongue, like sharpened glass, the insult and opposing reaction were not kind.  Bones flew.  Or were tossed.  Into far corners, close quarters, pain was doled out in even, rhythmic blows.  And they induce seizures of flash wandering thought that rattle through his skull.  A laugh from a table in the corner, diabolical and exaggerated by fish eye sensory perception, direction is restored only by the introduction of the hard wood floor.  Nathan's own fighting style is dirty, reckless, an intoxicated combination of mismatched techniques guided sluggishly by the limitations of his imaginary survival instinct.  Kicking, biting, tearing, jamming fingers between ribs, into sockets with random strikes to any surfacing mass of flesh.  He did not fair well, his inexperience and mad laughter stifling any opportune chance at victory.  And the scales tipped far past acceptable civility, even toppled into commendable savagery.  Nathan was cautiously lauded for the beating taken beyond reason and with wicked humor, eyed suspiciously after and followed by their collective gaze focused on his smile that threatened his adoring public with uncomfortable thoughts, those destructively torn from personal darkness, and drinks are on the house to break the tension.  Later, brushing himself off, examining the stitching of  his suit, the chocolate bar in his inside breast pocket, concessions are made in the loss as drink long friendships mark silent curses.  And Nathan again springs forth covered in ash.

Outside his mood is a slowly faded blue like a blossoming night sky, heaven bleeding indelible black ink across the horizon; he must of started early.  Drink in his skeletal hand, he tips his head back for the final dregs, notices the stars trickle down his throat.  He decides to walk a bit, to spare time the lonesome business of killing a few hours on its own.  A loose rib and an unfamiliar rattling clack, Nathan thinks tomorrow he will need to buy a length of barbed wire.  Thread will no longer do.        

to be continued ...