Tribute to Kerouac Pt. 1

Not one day passed by slower than the last as Marty regaled us with his chosen falsehood of the morning. Each night was a new girl he had wrecked with his cock until she screamed like a cat in heat of a crisp fall eve, but we knew the only fuck he had was one of his own making, and those cats stood guard outside his door to inspire each pathetic stroke on his way to one glorious cigarette in the wake of disappointing climax. There was no harm in granting him fantasies; sure; he didn’t hurt me with his outlandish delusions worth less than the rotgut whisky we swigged like princes in the nightmarish shade of an unforgiving sun. This was our kingdom, and we ruled with fists of iron; fists of steel; fists of ownership over the blood in our veins and words that dripped off of our tongues with echoes of regret not felt until three towns later. We were liars and thieves full of desires and dreams, and we sat upon the thrones of forgotten kings. But they crumbled as quickly as they came, and solemn promises gave way to published fears, and on that trail of tears, we fled quickly on the wind. Sand and dust of generations past pierced our fragile skin, but choruses of “Hallelujah” raised our spirits past the salty taste of sweat and blood. Hunger rapped impatiently upon our guts, but without an answer ripe with substance or solidity, we shoved it back through the rabbit hole to dwell another day in silence. Banishment was preferential to the percussive crack of authoritative dissonance crackling in our ears, and with our marching orders signed with the blood of archaic institution, onward we pressed. Time revoked all semblance of order as it painlessly swirled between our bodies drenched in the sweat of remorse and adventurous debauchery. Marty’s lies became legend forged tirelessly in the fires of whiskey and myth. The tallest tales reached the apex of eternity and fell down slowly on clouds of dust and crumpled paper; ink bled through the pages of existence and fact became fiction on the anvil of our minds that splintered further with every inhalation. We beat the drums and shattered the glass holding together the fragile code of conduct to which we pledged our falsified allegiances. Unholy secrets fled desperately into the blackness through which we ripped with blood drenched fangs, and they lived beneath our fingernails until the pungent stench of soot drove them from their domiciles. Bonfires roared in celebration of our legacy; crackling harmonies sang our praises as though the angels had taken leave from the side of god in favor of demonic blues found in the seediest bar whose doors their light could taint. Vibrations echoed through our bones in morse, pleading for a sliver of our ecstasy as the searing light of day began to break, but we were falling; falling; falling. Screams faded into the oblivion of conscience with the incorrigible suffering daybreak, and beneath our feet, the dirt cried out in rebellious triumph over kings; singing songs of siege and suffering across every hilltop upon which peasants had carved their names in protest. Embers whimpered with the tranquility of death, and onward we trudged into foretold glory; searching eternally for our kingdoms of serenity.