The Low Spark Of High Heeled Boys

The Low Spark Of High Heeled Boys

Quintin doesn't remember much. Except for one thing. He remembers "The Low Spark Of High Heeled Boys", grass, and this emptiness. It wasn't the gun who laid him to rest but the low spark of high heeled boys.

Quintin, called Quinn, wakes up. His head hurts and his eyes are hazy. His mouth dry and there is crust upon his eyelids. His tongue darks out to lick his lips. Looking about him his shirt is gone "What went on?" It's musty and dark in the room. Slowly, the brain tells Quinn to listen. Gingerly he pricks his ears. Traffic. What a glorious feeling to wake up to the same song you passed out to!

The apartment was furnished Spartan at best. All there was his turn table and a few albums in the small living room of the apartment. And an even smaller bath room. He stretches then yawns. Gliding over to the mirror, he notices that his long sea of hair is awry. "You have girl hair son. Shave it." His fathers voice echoed in his skull.

"You look like Jim Morrison." remarked Squib. His friend. Some would say his only friend. He didn't believe him. Squib was a junkie. He had bleach blonde hair naturally and he hung out in the back alley of a pool hall. He peers at his face in the mirror. The eyes are red, bloodshot. The stuff Squib gave him really did him right. He picks up his comb and goes threw his hair once.

The only sound in the room was the scratch of the album on its last run. It needed to be changed. Quinn walks back to his turn table and sits cross legged on the floor staring at it. He picks up a stack of albums and starts to sift through them. He always picks the one that speaks to him out of the pile. Strange Days. A Doors album. Chuckling at the luck and irony of the previous mention from Squib he sets it down. He presses play. The needle response accordingly, going down on the set path of the groove like a road. "Life is like a record..." Quinn toughed. "Strange days have found us..." Quinn nodded and agreed with Jim. He lays down and begins to smoke a cigarette listlessly listening.

But the spell is broken. A sharp knock at the door. He sits up at attention, suddenly becomes aware of his partial nakedness and covers himself. He slips on his glasses and hastily opens the door.

“Hey man.”
“Hey.” says Squib. His eyes are red and dog tired. He is a worn out shallow shell of a man that once was apart of society, now, turned to the lesser grade. The drug culture, as it was politely called by Policemen and the like. More so called “Bums” to the common man, dreamers call them “Free.”

“C-c-can I sleep here, man?” Squib spoke with a stutter.
“Fine man, fine.” Quinn replied coolly opening the door wider so that Squib could enter. They both seem to wreak of the same smell. You cannot describe it as anything else but “Unclean.”

The two sat on the floor cross legged facing the record table. Like people in a church facing the altar. And today at this moment, Jim Morrison is preaching to them “What have they done to the Earth? What have they done to our fair sister?”

The two lay on the ground now with there heads pressed against one speaker. Each note rolls over them as if they are being baptized in the sanctum of his words.

“Hey. Hey man…” Squib whispers as if Jim Morrison were actually there talking to them and as if he didn’t want to brake this God of There Culture’s concentration. As if his words were the truth.

“What?”
“Read me something. Something beautiful.”

Quinn draws out a heavy, heavy sigh. “Alright man, Alright.”

He turns off Jim. And grabs a piece of paper, a scribbling from the night before, he thinks but then again he can’t remember. He adjusts his glasses to gain a professorial air about him so he can perform a heart string to the only friend.

“We sit here, smoking.

Laughing.

Life is like a record.

It spins and spins and spins.

Eventually, it flips over, to produce a change from the previous sound.

And eventually as all things do, it dies.

As do people.

As do cigarettes.

As does love.

I saw a boy wearing women’s shoes.

And at first, I laughed at him.

But then I saw that it was nothing really in the grand scheme of the album of our life’s.

And I hated him in that moment because he was living his life on a B-side.

He lives his life caught in a world that is not his own.

He lives in eyes of a hollowed out generation gripped by television madness.

But people fear this boy.

And the next day I saw him again.

Dead in a gutter. With a gun in hand.

The gun was used to kill a man. And then himself.

The gun didn’t make any noise.

He was the low spark of high heeled boys.”

So it goes.

Heart Strings

A tug.

A push.

A pull.

A few exteneded strings...

This is the song my heart sings.

Far off.

Far away.

Hoping you'll be back one day.

This is the strain my heart plays.

A push.

A pull.

Some long streached out strings.

This is the song my heart sings.

" Oh yeah I'll tell you something, I think you'll understand. When I say that something, I want to hold your hand."

In Class Writing

I'm pissed off. I don't know why... I mean. Why I'm pissed at her. I loved her once. Dearly in fact. We're still freinds but... she annoys me more. I wish I could explain why. Class is boring so I'm twidding. This box dosn't give you any words. You have to make them yourself. It dosn't put down ideas on this blank space. You, the writer, the physical person, has to make the words, make the idea, and click the little orange button that says publish post. I want to sleep almost. I know I won't. I should go. My book is calling me.

- The Typist.

Roses

It was blood on my hands. Sticky. My blood but still... sticky. It was dark when I walked home so I couldn't see the rose bush.

Roses are strange. At a glance they seem to love you. With there poise and there grace. But they're hard to get. Only when you look closer do you see the thorns.

I tripped. I was never good at walking right or straight or anything. They cut into my hands. I didn't cry though, I wasn't good at that either.

Roses are like people. Some tend to be in groups but most end up alone on someones grave or a vase left to rot. After a brakeup. Love is funny that way.

I washed my hands in the once white skin. Stained now. Here is when I cried. Now is when I mopped up my face and hands.

Roses are like people. Pretty, hurtful, lost, lonely.

Roses are like people.

Because they always die.

Glam Rock Queen

My mood was up and down.

A happy, dreamy sigh here.

A pissed off groan there.

A fustrated flip of the hair.

Puckerd up for nobody.

Glamed up for one.

I got it all.

Bowie's on the turn tabel.

On my perfect mechine.

I'm just a glam rock junkie with stars in my eyes.

But these stars have faded.

Telegram Sam... what happend to him?

Died in Vitienman.

And Ziggy's gone back to mars.

Here I am sixteen years old and seeing old stars!

I'm in a glam rock scene and I got Bowie on my little old mechine.

But Now Isn't Simply Now

She wakes up to the same words everyday. That same passage from A Single Man. A Single Man is a book ment to be read alone, in a solitary state. The words are as follows:
"Waking up begins with saying am and now. That which has awoken then lies for a while staring up at the ceiling and down into itself until it has recognized I, and therefrom deduced I am, I am now. Here comes next, and is at least negatively reassuring; because here, this morning, is where it has expected to find itself: what’s called at home."

"But now isn't simply now." She remembers. Tonight, she looks down at the dinner she made for herself. A frozen chicken pie which she burnt. Sitting down at the counter she feels alone. Not that she is alone by any means. Her mother is inside as well but in a different room. She wonders, then, if they should eat dinner together more. But it wouldn't work. Her fork goes in for the kill. Stabbing at its tanned body steama rises up. She sees no other alterinitive but to eat it.

Sometimes, sometimes food is good. Sometimes not. But tonight it is just there in existance. It is neither good or bad, just simply there. A part of space. She reads the same section over and over.

"But now isn’t simply now. Now is also a cold reminder: one whole day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Every now is labeled with its date, rendering all past nows obsolete, until — later of sooner — perhaps — no, not perhaps — quite certainly: it will come."

And she wonders why that book was kept so close to her. Why she reads it whenever she can find the time to truly be alone. Not to say she dosn't have a social life. Most of the past time was spent with friends but that felt shallow to her. It didn't stick. She chews her food sofly and glups down the bitter lemon water. Staring at the page, unturned kept frozen there as if its something really important. A glance down at the food shows that its almost gone. Eating suddenly becomes replusive to her and she throws the rest away. She sits back down at empty plate and empty glass.

Like these things, she's become empty. "But now isn't simply now..." a few tears hit the page of her book softly. Without noise. She wish there could be scilince now. For a moment. But there is none, has been none, and never will be none. Sounds will always come threw her and brake her. She grabs her book and slips away back to the four walls of the empty feeling house she is most firmiliar with.

She lays down and remembers....
"Waking up begins with saying am and now. That which has awoken then lies for a while staring up at the ceiling and down into itself until it has recognized I, and therefrom deduced I am, I am now. Here comes next, and is at least negatively reassuring; because here, this morning, is where it has expected to find itself: what’s called at home."


"But now isn’t simply now. Now is also a cold reminder: one whole day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Every now is labeled with its date, rendering all past nows obsolete, until — later of sooner — perhaps — no, not perhaps — quite certainly: it will come."

The Swans

I can not look at her the same way again. No. No! I can not. This creature that was once composed of rarites and purites, a white swan, now. Now has fallen victum to the sin of lust upon her own flesh.

Feathers that were as white as her skin have grown black. Black like the night itself, black as the hallowness of her eyes. They have grown black as to show the void of darkness and shame. A flaw in something perfect. A void that is and was created by lust!

And yet as I aimed to capture her, I could not. I could not slay the beast that was the Swan. Because I loved her. To take her in my arms again I would and slay no more I would, to have her free from a prison of feather and beak.

How I loath that vile creature! How I loath its haunting beauty! How does its lack of remorse not consume it to waste on its own? Can it not feel its own self distruction? And yet, I am to blame. She came, the Swan, and bewitched me with its silky wings of black lace.

How was I so blind to see? How? I was caught up hunting after a lie, a laugh. With her I felt it was right but I abandoned what was true! Now not an angel would cry for me because of what I have done. I am a fool. Still now I can see her slender body, twisting and turning before me in a gentle plea of one so innocent. One so lost. But then she came, from the hells below and tempted me. And I succumbed to it. Like a fool, I did. She waltz and dove before me with such compeling grace.

And... what now? I see her! She! The one so pure and innocent, perfection in its self this creature! Yet she acts as if she is blind to me. What has happend?

And, as she dove off into the sea, I saw it. I saw that purity and sin were one in the same. I saw that the Swan was a flaw and perfection in itself.

They were one and the same.