poetic recyclings

A tale of cultural relativism. (1998).

I have come to the point where time has gone. I have come to a point where I have left. I have left because I simply became suicidal listening to that music, that band, and i now sit on a bar trying to surpres the erge to blow my head off. Shitty art, shit-feelings: How can a band that totally indifferent kickstart that flush of negativity is beyond me. I shouldnt care, but I do and I drink, and notice how the erge vanishes as alcohol floats into the veins. I drink up and I drink again. Escape? No, selfhelp, a how-to feeling, there was something there that needed attention, something latent that got projected through the music, the shitty music I even paid to listen to. Maybe I got suicidal on behalf on the musicians and it that way it was all a symbolic lust to fuck up reality.
I raise my hand to order another 50 gram of Starka Vodka, and as I move to place a cigaret between my pale and tight lips, the bartender asks me if I want a lighter, and I think he means fire for my smoke. But no. He is handing out lighters as part of a merchandise campaign for Allan Olesen new cd "songs for smokers". The other guests at the bar, all smokers, all have each and similar lighters. The syncronicity of the situation makes me wanna join in, and I tell the bartender "yes, I want a lighter." I wanna be in, I want to smoke more, spree my monthly pay here and now, be a comrade, buy the rounds, make friends and talk, and not the least stop what I am also thinking: That I should be at home working om that goddamned manuscript.
But is it worth, is it good shit I am writing, does it mean shot to anybody, couldnt I settle with less, be happy with my day job, isnt that as essential as it gets: Go to work?

Maybe I should just drop the manuscript and publish a lighter.