Young Writers Society

I am not sure where to put this, whether in non-fiction or here...so yeah cheers y'all. Rated for language...

CL

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Chocolate and Cigarettes

to Robert, Sean, Max, and Cyril (yes that would be Arvy) the last living romantics

I wish I could write. I can't. My brain has shut off due to (a) the alcohol, (b) the cigarettes, (c) chocolate, or (d) all of the above. I'm not sure which. The alcohol sliding down my throat, tangy and sugared by coca light is a Cuba Libre rip-off, served in a tall glass with square cubes of ice, which are skewered by my thin pink stiring straw. The slow grad and puff of the cigarette, today is Lucky Strike, tomorrow Reynold's, burns against my lips. But it's a good burn, full of herb ash and tobacco spice. The chocolate is of a cheap kind not Milka, which goes down smooth and pools creamy around the teeth and under the tongue. This is of the cardboard aftertaste, afterthought variety but it wazs cheap so I didn't expect much.

I wish my imagination would ignite tonight. It's as if all my little grey cells have gone on strike. It is almost eleven and I have nothing to show for the hours lost sitting her paper, pencil, Keats, The fucking Pengiun Book of English Verse and a shady bag of highlighters for company. I've highlighted all my favorite passages and lines, and read them time and again trying to engage myself with their words and yet I am stalemate.

The radio cackles wit songs I've heard ad infinitum, It's My Life and others along the same veine. It's the reason I hardly flip that switch anymore. The machine is a song-killer or more so it's the burecratics behind the music and the stations, and the numbed out DJs. In my opinion with what they have at their disposal, all those millions of songs, they should have enough to never repeat. But they don't, they hone themselves in on certain vestiges of song and play the fuck out of them. Ah Black Eyed Peas, there's something I haven't heard in awhile...

I take another sip and puff on my dying cigarette. They say these will kill me one day. I know that. I have all the facts at my disposal and understand the years of scientific research at my fingertips. May think stupidity plays a part in the indulgence. That's not so in my case. I choose to indulge, because I am human. It's part of the condition - Self interest. I enjoy the sensation of alcohol dribbling down my throat, I enjoy the singe of a cigarette between my teeth. They are vices, but as in everything I enjoy them in mediocrity.

Save the Music. What does that mean, or is it another slogan to persuade the people into raising their voice. I rather think that it started out well but like things do, it was snagged by corporate hooligans intent on spreading it to the masses only if money was an outcome.

I wonder where my pack of Cloves is, I don't want to light another cigarette, there are always tomorrows. I find them tucked into my raincoat. Taking out one, I light it and enjoy the vision of the embers playing along the tip. Still I find words fail me. I curse my pencil and throw it to the floor, violently. Words have failed me. There is a road block in my brain tonight, flashing yellow-orange lights and all. But as usual there are no workers to finish the job. Why is it that when something breaks, it's cheaper to buy it new than to repair it? Has society turned so materalistic? Have we applied that philosophy to ourselves as well? When you break a heart(someone else's) do yo go and buy a new one? Has sentimentality, and nostalgia, and feeling left us for good?

I wish for the last living romantic to find me here in my living room looking out at the cityscape to make everything all better. To show that we haven't lost touch with out inner selves and nature, only got lost amongst the cement and stock market signs.

I will wait until then stuck in writer's limbo, indulging in numbing praticies, waiting for an avenging Valkyrie to swath clean the killing fields.