Dead for Days

You and I used to float for hours, submerged in the barrel of the syringe in the blood and morphine, not needing any air. Then Marvin put his rig into a tight little bundle and back into his grandfather’s medicine bag and swore he’d never touch it again.

I’m back in the room. Someone has a chainsaw going, out on the roof. It must be Walter making his furniture smaller. The dog is lying on the dirty floor, staring at the door.

I started out as the guitarist but now I’m the singer playing bass. Charlie can really play bass we should get him but he’s sick now and I actually think he’s gonna die. He’s not responding. We put Mark on drums. He watches British football and plays Chinese checkers with himself. Or sits running sand through his fingers for hours –when he’s not drumming.

It’s my dog so I have to feed it all the time. That’s why when we don’t get paid I get pissed and fuck shit up. You would too. When are you coming here? I thought you said you and that guy broke up. What was his name –Hiawatha, right? So come on down. I’m actually wondering when/if people ever pay for their sins?

Let’s go outside. Come on. Come on Marvin. Marvin and me walk down to the gas station. We walk down the tracks all the way. Once we saw some serious shit on those tracks. But I’m purposely averting my gaze and honing in on the gas station. I don’t want to see anything today.

Inside the gas station the aisles are at weird angles. I told Marvin but he doesn’t believe me. The shelving looks like it’s about to tip over. Careful! CAFEFUL!!! Marvin is honing in on his purchases and ignores me. A little old man walking his cat on a leash comes in. I can’t even look at him. Come on WHEN are you coming out here? These scrubs are making me crazy! Remember when we built that tree-house in the park? And like lived up there for a week? There aren’t really any parks around here but we could still build something. Come on out and we’ll get some old wood and some nails. Maybe an old door with the paint peeling off and old windows with cracked glass. Build a fucking little shack out by the train tracks! We’d watch the kids go by in the dining car through our busted up old window. We’d watch the ticket-taker watch us as he goes by so fast.

We could have a little box with our food in it. Sleep on a couple of old boards. Play the radio. Write some songs.

I can tell you something else. My old man died. They found him in his kitchen, dead for days. I wrote a song about it. We just played it for Marty. I was jamming and remembering how we’d go down to steal shit from rich people. My Dad used to get so mad. He made me take it all back on Good Friday.

Now I’m waiting outside the gas station. I can’t believe Marvin is still in there. What the fuck, Marvin? You’re keeping me waiting but I gotta get back and get the dog this food. He’s been hungry for days and finally I stole enough for a big full dog meal. I wish that shit could make me happy. I don’t even like food. I don’t like anything really, except music. Music and you, if you’d ever come back, you fucker. Now you’re really pissing me off.

Me and Marvin are back from the gas station trip. I’m sitting here writing a song on Petey’s guitar. It goes something like this: Dad’s dead for days; you ain’t here Purple Haze… That’s all I have so far.




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