Black Sand

                                                                   the

                                                                                                         dead

                                                                                                    receives

                                                                                                                his

                                                                                                       crown

Whether pimp or prostitute the world never freezes so the street lights stay flickering and the junkies stay hungry…thirsty even, dead, no life, you know? Just corner-struck.

And why would they ever be alive? They are suspended above all that was holy, like a black static stench that drifts from the sewage up into the stratosphere, no cutting them down, they are hung up like an old pair of sneakers on a jolting power line.

          An old wino who owes me a pretty penny for a few favors I sent his way just gave me a couple Opanas to hold me over until he can get me the cash he owes me. They are 60 milligrams a piece and I just put one under my tongue to let it dissolve into that throbbing purple vein. By the time I get to the coffee shop I should feel that beautiful warmth of opium surging through my body like a tidal wave destroying a third world country.

You know… I sort of feel guilty, I know that drunk stole those fucking pills from his dying mother, probably stole the whole fucking script and replaced them with naproxen.

      That Gromit motherfucker is lower than whale-shit. His mother has fucking cancer! Worst part of it all she broke her legs walking two flights of stairs to their apartment, she passed out from exhaustion, her son should have been there to help her, you know?

But, he was too busy drooling beside a garbage can getting his dick sucked by a transsexual in exchange for his mother’s wedding ring.

We sacrifice what human dignity we’re all born with for a fix.

I sat around scratching at this note pad here and there, mostly spending my time sipping scorching coffee, people watching while the sun is bright and ruthless.

These streets were built to serve the fiends, and hell, I’m a fiend myself so where else should I be? I can’t afford to eat but I can afford my stuff. My stuff is all I need and this shit coffee too.

Some days I had no money for coffee. I would fish through the trash cans nearest the coffee shop searching frantically until I found a receipt. I would take the receipt to the shop and tell them I dropped my coffee and they would give me a free one.

You see, I didn’t look to be so bad off. Binges and moments where I had money I would spend on an uptown thrift store to find clothes that make me appear as someone I’m not. If you ask me, I should be wearing rags.

This park is revolting at times. You see young couples skipping class to make out and carve initials into trees and hold hands and finger bang each other and react nervously to every breath of speech that was expressed in their face.

 

It leaves me perplexed. I’m not sure what these kids think, but everything dies. Love dies, friends die, family dies, dog dies and kitty dies, pigeon and coyote die, the supervisor dies, the writer and reader die, it’s all a race to see who dies first. The first one dead receives his crown. God damn death is the only thing we all have in common.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                               Human

         Cancer

          Finally, I have scrounged enough money to buy myself an olive loaf and a bottle of Casamatta. First time I have been able to treat myself and buy enough black tar and bread to get me through a week, it wasn’t easy but nothing is when it comes to heroin.

I convinced the first whore I met in NYC who was kind enough to allow my cock to penetrate her every hole to pull a few tricks for me.

         She had a soft spot for me, I was 10 years her prior and we both had traveled from the south to get to the Big Apple, the Empire State, in hopes of art and eloquence at every corner.

Just a few years ago I could have never seen myself sitting with a 34 year old cunt that is in love with me, snorting heroin of my cock while I am half dead, turning blue with a needle sticking out my fucking arm. In my dreary state of blue death I began envisioning some sort of modernized version of the black plague wiping out ¾of the population on this wretched earth.  I could see scorched orchards and small children curl up and vomit themselves into solid stone, this medusa effect serpentine its way through the souls of all that could weep…and thus the rebirth of the human cancer. Beauty.

It’s some time before noon in Chinatown. I’m walking down Bowery Street with a lukewarm cup of coffee and a lousy book of poems by Bukowski. Bukowski is a shit poet and maybe that’s what I appreciate about his poetry.

The stench of Chinatown is offensive, you get used to it somehow. Still, the stench was omnipotent. Dirty people, dirty vegetables, dirty meat, rotting eggs, all stored on the street corners of the markets. It’s filthy. In all of my years here in New York, I’ve never ventured into an Asian market and sought out their foods. I’d rather walk to the nearest bodega and grab some beef patties for a dollar.

Despite the foul odor of Chinatown, today was an excellent day. I had $22 stuffed in my back pocket, the sun was shining on the architecture amongst me and all the pretty thin Asian women were waltzing down the sidewalk in sun dresses.



I could swear I saw a few pussy lips wink at me from under the dress and no panties. If I had eighty more dollars I’d surely spend every penny of it to marry one of these funky Asian women.

I would make money by selling art works I’d work on every now and then. Some were paintings, some were writings, some were sculptures. Anything I could do to hustle the tourist bastards that would walk down the streets with fanny packs and thick lens eyeglasses, balding heads and visors.




 © Marshall Parker. Not to be copied unless by written consent

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Excerpt from my first novel, "Black Sand". 

 

 © Marshall Parker. Not to be copied unless by written consent

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Abraxiis's picture

I hate this, never should

I hate this, never should have tried writing this awful garbage 

Abraxiis's picture

I have dialog, just not on

I have dialog, just not on the first page.

allets's picture

A Novel

Without dialog. Needs more dicks half rotten with pus and canker lipped boys otherwise comes off as business as usual... Girls/women as the sole source of sin and death/disease. Gritty. 3/4 honest. Make a easy to sell on line novel. My nephew has 12 novels on line and has a readership!