Smells like hope.

The world is boiling. With its dicks and cunts and assholes. And then there are the flowers. They’re struggling to grow through the pavement. Grasping for air and pearls of rain. Then there are the gods … Kurt Cobain was killed by silence. John Lennon was killed by a loner. The free birds were killed in a plane crash. Our daughters are looking for fathers in the darkest corners. The mothers are binging Chardonnay in the suburbs. The fathers have gone mad. And here I am. A drunkard in a torched world.

The bar is wet and the bartender is listening with one ear. That’s OK. There’s a girl at the end. She’s young as I’m tired. She’s searching for truth and all I have in my pocket are lies. That’s OK. We buy into the illusion. We fuck. I put on my shoes the next morning, not knowing where they will carry me. Probably towards the bar. A good bartender never asks, “you again?”. He shouts your name wrapping your body in a pillar of hope. Your entrance is one worthy of a fallen angel searching for a home. You need that entrance. The small lifts and tugs. And that’s OK. Here you sit, after your day job. Selling air while the world is in flames. The cathedrals are empty and the mosques are packed. That’s why we’re losing the war. At least, that’s what they say. Whoever the fuck they are. The geniuses are chained by vanity. Their beds are empty and the women are chasing the jackals that has gold and promises of diamonds and pearls.

Once or twice in your lifetime, you’ll meet her. Not in the bar but on a street you crossed by accident. But you don’t recognize her. Because hurt and liquor and ego is forcing you to look into another direction. Your sense of time vanishes. Society follows a different clock than you. The museums celebrate buried eras. Faith mongers are plastering TNT on antique bricks. Everyone follows their own bible. Everyone is heading towards a panic. The clock is ticking and the panic will burst. Useless panic. All of this is happening outside this bar. The candles are lit and they’re painting the air with a shade of gold. A ghost is singing through the speakers. The bricks have seen better days. The cigarette is fresh in your mouth. The bourbon is resting in the glass – but not for long. The world is boiling and we’re tired. Mankind is tired. I’m tired and my cock is awake. The women are indifferent. Bored by the likes of us. They’ve seen it all before: flattery, gold and broken promises. I don’t blame them. The city is so bright that we can’t see the stars. The noise is so fast that we can’t hear the minutes. That’s OK. For now.

The world is boiling and the godless are torched. But now and then, in a decade or so, a gem will haunt us and remind us of the scars on our knees. No one forgets that moment their soul was shaken up from a coma. That’s why we have the pen. That’s why we have the strings. That’s why we have the godless disciples. And they’ll exhaust their fire while we pour our glasses. And that’s OK. Because the journey will stop at one point. And we need all the moments we can get.