Pretty Black
Low light levels — and heat. Freshly into Autumn and it is over 80 degrees at 9:30 at night. I’m sweating, the scruff on my face, itching. Beer can dripping condensation. Windows wide. The sounds of the black sweltering night coming through: cars on the highway, and crickets. Not a hint of a breeze. Earlier, the pale moon peered through my window, on its way to somewhere else. Crank some Placebo, “Meds”. Sound and fury. Pretend I’m feeling something different.
I have a greater understanding of Art, now. It does me no good, but there it is. I see the core desire more clearly. Still don’t know if it is True or just smoke and mirrors. Guess it is pretty, either way.
I feel the moments stagnating and pouring through, at the same time. It doesn’t really matter. I’ve stopped. Or maybe I’m just falling slow, taking forever to hit the ground.
And the night is still. Pretty black.
I’m pointless.
Keep this scene inside your head
As the bruises turn to yellow, and the swelling goes down
And if you’re ever around
In the city or the suburbs, of this town
Be sure to come around
I’ll be wallowing in sorrow, wearing a frown
Like Pierrot the Clown.
- Placebo, Pierrot the Clown