serendipity through bruised fists // {tom} muse + art.
Jul 13, 2017 13:24:10 GMT -5
Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 13, 2017 13:24:10 GMT -5
Crimson teeth. Pink, bruised knuckles. Fire in my veins.
It’s the ideal habitat for me; the cobbled street suggesting unspoken tales through hints and dried specks of scarlet on the cobblestones.
It was hard for a runaway kid to make a living, to survive; I’d gotten into frank brawls with rats, my knuckles aren’t much foreign anymore to the feel of distorting someone’s cheekbones and jawline now. In fact, ears yearn the crack of shattered bones; it’s like a starvation for bloodshed and exchanges of fists in the stomach’s pit—worst fact of all, there’s no stopping it. So, instead, I feed this craving.
It’s a win-win situation, I realized recently.
We address them, short and trimmed, purely as ‘ bosses ’, we being the band of misfits and rebellious youths I’ve stumbled across in an alleyway. There’s no name to the circle, but the usage of ‘brothers’ is getting quite common amongst the ensemble. A family, I would call it as. The word tastes foreign and bitter on my tongue; one of the most loathed words in my dictionary. Also most underused; never had a family, only something dysfunction and dark—it’s a story I’ve planned to avoid for the rest of my days, no matter how numbered my days might be.
Mr. X is a good epitome of one. Grey-haired, crooked nose, grotesque lanes of yellow teeth, his cigar smells toxic. (I tried one once. Yuck, although the high it brings along is unrealistic.) He’s the puppeteer of a gang, owes a buck-load of silver and gold coins, and we are told to be his underdogs. What his gang is too arrogant to do, we take it and get it done smoothly.
Bad things, and I’m living for it.
The best time of the day is when he rewards us, coins thrown like sand and we waste it on cerulean liquor, white rolls of poison, etc. Not we—they. I don’t like smoking, it’s a waste of coins, time and a pair of lungs. Drinking burns my esophagus. But, I like to watch the silver platters, the strobe lights hopping from one place to another, the grey smoke curling idly. Momentarily brings a stage of calmness to the fucking tempest within my skull. It’s been there ever since I abandoned the four stale walls of a place once called ‘home’, and I have no goddamn clue to why it wouldn’t disperse.
It should soon; has been months since it fell into existence.
There’s an explosion of sunlight from the dark line of the endless horizon, stripes of pastel colors—soft lemon, pale yellow and faint pink—bursting into life and trailing behind these hues is the eye of heaven, ascending slothfully to its glory. It’s too relatable to me; I stirred from slumber before dawn, like a literal sloth.
Light filters through grimed windows, through minuscule crevices, through stables, through the futile ventilators of slaughterhouses.
Light strikes upon bottles, hunters’ knives, etc. and upon the entire acres of District Nine. Sometimes, I wonder if the sun has significant purposes other than serving as an astronomical alarm clock. But it does have the luminosity to force the boys out of their naps, all bed-hair and morning breaths as they roused from their bunk beds.
“For fuck’s sake, wake-up. We have a case today, from a boss in the North.”
“Get lost, Riot.” Retorted Steve, gloomily. A slap goes to his face, and regret immediately sprouts from the finished action. His freckled face was moist, either alcohol or drool on the cheeks, doubtlessly. He laughs at my repulsion and it looks like he’s deliberately showcasing the black spaces in his mouth, spotted at random intervals, where teeth are supposed to be.
Steve’s made the tank of the group, solely because his overgrown structure could painlessly endure blows and hits.
We shrug on our denim jackets, brush the dirt off our ripped jeans, and act formidable, slipping into our fake skins. Masquerading as a troop of soldiers. Breakfast is leftovers from yesterday; rolls, sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil, and drown all with water. Earthen tiles tremble beneath our tattered boots as we leave the threadbare shack we’ve been calling as ‘home’ for a while now, and after a brief moment, we proceed with today’s assignment.
I hold a picture in my hand, its edges crumbled and crisped, and inside of the Polaroid frame is a man—sorry, a boy. An expanse of alabaster skin, dark eyes and dark hair. An address is scribbled at the bottom of the picture in jumbled letters; messy strokes of ink I can’t comprehend. It’s passed down to one boy, then to another. The cycle repeats, and in the end, we are marooned in front of a household, elegant and refined. Doubt laces our minds, but there’s a part of them that wants to finish this mission so badly and every ticking second, it’s growing impatient, bubbling in my innards.
Garroway sees the stance I’ve put myself in, and instinctively, he rises a warning hand upfront. “Arthur—we don’t know if this is the correct address. I hella’ don’t wanna’ get into som’thing deep.” All philosophies, and hazard warnings, that one. His shaggy black hair and lean body ain’t going to be a clog in the flow.
He doesn’t have the guts and the speed anyways; my left foot has already hurled itself towards the door and it drops, specks of wood blasted into the sunlight like gold dust. I step over the threshold, authorizing myself in into the property. It’s a lovely home, in a sense. Call me gay or whatever, I appreciate the aesthetic and warmth of a home whenever I can.
However, I don’t let too much distractions in.
Heavy treads echo throughout the hollow floorboards;
I try to find human presence, barging in into doors, only to be greeted by vacant rooms.
There’s a light coming from the end of a space, and luckily, when I bring my storm in along with my flesh, there’s someone.
Typical Art Riot doesn’t trouble himself to examine the other—I glimpse an expanse of alabaster skin, say words like an incantation: ‘This is payback.’ and swing my fist like a wicked spell, aiming for his nose.
It’s the ideal habitat for me; the cobbled street suggesting unspoken tales through hints and dried specks of scarlet on the cobblestones.
It’s like brushing my teeth after screaming out the nightmares, hitched breaths and a skull chockfull of terror—it happens on a daily basis, these acts of violence.
Began months ago and flourished into something terminal, I’ve been on a roll.
It’s a win-win situation, I realized recently.
We address them, short and trimmed, purely as ‘ bosses ’, we being the band of misfits and rebellious youths I’ve stumbled across in an alleyway. There’s no name to the circle, but the usage of ‘brothers’ is getting quite common amongst the ensemble. A family, I would call it as. The word tastes foreign and bitter on my tongue; one of the most loathed words in my dictionary. Also most underused; never had a family, only something dysfunction and dark—it’s a story I’ve planned to avoid for the rest of my days, no matter how numbered my days might be.
Back to the ‘ bosses ’.
Dirty jobs. Passing white pills and deliveries to dark alleys.
On certain, grim days, cashed to terrorize someone or threaten them ‘till their eyelids slip into white.
Bad things, and I’m living for it.
The best time of the day is when he rewards us, coins thrown like sand and we waste it on cerulean liquor, white rolls of poison, etc. Not we—they. I don’t like smoking, it’s a waste of coins, time and a pair of lungs. Drinking burns my esophagus. But, I like to watch the silver platters, the strobe lights hopping from one place to another, the grey smoke curling idly. Momentarily brings a stage of calmness to the fucking tempest within my skull. It’s been there ever since I abandoned the four stale walls of a place once called ‘home’, and I have no goddamn clue to why it wouldn’t disperse.
It should soon; has been months since it fell into existence.
This morning’s the same as yesterday, and the day before, and one before that.
Light filters through grimed windows, through minuscule crevices, through stables, through the futile ventilators of slaughterhouses.
Light strikes upon bottles, hunters’ knives, etc. and upon the entire acres of District Nine. Sometimes, I wonder if the sun has significant purposes other than serving as an astronomical alarm clock. But it does have the luminosity to force the boys out of their naps, all bed-hair and morning breaths as they roused from their bunk beds.
“For fuck’s sake, wake-up. We have a case today, from a boss in the North.”
“Get lost, Riot.” Retorted Steve, gloomily. A slap goes to his face, and regret immediately sprouts from the finished action. His freckled face was moist, either alcohol or drool on the cheeks, doubtlessly. He laughs at my repulsion and it looks like he’s deliberately showcasing the black spaces in his mouth, spotted at random intervals, where teeth are supposed to be.
Steve’s made the tank of the group, solely because his overgrown structure could painlessly endure blows and hits.
In my case, they address me as the band’s riot. Ironic, I am familiar.
Because, you raise riots and havoc in your wake.
And, there’s neither hesitation nor fragileness in my marbled fists.
We shrug on our denim jackets, brush the dirt off our ripped jeans, and act formidable, slipping into our fake skins. Masquerading as a troop of soldiers. Breakfast is leftovers from yesterday; rolls, sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil, and drown all with water. Earthen tiles tremble beneath our tattered boots as we leave the threadbare shack we’ve been calling as ‘home’ for a while now, and after a brief moment, we proceed with today’s assignment.
I hold a picture in my hand, its edges crumbled and crisped, and inside of the Polaroid frame is a man—sorry, a boy. An expanse of alabaster skin, dark eyes and dark hair. An address is scribbled at the bottom of the picture in jumbled letters; messy strokes of ink I can’t comprehend. It’s passed down to one boy, then to another. The cycle repeats, and in the end, we are marooned in front of a household, elegant and refined. Doubt laces our minds, but there’s a part of them that wants to finish this mission so badly and every ticking second, it’s growing impatient, bubbling in my innards.
The instructions are crystal clear.
Punch this punch ‘till he sees stars. Tell him ‘it is payback.
You got it. Punch this punch ‘till he sees stars. Tell him ‘it is payback.
Garroway sees the stance I’ve put myself in, and instinctively, he rises a warning hand upfront. “Arthur—we don’t know if this is the correct address. I hella’ don’t wanna’ get into som’thing deep.” All philosophies, and hazard warnings, that one. His shaggy black hair and lean body ain’t going to be a clog in the flow.
He doesn’t have the guts and the speed anyways; my left foot has already hurled itself towards the door and it drops, specks of wood blasted into the sunlight like gold dust. I step over the threshold, authorizing myself in into the property. It’s a lovely home, in a sense. Call me gay or whatever, I appreciate the aesthetic and warmth of a home whenever I can.
However, I don’t let too much distractions in.
Heavy treads echo throughout the hollow floorboards;
I try to find human presence, barging in into doors, only to be greeted by vacant rooms.
There’s a light coming from the end of a space, and luckily, when I bring my storm in along with my flesh, there’s someone.
Typical Art Riot doesn’t trouble himself to examine the other—I glimpse an expanse of alabaster skin, say words like an incantation: ‘This is payback.’ and swing my fist like a wicked spell, aiming for his nose.
tags:Tom
