Friday, June 29, 2007
Still Missing
Where in the world is Henry Tennyson? He was here one minute, then gone the next. Disappeared without a trace, like a wisp of cotton smoke left lingering above the doorway of a run down bar in New Waterford.
What happened to him? I barely recall our last gig. We played this rinky barren bar in the north end, stayed a few hours after closing drinking the cover charge down, then headed to the dirty dance hall on foulmouth street, crusing for girls.
I vaguely remember seeing his cockeyed smile over a glass of rum, the neon lights casting a bone white hue over his face. Menacing, these rotten vibrations, these empty soul pigs who put on the airs of entertainment for a few hours, only to lure you back to their 9.99 apartment and feast upon you like vultures on a rotting corpse. Dicks. He was right there, in the thick of it, lavishing in the energy of the dance bar, being seduced by the beat, breaking his resistance to bad noise.
I was getting worried about him. He was on a steady decline, even more so than the rough and tumble events of our past. No, no firearms and rum running, just sketchy characters, pillheads and serpants of the night, wrapping themselves around him, closing in, always pressing harder and harder, until they block out even the light of the noon day sun. I knew he could take care of himself, well, I knew he was a survivor, but he was teetering on the brink with these slime balls. Men and girls who tried putting up walls between us, ruin our friendship with gossip and politics, stupid apple bullshit.
It had been sometime since I last wrote about him. I had been avoiding the topic really, waiting on word from the Grim Reaper or worse, Johnny Law. My Agent had been trying to distract me from him, fearing for my safety, and my reputation.
"Tibs, forget about him, I've got another project for you."
I blew up. How dare he, even as my most trusted advisor, tell me to forget about a friend, espeically a friend who could need help. Then the Grim Reaper did speak. I received a call from Susie one night, after finishing a glass of rum with supper.
"Tibs, It's over. I've broken off the engagement. We're finished. I done with that fucking scumbag." She hung up.
Tennyson was definately swimming with the sharks now, hell, he may have even become one of the beasts. Predators, the top of the foodchain, sure, but a lonely existance all the same. What the fuck was he doing? Committing suicide slowly, it seems. Destroying bridges with people who would always have his best interests at heart, and not in their pants. He was sailing solo now, adrift in a fridgid ocean of bad possibilites and rough realities. I felt like preaching and after three weeks of investigation, I finally got a contact number.
"Tennyson! What the fuck are you doing?"
"Hey mang," he replies in a daze, he doesn't seem to detect the anxiety/irritation in my voice. "Not too much."
"Where have you been?"
"Cockburn."
"That sounds vaguely ominous."
The line disconnects, I try to call back, but its been disconnected by the phone company. Shady fucking dealings man, shady fucking dealings.
Where does one go from here? I'll put the feelers out, try to keep track of him, I only hope this old soul will remember that all life is art, and not to piss on the canvas. And sure, I'm no saint either, but no chemist ever told Wordsworth what to write.
From a musty apartment,
S. Tibs
What happened to him? I barely recall our last gig. We played this rinky barren bar in the north end, stayed a few hours after closing drinking the cover charge down, then headed to the dirty dance hall on foulmouth street, crusing for girls.
I vaguely remember seeing his cockeyed smile over a glass of rum, the neon lights casting a bone white hue over his face. Menacing, these rotten vibrations, these empty soul pigs who put on the airs of entertainment for a few hours, only to lure you back to their 9.99 apartment and feast upon you like vultures on a rotting corpse. Dicks. He was right there, in the thick of it, lavishing in the energy of the dance bar, being seduced by the beat, breaking his resistance to bad noise.
I was getting worried about him. He was on a steady decline, even more so than the rough and tumble events of our past. No, no firearms and rum running, just sketchy characters, pillheads and serpants of the night, wrapping themselves around him, closing in, always pressing harder and harder, until they block out even the light of the noon day sun. I knew he could take care of himself, well, I knew he was a survivor, but he was teetering on the brink with these slime balls. Men and girls who tried putting up walls between us, ruin our friendship with gossip and politics, stupid apple bullshit.
It had been sometime since I last wrote about him. I had been avoiding the topic really, waiting on word from the Grim Reaper or worse, Johnny Law. My Agent had been trying to distract me from him, fearing for my safety, and my reputation.
"Tibs, forget about him, I've got another project for you."
I blew up. How dare he, even as my most trusted advisor, tell me to forget about a friend, espeically a friend who could need help. Then the Grim Reaper did speak. I received a call from Susie one night, after finishing a glass of rum with supper.
"Tibs, It's over. I've broken off the engagement. We're finished. I done with that fucking scumbag." She hung up.
Tennyson was definately swimming with the sharks now, hell, he may have even become one of the beasts. Predators, the top of the foodchain, sure, but a lonely existance all the same. What the fuck was he doing? Committing suicide slowly, it seems. Destroying bridges with people who would always have his best interests at heart, and not in their pants. He was sailing solo now, adrift in a fridgid ocean of bad possibilites and rough realities. I felt like preaching and after three weeks of investigation, I finally got a contact number.
"Tennyson! What the fuck are you doing?"
"Hey mang," he replies in a daze, he doesn't seem to detect the anxiety/irritation in my voice. "Not too much."
"Where have you been?"
"Cockburn."
"That sounds vaguely ominous."
The line disconnects, I try to call back, but its been disconnected by the phone company. Shady fucking dealings man, shady fucking dealings.
Where does one go from here? I'll put the feelers out, try to keep track of him, I only hope this old soul will remember that all life is art, and not to piss on the canvas. And sure, I'm no saint either, but no chemist ever told Wordsworth what to write.
From a musty apartment,
S. Tibs
# posted by Mr. Tibs @ 12:08 p.m. 
