Icarus's blog: "Just South of Blue."

Descending a one-way street in the most bitter dark, and darkest cold.
Wondering if I'd rather go out on the hood of a drunk's car pretending to be Need For Faster, or 8 Furious; Electric Bugaloo.
Becoming increasingly confident that won't be a problem between the loss of feeling in my feet, and the encroaching plops, rustles, and stomps from the nearby night.

I'd be lying if I said this was all for you.
In the middle of an empty street at that.

One can only bear the casual bitchy glares
and all-too comfortable contempt
for so many days
without breaking one's nails off in the door frame,
or swallowing a small piece of tongue.

The cabin isn't too far off, no doubt overflowing with khaki wearing hipsters, and coats too thin,
and malted fruity drinks packaged with a lead balloon daydream
for hipsters trying to be ironic
or at least expressively sardonic
and wet, green kids with uncut drinking teeth.

Oh how I longed for a carnival of my own genre
a flicker-glimpse of a generation lost.
Perhaps a thinning scalp, and a hardened harumph.
I made due for briefly holding the narrow hips of diary-sworn crushes
a mere lifetime ago. Once confessed. And never returned.

Then came the noise.
Then the gratuitous sway and beat.
And a parting slap on the back after a blur of cigarette breaks and yeah-dudes.

I turned to leave the last one I knew.
Thinking sadly,
perhaps
never again.

Uphill, doubly chill, and mostly anonymous.