Henry in a shit-hole, not suicidal, just holding on—a hand full of nothing.
Microscopic razor-blades, intercellular antagonist flowing through his veins.
Henry at Wah Wah coffee shop, he stopped in from time to time. Chocolate and coffee for breakfast offering temporary relief from pain, even cocaine was temporary, everything was.
Reading “HOWL” by Allen Ginsburg—
“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angel headed hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night…”
Henry thinking on “HOWL” some —a poem of desperation, pathos about modern revolutionary heroes, victims of excess and predators of the “Negro night?”
Henry’s mind a space ship flying no-where he thought.
Reading over today’s writings he realised his mind was gone, afloat on a river of shit, and so it goes.