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Tag Archives: durban

600Dirty white smiles greet on arrival, the post office escape artists, out for survival I got six hunded you’ll give me nine, I’ll give you a fifty if you don’t take your time

The waiting the heat, the radio blues, the j cole cd, the thought of bad news

Only capsules today mommy, my worst fucking line,

Check mate that bank balance of mine, the fire needs feeding my paper is fine

But he’s back and he’s jacked and he’s got the right stuff, and the small talk ends fast as I reverse out the lot – best let me go, let me get back to my bed, reality tv’s only real if somebody’s that’s not me’s dead

You got a family but what about mine, I’m up the ladder, you’re towing the line, or noosing the rope or tying the knot, or just using this scarf as a jack and a swab

Its too easy, I laugh, backing away from the cops, from the blue lights of blue, following me home on the  jones

It’s too fucking easy, one goes to jail, another pops up, from gull, mazeppa and anton lembede to inanda, umgeni and diza mkize, surrounded by gear from fucking Tanzania, its too easy I laugh in my head, its two minutes down the road, its another eight up the arm, its 1 more for the warmth to fill up my heart, pass out, write, stare, stare, dream, forget forgot, go take another shot

Dither the dream along laid in a sweat cold bed, willing the eyes shut in the head

Two red cubes evolve into dread, backwards and forwards dark images bled

Bleed into stories like souls of the dead

Wet haired hounds; drooling songs sang; grave yard mounds; empty beer cans

Navy hats floating on ana girls frame; fooling the gang feeling the rain i can feel him starting his crude brand of shit again

The mirror image breaks when a flash steals a hit; she can’t find a vein, he implores her in vain

Fooling the gang feeling the rain

A river of dreaming will happen next noon

When a cape town boy will die in my room

and another waste will die up the lane

The daily news will publish his name

The mercury will extol his mom’s pain

Whilst he laid dead on ana girl’s bed,

He’s blue colour collar she’s kinda posh

His crime was one night her flame to his moth,

Packets are flushed as a black bag is tossed

Heavy with that boy whom for two nights was lost

Police make small talk as they flank in the corpse

the mirror image breaks with the flash, Kat arrives with more stash

sink tank

and I hadn’t seen A’vol for a while, that big friendly smile, and dead eyes imploring you for a half loaf of bread, for a quarter gram, for a cool drink, for a brief respite from that life on the corner, on the street, a stolen bike we chained to my car driving him home to pick up a score, it was a capsule day and Durban was far, the sun too full, the will written and signed, resigned, I couldn’t make the trip down the hill, so up the hill we head to molweni instead, and the brakes and gears fight through the dust and my little engine chimes it must it must amid sullen stares of why are you going there, white girl, we know your car, we know who you are, you’re that angelic junkie star, all the boys at the rank know, but I can tell they don’t want me to come to their home, its fine don’t worry A’vol assures,

they know I’m a friend of yours. Sleazy angel its fine, angel you’re mine, we get good stuff now now, its all too easy

then i’m in tune, it’s just me and you

he’s been cleaned by faith he can heal me too, just not with the cross but with the spoon,

i can feel my fear sticking to his skin, buggin out, peeling it back, sucking the poison out

DAY 1 IMPLOSION

Today is the worst day ever, can’t keep up, can’t keep calm, rescue remedies a fake charm, tramadol, roxanol, betapan, need a better plan

Too much stress, fuck this cut up mess, I can’t breathe, need to punch anyone in the face, face off, I;m ready, hair bristling, brain bursting, brandy, whiskey beer dear deer in headlights of tough sunlit face, smack me in the face, fire me in the furnace disrobe me, bury me in a mausoleum, tough as wax near a flame, I’m so stretched, , I hold him to blame,ive fucked it up right this far, might as well forget about the progress just regress, digress, undress whats the point, a day is a joke, who thought I could do it anyway some shite astrology chart apparently showing the way, well the son of Jupiter can go eat himself, I’m someone else, brain clouded bristling like thunder, so angry explode so saddened implode

“happiness might now be bought for a penny.” de quincy once blundered, penny my arse, happiness is 6 hunded

And you turned it into a verve song so I might as well have been busking at the cal neva lodge on lake tahoe

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forgetting to remember

forgetting to remember


… remember that story before the glass slips brain slips..its happening again, liquid distraction, thank you, fuck you bless you for that delivery… Autumn is heroin. For me its the epitome of my most prominent memories with the drug. The mist, the light, the leaves, the wind, the chill in the bones so easily solved. Belushi ‘don’t take shit from anyone’ echoes off old pages of music magazines, which brings me back to that room, and the dealer outside the window throwing rocks up at us and belushi was on the laptop screen and there their bottlenecks and my spoon and a heater and so much warmth in the quasi designed starkness but that was on the other side of town, and its saturated grey and autumn again and the walk in cupboard where I preferred to shoot up in, and their being no more need for vitamin c because we’re in Thai town now and the fuzz of the beachfront and the otheryou telling me about hiv and the otherme that floods apartments and hotel rooms and petrol stations and perceptions and knocks on your door at 3am with 3 friends with 3 bags and 3 beating hearts that need a room and a space to just, won’t be a second bro, thank you so much dude you won’t believe what just happened tho, there’s always cops, there’s transport nightmares, puking on corners, fuck it excuses there’s then another excuse for the abuse and you just ignore the vibe, push the other three aside, hit his toilets and hide.
Mattress basing, how low can you sink, i’ve taken plain rides to the other sides in a 3 minute black out rat poison motherfucking track tracing the cold changes the veins, won’t shoot in my neck again then again then again, fuck it there it is. John stewart has been on the whole day, sabc 2 don’t cut it round here can’t remember anything they’ve said, zean knocks at the door: are you dead?
Tantrem’s all in a rage, I just jumped the psych ward 4 mins down the road 2 weeks after cannes, keep forgetting second chances again.
Again blood on the hotel carpets I’m told I must pay floor getting kicked off another ‘chance’ I haven’t paid for, fuck them all just fuck them all, this run is too easy, got money don’t have money I don’t even have to pay for.
Oding on the 8th floor, oding on the first floor, oding on the ground floor oding on the second floor the third floor the sixth floor the 19th floor, oding oding, the floor the floor always the floor, getting fucked on the floor, getting off the floor, finding powder on the floor bags in the corner, under the sink, the toilet lids, the basin hids, the mirror, the three bloody ties behind the bathroom door, you can taste yourself in your mouth before your jaw breaks and you get off the floor and dont answer the door, another lame metaphor
cape ivs call it spikkie, old timers call it neds, white dudes downtown jack black jack dudes won’t use needles, they smoke hold your hand in instead. We’re being thrown out again, so we’re back in his mansion again, no fun anymore, weezles creep up for more, graffitti jokes, french blokes, russian blokes pull out vodca hidden in cases, I recognise this guy’s face’s from berlin, he saw me tap dancing outside the mandela hotel, can’t hide this shit no more, no more reason why, peters high, thomas on my arm, the gates remain open, i’m not used to this heroin, too slimy too dark, its not tar there’s no road there’s no bridge, I wake up on a ledge in a pool looking for more works On the sand for sunrise, at war with the mystics, thinking back to my durban beachfront, berea centre, esplanade rides shooting up by myself arms fucked under my shirt, nerves shot, hands numb smiling inside. I used to rule the world comes on, no one notices the coldplay till its too late, it’s too late we all get it, we got it, we’re gettimg it forgetting it refusing to remember it but there’s so much more to tell, vuse passes me a half a gram for real, I got 3 meetings and a script to sell, fireworks.

I still really like to score, the score in the wound, driving for hours in the city, revisiting, slowing down driving off, ducking round, how many Esplanade lights have sat me in the drivers seat, bent soup spoon in hand westbound
how many times have I sat in Albany streets crack houses, so tired, so wired, nothing but daggers on the inside, paranoid checking the windows for cops below, my clamped tires, nevermind it will be alright, just past that smoke i’m expired
Petrol attendent knows my plate, says babe its late, says i’ll be right back, comes back, hand him 2 2s, swop for the toot, swop for the bupes, swop for the bruise, hit the toilet, rank stank, gangplank, one step junk, jump, dive, shoot, dive, suvive
how many times have I been lost in Embo, screaming down the phone, telling drunk dudes to leave me alone, travelling down unknown dark roads, seeing township folk tableaus, khat, smack, skyf, sugars, so hoity toity so not dirty yet shooting up nyope
Church is ripe with an evening service, workers and shirkers drink quarts on the corners, waves from the white guy in the toyota hilux, pick up the phone and pretend not to notice, Skeet appears in the rearview mirror, jumps in, drops packets and exits
14 dealers in a 10k radius, I congratulate myself for this supercilious web of comfort I weaved, I move like a fiend, i’m a scabrous queen, no friends now they’re weaned, now they’re apparently clean, now most are od.’ I got 3 more straws, think fuck it all, I still really like to score.

 

give me oil in my lamp keep me burning

The rain was like iron bullets on the apartment’s factory type window, except larger with black aluminium frames and loose locks. If your final steps are these windows then take a few back and remember the open plan micro loft room with its high white walls, the torn poster of nevermind the buzzcocks on your right to your left – a web of wire as a headboard filled with black hearts and silver and scarves and long leather gloves in front of a queen sized white bed covered with the flag of Swaziland and King Cetshwayo. A side of kitchen, a black belt in the sink, a couple of signs of other dilly dallying of the spirit cleaning out in jik and water, a shower and basin to the left, out we go. Let’s face it – it’s an empty gallery. The lifts, the new ones then the old ones, then the fire escape – a double wide metal door swings far too buoyantly open, the sliding door pass, the night staff at reception,  a slightly guilty look, two lazy guards watching your movements in twelve different areas on a large flatscreen, a ridiculously ostentatious swing out front door – 4 metres long pushing you to the pavement, Pata Pata the restaurant, Chalk Café – the Bioscope independent Cinema, fluorescents on every corner. More Security and then straight back to your vehicle, if you’re lucky and a keen observer or modern cultural anthropologist a dusty black kid on a skateboard might whizz past you…and then fall over….or there might be a party of some sorts or an arty opening…or closing night spilling out onto the streets…. . However if your name was Eric or Max or whathitsname and especially if you were a Nigerian Eric or Max or whatshisname you would not taking this little trip through the grand entrance up the stairs through the doors to the empty gallery that protects the door  to Main Street Life’s real inner sanctum.And it would most certainly not be at any kind of reasonable hour whereby  the residents and businesses would still be abusing each other….and the mood was gay….No your entrance and its timing would be very different.

 

Click, push, giggle, slam, click, turn, push open. The mood immediately is serious. This shit is serious. Its 2am, I’ve been waiting since 8pm when he told me the long drawn out story when he would be getting off, then stuck in Sandton at 10, countless smokes, positions sculptured by sheets, lame movie…lame lame lame movie and why now on a Friday night. I can still hear the last of the arseholes from the Monster Munch party on the roof. Rabid and hysterical fucked on a mixture of cheap vodka hidden inside Russian Bear bottles – thighs slapped into fake leather leggings and stamina…my fucking god, whats the fucking time now? 1am, ‘ dude listen I’m sorry but this is fucking ridiculous, its cool I’ call someone else (but he knows I wont), you know.

–          Give me 20 mammie, the rain is very hard here.

Whatever, I have to wait. I check the syringes on the kitchen counter, search for rogue cotton balls with a trace of gear, bump that, I hate reusing anyway..i hate been that desperate, but its not even like that, its just. Well you don’t even get a rush so ….whats the time?

Max’s number lights up on the cell. ‘ are you hear?’

–          How much you got?. ‘I told you I wanted three grams, I got 700, I’ll give you the two on Monday, promise’

–          No mammi, the rain is too hard. 900, otherwise I can’t come out all that way

‘yeah yeah I got 9, just hurry’

I don’t got nine. I got five. I’ll sort it out when he gets here.

 

It’s the same black golf that pulls up around the side street from the Main Street hotel/apartment whatever the fuck they want to call it, nightly around 3am. I’ve seen him lurking earlier, maybe at around 6am, or after a serious night he can be here by 8am, before most of the Main liners are up..save one or three of the respectable lot of working people who somehow got swayed into thinking that the building was actually cool and reflective of their coolness and hipness and we made it ness…the ones who got sidetracked…who couldn’t leave their old real life living on the breadline in the middle of the shitty city centre soul and move to the suburbs to bathe in the bliss of clean white commercial and successful south Africa. I wonder sometimes who are the real rebels? Those that stayed and deluded themsel ves or those who moved and excluded themselves?

Dish dash, down the stairs, Elo is at the ATM, he needs a few packets of sunshine as well, I’ll drop a few lines into my spoon and speedball, I decide on whimsy. The side door bangs behind me. Fuck it, its raining to fuckery outside. Slimslamming the rest of the rogues tucked up safely in their cells, I dart into his car, already trembling with andrenaline. Nothing I mean nothing feels the way those 10 minutes before you slide that blunt eye into tarnished skin, hit the red and change your personality forever. The chest heaves violently you can hardly talk, string words together, don’t ask me any fucking questions. Let me concentrate. Let me make sure there’s no cotton on the tip,  make certain the exact spot of the last exact hit. Don’t interrupt me. The people who have witnessed these strange demonstrations of power plays within my little tomb know all this. They sit silently on my bed or at the metal table stolen from the back courtyard of an old dump of a building that will soon house popular tartlets and deluded designers, film makers,  more and more wannabees – a perfect combination of modern day horrors wrapped and packaged without any sense of infinity. They’ll sit on the uncomfortable black plastic chair and either cut up white lines on a Modest Mouse cd or sort through really shite weed bought from Rasta at the shebeen all the while stealing sad glimpses of me at the kitchen counter preparing my respite from the pains of my head heart and body and then when the bathrobe belt falls effortlessly to the floor and the syringe hits the bloody muck in the sink and I take that first breath of buzz, I’ll look at them and finally engage.

There’s rumours rumours everywhere. People glance and people stare. Doors stay locked whilst tongues still cry we’re here for you when you’re ready lies.

Its insane but you start off with a little piece of nothing, you add some black, some definitive articles, you get a job, a to do list, you creep forward ever so slightly, you’re happy you think, the scars have faded, the eyes remain blood shot but those around you those who’ve know you think you’re doing well. It’s the best you’ve looked in a long time I was told by a dear friend. Fat I thought. No I mean it. That’s the thing its always well meant, aint it. It’s a maroon cover of concern of feelings that jump and sliver into new resolutions. You lift your chin a little higher, you write you think much better, you strive a little harder and then one day kinda out of the blue there’s a shift in your mind, its so gloriously delicate its almost invisible, it’s a quiet thought that multiplies into a philosophy that you’ve always known will keep you safe, will keep you sane. Its an intangible desire to disappear to separate yourself from the scurvy of waking up falling asleep aspiration ambition empathy conversation other people and life. It’s a silly desperate perfect answer. It’s a slight shifty satisfying waster.  It undoes all you’ve done. It unravels all that has been wound. It sedates and delivers you to spaces explored by few, it comforts, it condemns you, it frightens and repels you. Its width height girth knows no boundaries, there are no asylums, no scrapes, no tears,  no sex, no day , no night it is an infinite suggestion that defies religion science and sense. If you’ve pandered to its whispers if you’ve braved the backlash the withdrawals the despising looks and whimpers of others, if you’ve thrown away all your respect your cares your loves your titles your works your awards your future then you are rewarded by access into its loom into a numb cavernous dimension which sets you apart for ever from everyone else. They say its seductive, its more than seduction. Seduction is sickness, its flesh its desire its tangible its renumerated, it’s a currency – but this this my friends and foes this is myth this is fantasy this is more and better and cleverer and distinct and insatiably pure and it bellows achingly loud it devours and feeds you with every delusion vision and vice you have ever known and all that  you will never know until you try it.

Have you ever been beaten raped or reprimanded so badly that you have purposely and momentarily lifted your mind from the situation and swam som ewhere else? Have you ever wittingly divorced the truth from the untrue under duress? That’s the place where we succumb we sink, and we sink whilst inhaling the last breath of every shamed warrior and we die detached and disposed. And most of all we die.

Its half past noon exactly. I’ve been up all night up all day, agitated beyond belief. The kind of mania that comes from rereading books I’ve reread betrothed to arguments I’ve argued to pointlessness, to routine to too many hours too many minutes too many fucking days too many fucking pointless hysterics and the blood is now dripping off my arm onto the bed, onto the sheets, the pillow my long sleeve white cotton shirt, the music the tv the radio the extras all seem to be well rehearsed, me I’m sliding I know there’s no romance in this stupid entanglement of a tattooed guy to my right and a large girl stuck between the pillows at the back. He stares at me and mutters something about turtles and water and rain and I stare into the sun and recognise for a second that he actually wants to fuck and that’s like the most hilarious proposal I could think of right now, besides, Mac 2 Durban division will be at the petrol station in like 10minutes and I’ve got to get out of here the thing is we’re short on sthe plastic supplies the needles are useless we’re like samurais with toothpicks and the phone starts ringing and I answer it and I feel myself agreeing and I see myself driving to the pharmacy at mid fucking day the worst time of the day to go anticipating long ques and those disapproving glances from the pharmacists who all know I collect my suboxone every third day and they know that THAT aisle should be off limits to me but right now or just then I don’t care. I just need a perfectly slick affair with the tools of my trade and not have to indulge my double life to keep the peace, to keep the sanity of everyone around me except myself. So I leave with tattooed boy by my side ranting on about teepees and piranhas and he puts in a tape of bob marley and I groan and I listen and try to concentrate on the road until we hook up with mac 2 and its fast and its on the side of the road as the station is hot with pigs and we pull into a lane and scuffle to fix with the last ok needle and then everything’s fine…again.

We were really close to having it on I think, when I think of zean. I mean I always wanted to you know. He’s fit, cute, intent. He’s straight like the ramones. He’s a razor blade in thought and a slug in speech. He cared most of all and I guess when you’re short of warmth a flame is better than a fire. He’s gone now like they all do. They just disappear. That’s the problem with reality it doesn’t last.

 

singles eat for twice the price

My shoes feel too tight

I’m high as I might

Just have ever have been, I fly out the door

Dissolve through the wall

I’m standing over your bed

slicing thoughts in my head

How fast  thin smiles change round here

We were throwing wits about just yesterday

Wine and beer and coke and cane

2 B’s, an E, diamorphine cocaine

Im to blame as the bups just don’t work

Nor rescue remedy I tried calling emergencey

But they just wouldn’t listen to me

So I’m blowing smoke on tree skulls

Fucking spider’s entrails

Licking blood, cleaning sheets,

Burning off the laptop keys

the moon  is at half

earth  in its pass

all for this fools behalf

Ill wax and I’ll wane

From hell I’ll abstain

swallow four myprodol

chased with valium as well

but there’s lack of respite

and the days stay as night

 

shedding bad habits

bedding entraptments

wedding  in blackness

fake sanity enactment

and I sit and I choke out the past and the wrath

and discharge the vipers lead the flame to the moth

cast one final smile then I’ll drown in the bath

sexxxed up lights flicker down the town is magic tonight

despite the dirtiest brown

im seeing straight with blurred vision intact

im feeling great  fifth demurred  incisioned whack

my well being  rates lift conferred ambition sacked

foreseeing  dilated clifts preferred  collision CRACK

THE WILD DUCK

Remember the night the city burned down. We were trapped in back streets charred, under the influence, faking smiles, the dude in the blue beanie had been sitting in the doorway of the Edgars store since early this morning, he had no ears but rapt attention. There was a group of us, five if I remember correctly, five of us who entered through the makeshift cinema at the Point and took advantage of the confusion. Breaking into modern day refurbished, city ‘rejuvenated ‘projects, mansions of cool, déclassé and worthlessness rolled into a corporate structure. We stole whilst we waded through the waters the foam of the fire fighters. Shannon screamed directions whilst we each took a room, looting and laughing, but that all ended years ago. we have had to grow up. No longer are we guaranteed good press for our sins. Straight and secular is the answer. No life for no lifers or something similar to the Nazi refrain. I’ve sunk all my senses into the new project, battling malaise, inertia, no home cept the lonely depths of mornings sans sunlight. In a room without curtains, they watch me, I’ve seen them. Sometimes I perform for their pleasure, boredom has that great a grip. And eruptions are no longer skin deep. They say    the body holds memories I say slay the body, pray to Harlequin for the rent and pull the tooth. The toothless are wonders that defy the well dressed charlatans that parade the inner city sanctum. I profess the unconscious call at my own demise. They want the film, they don’t want the film. I can make the film, I cannot make films. Reflections in the pink wine of an afternoon and my animas a rare bird stuck in her majesty’s jail. We lose our friends as we lose our memories regain them, have a tequila, figure the morning out. Drench it in sherry and good tidings, good mornings, good nights. The good fight. I listen to symphony I can’t listen to these imbeciles who carry some strange sense of entitlement of good grace, good manners, deportment, ethics…ha, who really knew the little fish girl, who swam with her before she sunk to those gorgeous grips where icy waves became sacred shrouds and failing that superficial glance of heaven fell in love with the oceans dark deep seductive force. Gravity will always win, you have to go down to get up. Fresh eyes are tired, me feels when stationed in their back room, begging infantile demands for that’s what makes a director in their world…a dumb distorted place…it wasn’t what we were looking for they lied, they cannot see so how can they even attempt to pry..and I’ll tell you why because of press because of awards and prowess and like the big independent screen available to all and sundry who care to pay the price they’ll provide shelter…temporarily but then what…oh more mortgage to the soul, more filters, more sanity..yes we are frozen beyond their clutches and I’ll defy god dammit I’ll demand a little bit more..the kid, the tramp the wanderer, the gypsy..taciturn eyes, garters down, petticoats up, more beef than brawn, more nuptials shredded via shredded paper, the age of letters is dead. So in this manic mania we steal, we fight. Temper tantrums, Oedipus and Faust come knocking at the door whilst skin must be clean, the plague on the pavements swept up and the age of wooden sculptures burnt by the fires of the homeless, the weak, the powerful, the cold, the icy cold that will not let up and will not let us sleep this sweet and airy night

muddy boyfriend

. I pass Bongisiwe’s house. It’s a wooden two bedroom with chickens in the yard. Loud gospel music is swimming through the windows and a faint light seeps through. It makes me happy to think that her family is inside. Bundled up, her doing her homework, her mom feeding the baby, her father watching the news on TV. I want to go in. I want to ask them if they can change the colour of my eyes and make it all right again. But I don’t because I don’t want to make it right, I want to make it wrong and therefore I am wrong….. apparently. I sneak into one of the containers and watch the spores growing in the hay, soon they will be fungi and people will eat them. It feels magical. Tomorrow I will feel magical, tomorrow I will begin again. I will move, I will smile, I will tell Suzy and nick that I love them desperately and want them near. I will travel great continents to hold them close to me, let them feel this black heart bleat, let them know that I am in control; I am the maker, the marker, the mast and the helm. How do you begin again, which moment dictates the direction? I am standing now in the big green field next to the lake. The boat has been set free. I sit and listen to the night. I sit and wander what to think; now that I have destroyed all that I love and love all that I hate.

QUIDNUNCS ARE PEOPLE TWO

They’re widening the roads and filling up the empty spaces with taxi ranks.

Sweet sellers sell dagga and fake Wayfarers.

Ex Rhodesian retirees own second hand book shops and a Chinese lantern hangs off a petrol pump. Mist settles and the liquor

store is owed money,

Beethoven pours out of duplex windows; For Sale signs are fashion décor.

30 000 construction workers on smoke breaks;

teenagers don’t understand municipal rates – nor do I.

You can swop cd’s for beer and dreams for security.

Highway Mail collages suffocate dustbins on verges of buffalo,

tennis balls roam around nets in the season’s afterglow.

Two white beggars for every traffic light; two is a couple and two is a fight

Horses and ponies and riders and perms

Berries and poison and mothers and germs

slipstreams and dimmers and uppers and coke

nightmares and bedrooms and rainstorms and strokes

Two black lawyers for every Luddite; two is a signal and two is birthright

They’re holding back on fear and fixing barbed wire with alarm systems.

Coffee shops hover over sewerage dungeons.

Ex ad execs fill up the seats at the pub and an Indian cricket team gets bounced at a nightclub.

Day breaks and the bakery bakes fires,

arguments pour out of mansion doors;

For Rent signs are fashion décor.

60 000 uniformed children off to school;

Jehovah Witnesses are still uncool – so am I.

You could exchange three lives that couldn’t add up to one.

Egyptian geese infiltrate the sunny afternoon rooftops;

g&t’s are spilt, guilt is built as a gift to the bishop

Two white beggars for every traffic light; two is a couple and two is a fight

Horses and ponies and riders and perms

Berries and poison and mothers and germs

slipstreams and dimmers and uppers and coke

nightmares and bedrooms and rainstorms and strokes

Two black lawyers for every Luddite; two is a signal and two is a fight