Just lampin' ten stories above Shinjuku scanning a mag--6:30, Tower Records, auburn sunset--staring down scarecrow hardcore wannabe thugs, my face scowl peering at the bodies of these letters, various styles...

Hat cocked low, suddenly aware--what's this? DJ Krush, Liquid Room, doors at 7:30? Lying magazines, always a moment late--shit--always a moment too late, but whatever. I treat it like the life it is, something that can't be knocked, rapidly dodging pedestrians and passerby, headphones draped around my neck like the crown fucking jewels.

I'll dip to this little show, I'll dip.

Because I'm one in a million, here, light skin and tangled hair.

Whoosh, first floor, second, third, somewhere in the world, walking with the bent leg as red Ferrari's roll by on Yasukuni-dori; you know, thousands of people died here during World War 2--on this hot asphalt now strangled with cars, people, etc. Forgotten, forgotten, Shinjuku it is--now. Blaze a 50...

Using my TV phone I see girls in they thongs, fantasizing while they home alone. Momentarily use technology, get my ends, move on.

That was only a brief stop, now back to the head rock.

Face with an upside down smile I jet down the escalator, heart of the city hustle, step one, two, three, quickly. Slurp some udon--served hot with mentsu--some basement bordello-looking dimly lit shit. Quickly now, take my ticket, thank you, "gochisosama" and all that talk.

Burp.

Pack my bags, hand me my platinum suitcases--next stop: Ebisu, 5 minutes by the green line. Yamanotesen.

DJ Krush and Mr. Lif are waiting.

Living that life, again, I am.

Let that shit roll of my tongue, converse quickly on the platform. Two school-girls, sign my autograph and step into oblivion. Disappearing in a blur, speeding away, away... away. Peace young ladies, peace.

Red carpet on the sidewalk, I gotta step on it.

It's that kind of day, one where my addictions are fed and I walk sated, place to place, a bulbous, greedy thing. Full of coffee, melon-pan, udon, life, etc.

Liquid room,

Liquid room,

Liquid room,

DJ Krush and traditional japanese instrumentation, that kind of feeling, four hours long with my arm tied up, inject that juice directly into my left eardrum please--boom, boom, boom goes the Taiko, the DJ spins.

An unreal combination, like viagra and heroin--a shamisen solo by a long bearded kimono wearing man that you are supposed to respect, ending with Krush dropping the heaviest beat I've felt since that November at 26th and Dudley streets.

Blue lights popping my face, then green and red, yellow now, time drips onward, onward, the record spins, the girl next to me winds to the melody.

One eye slanted, always, head nod and feet bob.

Never end.

Apologies for all the nonsense... but I like various styles, experimentation, boys & girls, and also horrible writing.