I was thinking of the days of being in a band myself, and the culture of violence and anxiety. I thought I would have a go, after this writers block, but it is written in conversation style, and wasn't edited, I thought it better to leave it stream of consciousness, with a dash of self deprecation.
A Dash of Cream
He was ready before he was sure of it. A handsome man, swathed in sweat and stubble, a Hawaiian shirt, covered in blood. The stretcher, wrapping his shaking body, the night screaming with siren fire. There was a look to his face, when he had entered upon the supposition of a stranger to the throne room. That was what it were called, and the walls were full of graffiti, and posters, of bands and texts that belied belief, and poured out of the walls like Moses and the snake. The girls were prudish, and snaky, not knowing how to heal their addictions, nor their flippancy. It were like the band, were full of shit. The look on the lead singers face, was greasy and graveling, adhering to a lower form of wit, like semantics or sarcasm, and the brother to the feminine presence, hiding in the corner with her rolling eyes, were like the anxiety were full of shit too.
But the ambulance, fired through the night, with the winding roads of rain and wet, weaving through traffic, oncoming and stagnant, like a needle weaving through a haystack. The brother, had come into the room, and had placed his hand on the bong, and he had taken it to his lips, and he had pulled a hit. That were the beginning of the conversation in his head, and the fellow had just come off the streets, sleeping in the park, and wondering about the murder of his parents. His sister, were next to the heater, and she had her legs boiling in the waves, and were too numb to notice, but at the sight of her brother she retreated like a snail, retreating into herself.
The conversation, were mixed, after that, and she heard some yells, some thing nastier, coming from within the bathroom. The knife, had flashed like lightning, through the cries of bloody murder, through the haze of tobacco smoke. A deal later, were a shirtless fellow, on the lawn, in the night of the news cameras, and the petulant public, on their evening news. The fellow did not make it, but the two siblings, were charged with the murders of both the parents and the gang leader, who were a suspect, but were now rotting in a grave.