Notes On A 1997 Emo Reunion

Business casual stage attire

Casual Friday rules though (jeans are ok)

In lieu of flyers all over the wall, there is a plasma screen with flyer slideshow

the most ironic kid there is wearing hammer pants

this is a séance

conjuring ghosts of high school unrequited love

big generic t-shirts and wal-mart looking jeans

haunting

*high fives (text sent to those standing next to you)

we act like we are the stars of our own film budgeting for a costume department when young

we get older and grow content with stock character or extra

or we think we’re over it or the stock character is our look and that’s smart and/or ironic

crowd surfing going from another way to inflict pain to a fad relying on teamwork and posi vibes

an archive of aim away messages unearthed from the heart crevasse of your brain

you remember that picture collage your girlfriend made for you that had a line from that song

can’t get out of your head

no more music as opiART or nARTcotic to take you away from the stutter of your brain

overhearing convos about mortgages and divorce

Excerpt from Notes on Revelation

Life gets in the way of death because death is heaven. Things have been working out but not completely working out. Getting us to a utopia by coincidence and shit falling a part. Still not ready for what’s coming. Because I’m not ready to die. Not ready for heaven. One day I’ll be ready, one day closer to death. But death is a beautiful eternity right? I don’t know.

Lay with each other and just figure out how to breathe again with hearts beating a unifying beat. To cum is truly a little death. Imagine little death after little death. True conclusion. I hope my end is that satisfying. To cum is always better when to love is not far behind. I hope my death is, in that way, related that much to love.

Everything is finite. Even memory. Sad to never be able to feel it again.

Dreaming when awake, dreaming when asleep. A constant wait and a constant struggle to be better for a moment. For a perfectly eastern moment. A Bruce Lee perfection. Finding heaven again and again in pizza places and in bars.

Figured it all out while watching dragonflies fuck on the boat on the lake. Where to cum, to them is to make a heart and then fly away. We all float.

*Edited by JSR (tNY)

Notes On Being in a Touring (emo?) Band 2000 – 2004 (Age 19 – 23)

The Shape of Calling EP on Iodine Recordings

So This is Christmas?: The countdown is on and as soon as it hits one I’ll be gone. And it’ll be all that I’ve waited for and it’ll be all that I’ve worked towards. But I won’t be in any of your summer stories and I won’t get that one inside joke. But, hell, I’ll have my own to tell.  It’s just really bitter sweet for me to leave. On one hand I’m following my dream but there’s so many reasons for me to stay, my bitter sweet, on the other hand. It’s just that it’s that one. That one where everyone has the time of their lives and where it may be the last time to see them as I know them. I just hope that no one speaks until I get back. And that nothing moves until I come back. I just wish it all could freeze until the drive back. I guess I’m just scared that it’ll be too hard to get my life back.

Knee Deep in Your Shit:  One day you’ll be wrapped around my finger. And it’ll be the middle cause I’ve been flipping you off for years now. Those years you were off being you or a preconceived notion of a cool you at least. And maybe I kept you close because of the misplaced faith I have in you being better because you failing is overkill and I could kill you over and over again for what you do and what you’ve done. And I could’ve made you better but you wanted to stay at the bottom, probably bottomless, playing in traffic and I wish that wasn’t a metaphor. But one day you’ll be crawling to me on your knees. Which I’m sure is a position you are used to. And it’ll only be because of the words on these pages and what we do on these stages. And I’ll finally bask in the glory of not being a rockstar but being close enough for you to want me now. But when you’re listening to this song when you’re bobbing your head, you’ll learn that you’re nothing to me now and that you are wasting this time trying to get hit by my bus in this traffic, this traffic that you seem to love so much. And you’ll be surrounded by crushes and crashes into you for all time because, let’s face it, you’ve got quite the exterior. But just know that you’ll know what it’s like to die alone because nothing is forever in your world of bullshit thinking.

Everything You Thought You Knew LP on Iodine Recordings

Be So Much More: I think everyone would just rather me be some gray entity who should just slouch through a lifetime. With my head bowed down and my voice unheard. But I always have shit to say and I always have more that I want out of my life. And people think that I think that I’m better than everyone else. Well, those people couldn’t be bigger assholes than if they practiced on Saturdays. I just never want to be forgotten. I want to leave my mark without needing to piss or die in my prime.

New Obsessions: Your outline has dialed the phone and whoever picked up the other end told you to fuck off and reminded you that things change. Sometimes for the worse. Your shape has made the call to everything you thought you knew and you found out that you didn’t know shit. And that’s alright; it’s the first step in waking up. You’ve hit the snooze button and you’ve hit the booze bottle. I applaud you. We appreciate that you sat in on our therapy sessions. But it’s now time to listen to the new obsessions that we hold in our heads. We just want you all to catch our disease. We want our rock to be contagious and I know that sounds as outrageous as having a party and telling everyone you know to come but that’s the point, isn’t it? We just want to get your fucking head banging. So raise your glasses and start shaking your asses. Cause we’re coming to your house and we’ve got plenty of what you need to go around.

Too Bad This Wasn’t the Seventies: This is a grow your hair long, take your shirt off and smoke a cigarette rebellion. So, welcome to the revolution….it may not be the solution to all of your problems but it’ll be right and it’ll be fun as hell. So, I dare you to stand on your own two feet and tell them what you believe your life means. Even if you’re daddy’s little girl or some sort of a momma’s boy. You’re welcome to the revolution. It might not be the solution to all of your problems but it had to happen sometime. So, I dare you to stand on your own two feet and tell them what you believe your life means. Too bad this wasn’t the seventies. Cause this type of thing seemed easy and seemed like it happened all the time. It’s a grow your hair long, take your shirt off and smoke a cigarette rebellion. So, welcome to the revolution, motherfuckers.

Cinda-fuckin-rella: I’m sick and fucking tired of everyone and this place. Leaving used to seem bitter sweet but now it’s just sweet because I’m bitter as hell. And the thing you gotta know about this town is that when partying…leave at midnight because up until then you’ve probably had the time of your life. After that though everything turns to shit. Drama ensues. Fights begin. Screams resume. All around insensitivity seems fit. And it’s that same thing every time just with different faces. Needing an escape that races quicker and is stronger than malt liquor. Because it might take away most of the awkward. It might make everyone look better. Losing your eyes in alcohol. But nothing beats getting the hell out of here for a while.

Poorly Cast Sitcom: Goddamn, it’s starting to feel a little incestuous. Everyone gets recycled here as if it were some poorly cast sitcom. We grow up with these people. Live our lives surrounded by the same pretty faces. And things happen and things change. But there’s only so much to go around. Pretty soon all of your so-and-sos end up with someone from the group. Or has already been with a member of this, once hailed, late night crew. It’s just starting to feel a little incestuous. I think I need to get the hell out of here.

How Cutely Masochistic of Me: So, I’ll wear those beads that you gave to me that night that we all drank like it was Mardi Gras. And I’ll remember what it felt like when you were perfect. Because we were perfect strangers.  It always seems to get worse when we find out more and more. And maybe I have changed in the superficial things that I do but that’s because this is a different world than I once knew. And I do, now, use different tactics in order for survival and in order to keep fooling myself into some sort of happiness. But I’ve always been the same kid and hopefully you have to. And maybe we’ll get back to what we once were from a superficial glance. But soon I’ll be in some other town in some other state wearing those beads you gave to me and drinking like it’s Mardi Gras. And I know it sounds masochistic of me but I want to kiss you the night before I leave so that I can feel what it is like to miss you. And then, maybe, I’ll have something to look forward to when I come back because hopefully it’ll be you waiting for me at my doorstep.

Greenbriars and Wheat Services: Playing hearts out as if tearing them from our own chests and throwing them into a pile. One big fucking bloody mess on empty floors of empty rooms. Alcohol dripping and spilling out of our empty cavities on good nights where the spirits come for free. And as much as we bitch and we moan about the lack of kids and a missed home, I think we all know that it’s well worth it. Getting closer and closer to the newer and newer as each empty hour goes by. Bonds getting stronger and stronger the longer we drive. We’ll pour it all onto you tonight even though your clapping hands are the only ones in sight. Because we totally got screwed and we definitely got fucked (thanks FATA) but guess what?  It never got the better of us. We made the best of it and never gave up. And we have you guys to thank. You guys for life.

College, or Acting Like it at Least:  And we gloat about the nights spent outside of ourselves. Reflecting and disrespecting with a warm smile. Clueless. Classless. No responsibility for consequences rendered. Engendered by swinging our meat around. Too male. Impress the too female. Swinging their hair around. Too female. Impress the too male. 21- 25 years later and still fresh out of the womb. If someone were to tell us to grow up, they’d be the three words written after never get out of the boat: absolutely, goddamn, right.

Trapped in the In Between: Turning every page and burning them all along the way. Stuck in the middle from beginning to end. Sucked in. Always act one scene one of a nightmare that begins at noon. Staring at a phone that never rings and listening to the complaints of a bored answering machine. They’re hardly fulfilling their destinies. They’re almost of no use to me. Introspective. Infected. The dirty wound of my brain won’t let me pretend that it’s all fiction. Giving it too much thought but what the fuck? What else am I going to do with my time trapped within these walls. Act one scene one of a nightmare that begins at noon and never ends. This is my reality. Trapped in the in between of not very well planned tours.

Finally, the Electric Chair: Counting the boredom by the six pack. Four of them in every case taken to court. The jury finding the defendant guilty for wasting a lifetime. Sentenced to death for my crime: taking everything for granted.

Victoria Secret: Support that has been lost like all the missing underwire of all the misplaced bras in America. And maybe I do just want to step outside and get stoned. Rock after rock thrown from the hands of the people who might just know me best. Isn’t that how it always goes? The people closest turning on you? They are the ones who know how much you’ve wronged, right? But how many look at their watches and take the time to comprehend all of the good we do? I used to have it all. I always had the support of family and friends but now it’s lost like all of the missing underwire of all the misplaced bras and I think I’m ready to go outside and get stoned. You all don’t give a shit anyway. Throw your hardest. I guess I deserve it sometimes.

Adaptation: All the patiently waiting clocks have begun to break and we’ve all started, yet continued to fake as if love is all we’ve needed to keep our heads above water even though we all know that we’ve held our hearts below the waist. And I can tell you now that too tart is the taste of these bittersweet summer days and of this bittersweet summer haze where dying a thousand hot deaths seems worth it to get to the sunshine of your love. Because maybe it’s the type of sun that shines down even after the time we have here in this chameleon of a town runs out and out of luck. So, what the fuck can we do but wait and see and try not to think about it too much while we party like we always have? But I know that this war with time has changed me. So, don’t blame me if I don’t do the same old shit we’re used to because the way I see it is like this: the love we’ve had for each other has worn out or instead has been torn out of everyone but me. This constant fucking affair with my bests and my worsts.

Tell All Your Friends: We don’t belong here as much as you don’t. Don’t forget that shit. Where were you months ago? We’re just like you. Four schmucks getting lucky. And I don’t have to prove myself to you. I shouldn’t have to prove myself to you. What? Do I have to flash some sort of VIP pass? It’s cool. Be full of yourselves. We’ll be in your dressing room drinking all of your free beer but only after we drink all of our own free beer. We’re just like you. Don’t do me any favors. I’m not in this to be a part of your club. I don’t give a fuck. I just like doing what we do. And we’ve met some of the greatest people ever doing this but believe me you’re only number one on my shit list. So congrat-u-fuckin-lations. Isn’t that what you always wanted? I shouldn’t have to prove myself to you. These pages and what we do on these stages is proof enough. And PS, you’d know it if I was hitting on your girlfriend because she’d still be in my bed.

Scenester: Felt it again tonight for the first time in a while. The absolute love of being so close to everything and everyone. A scene. The scene I guess people call it. I usually hate that world when I’m forced into it but loved it tonight because it was leisure, it was hanging, and it was friends around me, and friends on stage. It felt right again I guess. 2 bottles of wine again. Pinot Gregio. “This is the breaking of my heart,” Stink turns and says to me and I can tell he means it. He’s not just getting all Dashboard on me because this has nothing to do with a girl though it has everything to do with love. Passion, music. It’s because it’s not him up there with his dude, his partner in crime. And I can feel for him. And I can feel lucky because I have this and will always have this. Passion. Music.

Religion to You, Religion to Me: So, I don’t know if I’ll ever find God. But I try. And it might not be yours that I seek, I just want to find out what this all means. This life. This death. And try to make something beautiful out of relaying what I find back to you and you and you. A mindfuck that goes on and doesn’t end until you cum and you cum and you cum again. And I usually need the tongue of a chemical because I may never know what it means to be truly clean. But I try. I try to stay off the sauce for my mom and for myself. And it may not work out. But I try. And try to make sure that I am remembered as something more than me. A love affair with a word, a question, a sound. To breathe, to me, is to try.

Self-Titled on Triple Crown Records

Gag From the Smell: The only thing I can do now is clean the shit off of the fan because it hit and hit big time. Broke the blades. Sent my world up in flames. And I knew this way of life would come back and bite me on the ass. I just didn’t think it would bite so hard or so fast. You have to give up love in order to do what you love. What a fucking paradox, right? When you have to live like at any moment you’d have to give it all up and drop everything in order to grow wheels and windows again and be off. The only lover being highway lines and audience minds because this very much is a mindfuck that will never end until a you a you and a you cum again. But maybe my concerns of pleasure should’ve stayed with just a one her. But this is what gives me peace, lets me sleep with a smile on the face. My passion, my fashion. The only thing we can make love to is sleepless drives and load in times where we’re always late. And of course there’s always the chance of getting laid. But I’m not much of the casual guy. I only have one thing on my mind. You. A ten year crush, a chance I could’ve took, but I fucked up and didn’t take the serious serious. Now I just want to fall in love in every state. Actually, fuck it, every city. So as to ensure that, when the inevitability of years of the road comes, I’d never be as lonely as I am now.

Genetics: The room is drunk. There’s nothing more sad than staying the same. There’s nothing scarier than needing to change. I’m searching for something bigger than myself. Because I know there’s something out there that’s better and that’s waiting for my cells to stumble upon. My DNA will be today but it’ll mean yesterday. The past speaks louder than words tease your powdered nose. Ladies rooms of ladies bars. This night is drunk. This town is the same. And there’s nothing sadder. Tattered table cloths on tattered table tops. Hold your drink closer to your heart. There’s something better out there waiting for me to stumble upon. I’m constantly searching because I’m constantly empty. The emptiness of your memory of me. We are nothing of what we used to be. There’s no remnants of the love you might have had in your heart for me. We are changed. My stomach pregnant with drink. But my feelings stay the same. I need something bigger than this mortality. A desperate vitality.

Drowning in Air: A constant voice in the back of your head reminding you that you’re a failure. As subtly as thumbnails on a chalkboard. Perpetual mention of letdown. Somewhere someone is disillusioned by actions that you can’t help. How to be what everyone wants you to be. The poet, the pervert, the mature, the nurtured. The gregarious, the reclusive, the passionate, the beautiful. The me, the you. Make everyone proud. Stifle yourself in a crowded room. Hyperventilate. Sleep them all away in the back seat and dream of not being annoyed by everyone.

In All Our Glossy Eyes: Drinking and driving from state to state. Tempting fate again and again. We should be dead by now. Stupidity at its best. The thirst for more and more on all our parched throats hidden behind all our wet lips. Everyone spending more than we have expecting that, at any moment, the money’s going to start rolling in. Stars in the eyes. Cocaine on the nose. Smoke from the lips. Five bladders full of piss. They’re in the back doing lines off of Abby Road while he, in his head, recites lines from a poem that he wrote. And this one wants to schmooze with a glass of booze in hand and try to be sweet to every girl he meets just to prove that he can. While that one sits behind the driver’s wheel, feeling used, selling his soul as the truth of being straight edge takes its toll. The only one who can get us to our next home. While the king of the pass out is trying to stay awake enough to finish his last beer and wait for the last joint of the night to be rolled as we near the only destination in sight: death. We’ve become an after school special. A cliché with the beard to match. Introspective. The dirty wound of the brain creating words to bite and infect. A cliché with the haircut to match. In front of a mirror putting the most importance in attempts to create a keen fashion sense. A cliché with the addiction to match. Hasn’t slept in days. Irresponsibility almost negating, yet maybe fueling his gift. His talent. A cliché with the clear head to match. Having to play the role of the dad. The rest are too drunk and too lazy to take care of the business end. A cliché with the stench of cigarettes to match. Going with the flow. The rhythm. And through all the bullshit, staying laid-back. Stars in the eyes, cocaine on the nose, smoke and drink on the lips and five bladders constantly full of piss. Welcome to the party. Should we put you on the guest list?

Worn Silent Tires: I should’ve asked where your loyalties lie and re-iterated the fact that this is not only how we live but it’s how we’ll die. The tension now seems wet blanket thick as it drapes the air between all of us. The silence is incisor biting, ripping into flesh but is what you deserve. Your announcement was cuticle claw gripping from out of left field and the drive home must’ve killed you slowly as every highway line and mile slid beneath worn and tired tires. You probably went straight to her touch to tell her about all the words that were never muttered while we drove back pounding fists on dashboards and van roofs as Absolution blared ready to drink the anger away. Another one bites the dust. Bass players are a dime a dozen but you were the one that made just about as much sense as anything or anyone. Now, though, we’re in your bloodstream, infecting you for the rest of your life and that you thank us for and to that I say you’re fucking welcome. This isn’t just a band, it’s a way of life that’s not only partly living but is a love that becomes a delicate eternity. And when she asks these friends in gorgeous whispers about men rusting in the rain of woman water, we’ll push you into the spotlight bashful and bronzed pale and pink. The only thing I know is that I’d rather stay here and die with all of you then save myself. Titanic like romanticism I know. You talked me off the ledge time and time again just to step onto it and leap off arms clinging to the thoughts of green and the greed of sex. Good luck in all that you do without us.

The Morning After EP on Rise Records

Time and a Half: The head and the heart work independently of each other but work over time because I think too much when I drink too much and feel too much when I’m actually lucky enough to steal a fuck from some unknown beauty that I project personality upon. Thoughts from the road. Peaceful and serene. Behind the wheel and healing. Wounds that are too silly to mention to you now. Carraba will say it better than me anyway.

Capacity for Nostalgia:  Virginia beach 3:00AM holds a piece of me that I will never be able to get back. Everything is finite. Even memory. Sad to never be able to feel it again. Coming down off the drug of Virginia and Philly, and Long Beach, New York and North Carolina, and Athens, Georgia and El Paso, Illinois and now Covington, Kansas. The drug of tour.

To Be or Not to Be (In a Band): Dreaming when awake, dreaming when asleep. a constant wait and a constant struggle to be better for a moment. For a perfectly Eastern moment. A Bruce Lee perfection. Finding heaven again and again in pizza places and in bars. Shifting perspectives on home. Conflicted yet again between passion and stability. Eating shit with a salad fork but having the time of a life.

Emily and Stella:  Getting more and more blind after every sip. Pussy clouding head and vision. Everyone’s metal detectors leading to the beautiful beeping and beeping as we step over each other to get there. Sift through the sand to reach the one and only clam. Jealousy’s always an issue. Ego control around a dog answering to Stella Artois as it bites as all to a comely death.

Music and Words: Drink my blood if it’s your sweet symphony.

Tour: Like a bizarre family reunion every time we’re on the road. Like little homes placed all around the country. It’s warm; it’s loud and excited thoughts and conversation.

Hipster Night:  Me and all the other cats in my band spent all night after blowing, dipping our bills, looking for some serious chicken dinners. I know that I’d just sit around digging those mellow kicks until I found myself alone surrounded by dead soldiers, completely burning with a low blue flame because there were just no dames in the barrelhouse that were really tuning me in and getting my signal. I mean, I was beating my gums with this one chick but her crumb crushers were too snaggled. It wouldn’t have cut the mustard if she were to do a little deep sea diving on me. So, I told her to cut the scene. Then this one piece of serious bedroom furniture copped a sneak at me. I would’ve danced on her dime all night but I was busier than a one legged tap dancer doing next week’s drinking early. I would’ve hauled her ashes all night too. What a drag.

Young and Pretty: Goddamn these Long Island girls. The girl in the bar that constantly has two guys around her the whole time. Goddamn these Long Island girls. Wearing less and less clothes, showing fresh firm skin because life hasn’t damaged it yet. Too young. Too young for me at least. They see right through me, they know that I’m passed my prime. I’ve staled, I’ve rotted.

Fuck the World; Chapter Two: Finally done, finally not only accepting but embracing the idea of being grown-up. It all culminated in one night of music, fireworks, a town and a last living encounter with a loved one. It was drinks, sweet words, family, friends (new and old) and bonding through shared memory: a swim in cold, familiar water at the most beautiful of all places and a shirtless walk home at the hour of the sun’s waking, or birth. Reminding of many similar walks after the best of nights. And like that I was done. Surprised that it all had gotten me to that point, to that epitome. Nothing left to do but let go and move on. Start something new. Be in control and try to reach new peaks, forgotten peaks. I am grateful but feel like I’ve wasted a lot of time. Time to get it back. We all trade our youth for something and I’m going to trade it in for good.

New Thoughts From the Road:  Now I have the luxury of a healthy alone and poor her is trapped in its strangling hands. She’s all I want to see now. Her and my family. A best is gone. Another one may be too. I just want to be the best person I can be and not let hate encompass me. I want to be walking love. I just want to be good. Truly good. Go back to actually striving to be something. No longer so self-indulgent. Christ might be a myth; a character invented as something to shoot for. I love that he loved. And I want to be that. I hope I am that. Comfortable as opposed to comfortably numb.

I took a writing workshop with Steve Almond the other night. If you don’t know who Steve Almond is, you bettah axe somebod-ay. Or just click his name because I linked that shit because the Internet, right? My relationship with his work started in what must have been 2003. After a girl in one of my classes told me that all of my female characters lacked depth and were stupid and that I couldn’t write girls worth a shit (she was right, y’all!), she told me that I should check out Steve Almond. Maybe because he could write female characters? Or maybe because she thought I didn’t understand women and wanted me to read someone else who didn’t understand them? Or to show me that you could not understand them but write them better? I don’t know. Whatever. I picked up My Life in Heavy Metal. Great title. Great cover. Great collection of stories. I was onto this dude and I was digging him.

I then read Candyfreak and later B.B Chow and Other Stories and eventually Rock and Roll Will Save Your Life and Which Brings Me to You. Which Brings Me to You blew my brain. It could’ve easily been schmaltzy but it’s an orgy of potent quotables, a veritable fuckfest of lines designed to crush you. So much in that novel will resonate with you, I don’t care who the fuck you are.

Anyway, the workshop was on Getting Beginnings Right and was at Grub Street in Boston. Since you weren’t there, I’ve transcribed my vague notes below…for freeeeee.

Show what’s at stake immediately

Strong independent narrator

Need to fully embed in the consciousness

Never confuse the reader

Surprise and suspense are different

Social milieu

Fucking up in interesting ways

Follow the person in the most danger

Paying attention to people is love

Internally big moments

The rate of revelation – make sure that shit is high

When they learn things they already know = low rate of revelation

Get rid of all the words not doing the work

Don’t wrinkle the chronology

Don’t settle for the vague

Find what’s dangerous

Ground the reader; they will be satisfied

Poetry is precise

Writing is decision making

Specific agenda & history

If we’re following the minutiae, we need the grand scale

Intellectual apprehension of the shit, not a moment to moment emotional taking = bad

Don’t leap into the closed third (whoopsie!)

Examples of stories we checked out:

Rock Springs – Richard Ford

Bullet in the Brain – Tobias Wolff

The Things They Carried – Tim O’brien

A Good Man Is Hard to Find – Flannery O’Connor

The Beauty Treatment – Stacey Richter

The Four-Night Fight – Ann Beattie

You’re welcome, everybody.

Oh, what did he think of the piece that I brought in and read? He thought it was in direct opposition to everything he was teaching us! Huzzah! He gave me the impression that he appreciated it though. It might’ve been wrong, it might not have dragged him in emotionally and grounded him but it was at least done well. So, there’s that. And, oh, I got a signed copy of Which Brings Me to You. Did I walk away with a new best friend (like I kind of expected)? No, I did not. I walked away sweaty and awkward but inspired.

Notes on Revelation

Metaphors for life inspired. Drug-induced scribbling on a napkin trying to prove that there is truth in what we all find so meaningless. Just trying to make it all make sense in a hallucinogenic conversation with you. And this life goes by so fast…you’re only as high as you stop to realize. And we only hear and watch what we want to. Over-lapping storylines reminding of what it’s like to please both halves. Awkward moments aren’t so awkward for me anymore because there’s more importance in a minute tonight. And now we talk about everyone like they are dying and I guess we all are because life goes by too fast. Remember that you’re only as high as you stop to realize. And maybe funerals should be a lot different because the good ones are like nights like these. When we all talk about each other like we’re dead. In a hallucinogenic conversation with you.

We’re all just killing time, right? Until we find something better, until we die. And maybe that’s what heaven is. It’s when you finally find what’s better. Paradise right? Finally satisfied. Peacefully sleeping nights. Shooting the shit is a great talent when you’re just killing time. We’ll never get what we want.

And I guess we all kind of feel empty inside and try and make-up for it with consumption. Food, exercise, the devil and drink.

The journey from no to yes is life. Someone’s always trying to tell me something and that’s how I live. But I keep it all shut within my lips because I have to. No one likes a pompous ass, a preacher man. There’s a lot to learn but I’m not the teacher. Let them all live on their own and they’ll teach you what you do not seek to be taught. See how that other side lives without trying to change them because they will change you. And who knows because I feel like I’m already dead. The signs point to yes. Everything I get out of anything seems to say that it’s all not real. Backgrounds and landscapes that look realer in movies are now trying to prove me wrong. Death comes when you finally say yes. When you learn the secret. Heaven is hopefully pretty sweet.

But who’s to say what is life and what is death? It all just feels like different states of being, of consciousness. And I know that I feel more alive, more awake, when stuck in a dream. An alcohol induced dream, a drug-induced dream. Maybe day-to-day is death. My day-to-day is now a test and I’m a failure at day-to-day.

Maybe I’ll just stay at home and write, and create and be inspired by what I see, what I feel. But what filter will I be able to filter all the bullshit out from? All the conventions that are real life? To be inspired you need to look at shit differently and see what you see, not what everyone else sees. And how do we put into words without the tongue of chemicals? It’s only words but words are all I have to take your breath away.

Getting drunk on the blood of Christ on every Irish Saturday night in every small town. Making Sunday synonymous with a hangover and a forgiveness of all the week’s sins and we pray for it at the end of the day instead of just being good people in the first place. So, I don’t know if I’ll ever find God. But I try. And it might not be yours that I seek; I just want to find out what this all means. This life. This death. And try to make something beautiful out of relaying what I find back to you and you and you. A mindfuck that goes on and doesn’t end until you cum and you cum and you cum again. And I usually need the tongue of a chemical because I may never know what it means to be truly clean. But I try. And try to make sure that I am remembered as something more than me. A love affair with a word, a question, a sound. To breathe, to me, is to try.

Reality. The supposed real is nuts. I’m finally questioning shit. It all just seems here for me. Pawns to use to get shit out of. It’s all for me to gain from. I don’t know what the point is. Is it for me to get fame? I don’t know. Then what? Do I just die? Kill myself like I kill the minutes. Killing time.

Its only here if we assign it physicality. It all plays out too much like a movie. Bookend endings and voice-over beginnings making it all so confusingly clear. The line gets blurred and blurred as the effervescent time, the bastard of time, the lying bitch of time passes us, passes us by. Tighten your grip. Don’t let it slip, you fuck. Take advantage of regret. Take advantage of apology. Learn what it’s like to be real.

Getting inspired by everyday. And burning to make something beautiful for instant gratification and then an unseen mindfuck that doesn’t end in cum after cum in the physical world. It’s only when we assign it physicality that it exists. We only know the linear and it’s actually all circular.

Evolution that is so unfinished. A revolution that may or may not have come. People that remind me of other people that may or may not exist.

Why is it all happening now and when did it start? The minute I took control of my life maybe. When I stood up for a dream, in a dream. It’s all flowing in a sensical manner. The meta-physical and the physical. My place, my mental state, the face of a generation. I need to cut out my vices, to bring some purity to my happiness. Be childlike again. Natural in nature.

Memento mori. A reminder we are mortal. But immortality lies in fiction. A book. A movie. A TV show and everyone’s the writer. I know how they are all going to react because I remember it happening even if it hasn’t happened yet. Stored in my bank. I’ll hammer all this shit out then and then I’ll probably end up dead. Because I saw the car start floating up. Yea but you were high. Does that mean, that’s only when I’m alive. What will you do with all this? All you’ve gotten, all you’ve experienced. I’ll make something of it; I’ll make you proud. Life is clichés, and goodbyes written on walls. We go from point A to point C in dreams without knowing. The beauty of dreams. How we remember it. It’s all circular coming back and yet coming all at once. Rush to the head. Signs point to my deathbed. And this is all happening in a story. The last second of my brain, the infected wound. Crawl back in your dead mother’s womb. It all makes sense with reflection. A second closer to learning. Revelation. All jumbled up but in succession, succeeding as opposed to failing. All phrases thought about, images contemplated, they all pile together to make sense. Making sense out of the non-sensical. Trying to question the unanswerable. Take the random and make it have meaning. Should’ve videotaped my whole life like the theory I have about web cams. The opposite is true. Non-fiction means real. And we are all fiction. A delicate fiction. They are all channeling through me now, like that segment of waking life. I am awakened. I am alive and maybe that’s what makes five years real. Who’s trying to tell me something? The opposite is true. Maybe I’m Dave and I just don’t know it because I’m on drugs. If you could tape my head. See my thoughts. It would be the butterflies in your stomach, the shortness of breathe. Learned from TV. Creation in the mind. Ramblings. Start a movement. Be something. Be something better only because you know there is. And that’s what you’ll compare everything to. It’s not like I remembered it being like. Rewind when stuck in forwards. Walk backwards and learn from what hasn’t happened yet. That’s growth. Memory getting worse but perception getting better. A to z…. proving I’m stuck in a dream. The last supper. A dead man’s last rights. That one last second of dreaming. The end of my novel makes sense now. Shortness of breath. Chills. That moment where your mind is blown.

They’re all just actors in this play. Write one for me? Feeding me with the shit that I need. Catalyst. First ones on the list. A glance through the veil but you can’t remember details cause you’re on a drug. Point a-to z. the rule of three. And it’s almost expired because of sleep. “ I can’t sleep because my brain keeps talking to me.” the people that give me it because they are channel inserts. The straight line of life. In boldface type. The cycle. Crawl back in but later on. Need sleep. Need to come down. I can’t wait to get you in my head. Because it’s a trip. You wouldn’t believe it or care to understand it. Listen with your eyes. Sleep. (Curtain closed) method acting is happiness. All the elements just build up. You’re learning aren’t you? Fiction. Fiction fiction. Create create create. Filter it all out. See it how you see it. It shall be your demise, your suicide. Making sense out of the non-sensical. Ramblings of a rambling man. I’m getting closer but not close enough with these subliminal messages. The same ones this life is filled with. That brought us here. Mathematics is logical. Fucked up because it has a rational explanation. I’m not ready to say yes. The lure of sex sweeps down. Taking you to the dark side. Losing innocence. Growing guiltier. Sentenced to death. Last man’s rights. A last seconds dream. And starting over. That means I’m going to die young. And I’ll accept it. Because this is the time of my life. And I’ll do it all over if I could and live the same motherfucking way. The curse of 27. We’ll have to see. I got 6 more years of illusion. I’m delusional but impressed. I’ll use you. I don’t want to know that much anyway. Get to know you before 27 years of age. I’m out looking for love. And ready. Using your love and ready. Just ready. So, let it. You’ll read from this. Between the lines. My style but maybe not anymore. Want to jam it all in but have to kill my pearls. Maybe I’m dead. Maybe I’m dead. Maybe I’m dead. Is that so unbelievable? Morphine drip taking it all away. Add a little more. Morphine dream. Leave and find closure from it. Every glance at immortality. At legend. Iconoclastic. Flaccid to orgasmic in 60 seconds flat. One minute in memoriam of the previous. In lieu of flowers make a donation. Stay high until you sleep it all off. Logical is illogical. Rational is fucked up. Make no sense. Be artsy. Someone will get it. Sick of being apathetic. The notebook is fetish object. You better sit down for this. Revolution. Revelation. It all makes sense. Be in my head. Parasitic. Bite down and suck hard. There’s a first time for everything and still time. But the memory makes it real. Words are sounds. Five senses recognizable. It gets harder because we get more information as we go along. As we get older, the more emphasis on capturing it all down on paper, on film or on tape. So, do it. Ok computer? Do it for me. I’m lazy. Product of my generation. The flashbacks are predictable. Maybe I’ve already heard that before just not yet.

The seconds go by in memoriam of the ones previous to it. In lieu of flowers, send regret. Proving that we were actually born one second after than they tell us. Because we’re only alive in memory. Living in the recapitulation. “So, let’s recap” I’ll write because it’s all predestined. Predestined in memory. But only because it’s happened before. Deja vu. A douche bag at home with his thoughts. Why am I doing this? So I can remember it and put it in my movie. So I can put it in my book. Proving that it’s all happened before and I’m fiction. Because the opposites are true. Non-fiction is the real. We only feel this way because we remember it like people that don’t get high their first time. Yea but we faked it acting like we’ve seen them act in movies or on TV. Proving that we are all fiction. I am the book. I am the movie.

Everything depends on our senses. What we see, hear, touch, taste. Proving that your mind is more powerful than the supposed real. Everything depends upon a red wheelbarrow.

I still believe in something and it’s this. This right here is my religion. Words on a page. Breathing life from a stage. Creating and debating what has to be said or not said. Who’s to say what’s right? Someone still believes in suffering for what they believe in. One nail through two feet and blood dripping from wrists. Dying for the good of others. Proving that it had meaning. So, who’s this to you? An iconoclastic rocker who believed in suffering to give his words meaning but instead of nails it was a gun to the head. Who is your martyr? Your father? The only true motherfucker, get it? Cause death truly comes at the birth of a child. You have to give up life for another. Who’s your Christ figure cause Christ was a volunteer.

It’s all just an illusion so fuck it, suffer from delusions of grandeur if she makes you feel like a God for one night and one night only because you should live fast and love even faster. Die in your prime. We don’t have that much time on this earth anyway, so don’t waste it. Live, love, get wasted. Isn’t that just brilliant. Fuck you, it’s genius. A fetus with a cell phone in hand because girls like that are born with boyfriends who keep them on a tight leash. Probably from messes like me. You become what you read and what you see. You are what you drink and what you eat. So, I say abuse your body and the truths of it may set you free. Abuse your body then use me for my body though I’m less brawn and more brain. The infected wound. The last days of a lifetime spent trying to crawl back into a dead mother’s womb. Ain’t that the cycle of life?  And maybe this is all just coming from the fact that I get paid minimum wage to contemplate mortality on every Tuesday, Thursday and weekend day. I see the cold and the alone. The too old to live on their own. And it gets to the black pile of shit excuse for a beating in my chest that I try and put into a heart shaped box packed with ice to keep it as alive as humanly possible. And that’s why I abuse my body. And that’s why you should use me for my body. I live for the sped up palpitations in the chest. The tiny revelations packaged in a shortness of breathe. What being high means to me. Abuse your body and die in your prime. It’s all just an illusion anyway. All in your head.

The burden of being a wingless biped of thought under one God. And it’s good I guess because it means that I’m not done yet. Not even close I think. 22 and I got so much more left in me to talk about on a page since I only rant with a cigarette in hand or a mindful of chemicals. With the tongue of a chemical. The rest stays with me and sometimes I wish it didn’t. I want someone to talk with. The whole thing about having an other.

I’m searching for something bigger than myself. Because I know there’s something out there that’s better and that’s waiting for my cells to stumble upon.  There’s something better out there waiting for me to stumble upon. I’m constantly searching because I’m constantly empty. The emptiness of your memory of me.  I need something bigger than this mortality. A desperate vitality.

We can only see ourselves with our eyes two dimensionally…so we never truly know what other people see. But we know ourselves in all three-dimensions, inside and out. Others can see us three-dimensionally so they truly know how we look with their eyes, but they will only know us in two-dimensions, what they see and what they hear and that’s it. Because no one can ever really truly know anyone.

Peeking through the veil of time more than a deja vu could do. Predicting future events in tiny increments. Not like a prophecy or anything. Nostradomus property. The more we live, the more to remember. It starts getting hard especially when all I do is pollute the o-zone layer that is our cerebellums. Recollections just come and go as they please. Making it harder to tell what was real. When you forget things even existed and then bam! They slap you in the face like the memory of a dream. The details basically non-existent. Liberties of time taken. Freedom.

Rant to anyone who’ll listen about existentialism. We’ll all forever be alone. Because no one will understand or truly know anyone.

No one will ever find a love that’s pure. It’s always tainted because we’ve all been waiting. There’s no purity of moment. Because we’re all looking for something with a point. And it shouldn’t be this hard to find.

You fail so many times that the only thing left to do is to succeed. “How’d you do that so fast?” “Because I saw it in slow motion.” the faster things go, the more time you have to think about it. Like pixels and cells. The faster the pixels go, the more real it looks. The more you understand, the less real it becomes. The best answers can only be after the more questions. The physical manifestations of thoughts; a constant battle with rights and wrongs. Making something out of nothing. Maybe you become the chosen one because you’re the one taking the steps. You already know the choices you made it’s just how to understand them. You know you can beat the game; it’s just how you choose to understand how to do it. You have to try over and over again, to get the right way and then it’s easy. It happens a lot faster than it really does. And the older we get, the shorter it takes to understand. Slow motion to Darci was fast motion to me. She’s older, she’s closer. But I’m the chosen. Drugs slowing down time. It’s all in my mind but the only way to represent it is in the physical on screen. The more frames per second, the slower it gets meaning it’s all about time. And if you can essentially speed up time to make things go slower which in turns makes them possible then by all means. The only things recognizable are the green and the black. The more details, the smaller it becomes. We’re still only catching a glimpse. The point of sequels. It has to continue and things need to be borrowed in order to slow down time enough to make the chosen one get it. This moment makes 22 years of moments. It’s all just sped up. I am the chosen one; it’s just all in my mind. Not in physical representation. Although, if I look I can find it. Seems like a better idea to fight the war at hand. Goddamn. It goes on and on and on until you eventually realize that you are God and that everything just had to be manifestations, so you’d understand them. But where’s the award in godliness? You just end up alone. Go to a gelatinous form as evolution. Taking it from physical to mental. Body to brain. But where to go from there…it’d all be too fast to have any physical being. Nothingness is godliness. Discovered it.

I am the devil. I am the devil. Weird thing to think about, right? But good vs. evil. You can’t have one without the other. Maybe simplicity is godliness. And we think that simplicity is ignorance. That’s how I was brought up. But simpler and faster times seem to be less dimensional therefore reflexive or thoughtful. But thought seems to bring pain and forces to alone ness and depression. Which we look down upon but even us look down on simplicity as stupidity. But it may be the evil telling us that we are the chosen ones and we think it’s to do good. What’s right? Making words be better because of their many different interpretations. Instead of cutting to the chase. I am the devil. Simple but raises infinite amounts of questions. But I am the devil. Good vs. evil. You need one to have the other. And both seem to be a lone gunman.

A cult killing themselves slowly with only a slight recognition. Asking for the answers to questions we didn’t even know we needed to ask. I love you when you arrive; I love you when you leave. Beyond words at this point. Beyond laughing so hard that you’re crying. Beyond crying so hard that you’re laughing. No longer male. No longer female. Looking for God. Looking for something better. Starting a revolution of jackets. But going back in time. Like a bunch of hippies. A cult. Seemed like a group suicide at points. A commune. Take without asking. Feeling like people are looking to me for answers. The messiah. But I am the devil. Figured it out earlier. I take something pure and godlike; love, and pass the point and turn it into hurt and evil; hate. I love you so much that it hurts. God strikes me down because I’ve been too greedy. Hence why my life has been hell. I am the devil. At least I am the king of my own bullshit. I’ve been banished. My life becomes an apology to someone I haven’t even met yet. Isn’t that fucked up? Live like that. That’s how I try to live. My life has become one big I’m sorry. But I don’t mean it yet. Someday I will mean it. And now I don’t know if I’m spilling or bleeding or shitting or pissing. I don’t know what I’m chewing but I do know that we’ve started a revolution. So sign up or get the fuck out of the way. I’ll buy you all jackets.

There is no life. There is no hell. There are only words that never truly tell of who we are. Because they are only words but they are all we have to take each other’s breaths away. Language is all we have to communicate; yet we don’t have a full grasp. Every Brechtian moment. Every breath; an entombment of thought. A couple of bottles capped with talking heads

Like pirates, punks and savages. A common goal of just running around and doing whatever pleases. Living in our own filth. Take without asking. Pillaging and raping at will. Constant booze on breath and drugs in head. Like hippies, cavemen, and celebrities. We’re just trying to cut it down to a simple life where we do what we want. Live and love. Self-involved. The only real curse is having to live forever unsatisfied. Drink has no taste; women have no scent, heart with no blood. When nothing gets you off anymore, where do you turn? You resort to savagery, try anything. Savages, pirates, punks, hippies, cavemen and celebrities. We’ve run out of options. We’re just trying to live and love.

Burned alive on a burning cross. Original sin. Born perverse and guilty. Too much desire leads to need of repression. Life is always a compromise. Preceded by shadow as we’re dressed in white. Illogical is more metaphorical. Logical is cause and effect. I am a metaphor walking. Fear in recognition. Mirror freaks out. Mannequins to machines. My sanity is questionable at best. Make up your own narrative and apply the voice over to let you sleep at night thinking that you’ve been a good person. Take the stock footage in your mind and apply it to the image system that has become the loss of memory. The loss of life. Recollection for sanity’s sake. The purpose of sanity.

Reality is just the common experience. In it’s superficiality.

The cum gives it meaning. Gives it catharsis. The more you learn about it, the more important it seems. Why the unlearned don’t get it. The shiver of revelation. Dream slipping into the frame of reality.

Life should be random. Capricious. Whim.

Recall thought to think. Dreams are the manifestations of the images and languages of our unconscious: dreamt last night about God:

I’m on a beach. It’s cyan, film-scratched and silent. I feel it in the air. I feel it in the wind off of the water.  I feel it in the waves crashing feet in front of me. I feel it in little lips of water hitting my bare feet.  I close my eyes.  I outstretch my arms and tilt my head back.  I let it all encompass me.  Every thought escapes my body.  I know what I’m feeling is divine.  It feels like orgasm.  It feels like the warmth of liquor mixed with the chills of drug revelation.  It feels like the answer to a lifetime of internal questions.  I have found the formula.  I have found the path to something that can only be expressed in three letters: God.

I open my eyes and still feel it.  I stretch my limbs.  I wiggle my fingers and my toes. The feeling stays with me.  I turn to my friends. My band and the other bands from tour are with me.  I mold my ecstasy smile into the shape of words to tell everyone that God is everywhere.  I begin doing my best to trace my steps towards awakening.  I want them all to get it.  I want them to feel what I feel.  As my mouth opens, a turd floats up and almost hits one of my friend’s feet.  He’s sitting in a lawn-chair at the scar of where ocean meets land.  He jumps up and everyone freaks out and crowds around him.  Typical. Shit always seems to get in the way.  I lose my train of thought.  Enlightenment escapes me. Some guy in a wetsuit rides by on a whale.  He has saved it from a guy who had had a giant fishing pole…

Alone. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing to judge all others against. Humans are imperfection. So there must be an opposite. A perfect being. God. We are all gods with flaws. We have something to judge ourselves against.  What we caught, we threw away. What we could never catch, we kept.

He sees us looking for every answer at the bottom of every bottle and he sees that we find none. So, why bother looking if no one’s finding it anyway. What other methods can be explored? Similar trend of creation.

What’s more important? Thought it was thought. But such a need for emotion. Need the happy medium yet again. That’s all life is: strife for a happy medium. Does it exist?

Time doesn’t just happen, you have to make it. It’s only when there’s water in your ear that you can feel the faint pumping of blood from your chest. What we do while waiting to die. The crutches we cling to, to fill the void of life. I don’t want the pain to go away because it’s proof that you still exist. The only.

24 frames per second isn’t enough without the constant flickering of white light. A blackout life becomes a series of photographs

I am a hippie living in heavy metal.

I am a themeist. Think about it. Always looking for a word or a turn of phrase that sums things up or is what everything means. We need meaning or “I love you” wouldn’t be anything.

Getting off on subtext while making love to life’s every paradox. Arrows pointing to enlightenment through death. Your mind becomes her soul. Life gets in the way of love. Life: a compromise. Love: a sacrifice. Life is only partly living when love is a delicate eternity.

When you can taste your friends, your bests, moments that leave at least 16 matching minutiae point fingerprints only on your tongue as it all floods back to you debilitating you like heaven. Heaven is all around you. Taste it. Be it.

Life becomes one big apology to someone we haven’t even met yet, someone who probably doesn’t even exist yet.

Children are brilliant dreamers and creators. Their mind is a flood of surrealism and cubist beliefs. Their green eyes are the only eyes that can see the poetry in the simplicity of a moment. The virginity of a minute. They don’t know gay from straight, they only know how to love. Capricious moments go down in the history of their minds as when there was beauty in breath and in life. No need for force, when everything just eased itself into frames and onto shelves and instead of beating one dead horse with another I’ll keep the rest to myself. Borderline spiritual when listened to, they are philosophers that break it all down into simple syntax. But we don’t believe in simplicity. Society and culture yada yada complicate everything. The logical doesn’t seem believable vice versa. We live to find some of that purity and that peace throughout our lives. Just getting closer and closer when we just need to go backwards and capture it all again. Maybe why we revert back to a baby like state when ready to die. Who knows? Makes sense, doesn’t it?

I think in brain and not in brawn. I believe in the metaphysical more than the physical I guess. Think it’s all in the mind. But my eyes shine hot reflections, my tongue falls out as hearts skip beats to breasts and legs. I truly look for spiritual evolution, all ventricular.

All words. Advent of communication. How do you express what you cannot explain? Like love or God or hate. We get mental images or motion pictures of what these are. We need physical manifestations. We need collaborating stories. But it’s just a word so we can communicate. Same thing with God. God is a word that describes that which we cannot understand. I believe in God, a word meaning what I want it to mean because I can. Because it’s something we can’t explain. I believe in spirituality and beauty and coincidence. I believe in reasons, and the inexplicable, growth through moments, existence something something. This may not be your god, your word. Your image system is probably different but it doesn’t mean that we’re too different as people. We both believe. We both share ideas. And it’s beautiful.

Tell me what I’m here to do. Though I think I know. Should I sort through all the subtext? It’s getting easier for me these drug filled days. I’ll see it all in a moment. In a free beer in hand, free sandwich before me, talking intelligent paragraphs in front of a window looking out on great grand rapids weather and I’ll believe in heaven. It’s all around me in moments. In the poetry of the simplicity and virginity of a minute. However long we have to get somewhere dictates how fast we get there. Think about it. I know I will. I needed this again. Thank you again to those that surround me with thoughts that can be my own. And those that are catalysts feeding me with what I need to parasitically climb my way to something peaceful and serene; the host as a biblical reference just as much as it is a scientific one. Stories that collaborate proving to a one truth though no one seems to believe there is one. One simple truth getting convoluted. A love. A thought. A hope. A belief. Is it so wrong to believe in some kind of perfection? A word that is narcissistic in nature.

Such a product of my generation of decadence and jealousy. And the need for stories. it’s all just politics anyway. All for promotion, all for money. Image of progression. Told first as the “pursuit of happiness, in god we trust”, subliminally telling what it’s all about. We lost it somehow. Have taken it all to the extreme. And the extreme is always a sell out. A shitty imitation of the real thing. Just dig and you’ll keep finding. The art. It’s art. It’s all art. Keep digging, keep finding.

Life gets in the way of death because death is heaven. Things have been working out but not completely working out. Getting us to a utopia by coincidence and shit falling a part. Still not ready for what’s coming. Because I’m not ready to die. Not ready for heaven. One day I’ll be ready, one day closer to death. But death is a beautiful eternity right? I don’t know.

Lay with each other and just figure out how to breath again with hearts beating a unifying beat. To cum is truly a little death. Imagine little death after little death. True conclusion. I hope my end is that satisfying. To cum is always better when to love is not far behind. I hope my death is, in that way, related that much to love.

Everything is finite. Even memory. Sad to never be able to feel it again.

Dreaming when awake, dreaming when asleep. A constant wait and a constant struggle to be better for a moment. For a perfectly eastern moment. A Bruce Lee perfection. Finding heaven again and again in pizza places and in bars.

Figured it all out while watching dragonflies fuck on the boat on the lake. Where to cum, to them is to make a heart and then fly away. We all float. That’s when I found heaven or found life. Not too sure. I think they’re one in the same. Like thirst and hangover have become words synonymous with one another. Life isn’t a constant question; it’s a constant answer. Trapped in between “fuck you” and “help Me.” everything is trying to prove that you’re in heaven. Life is heaven. Life is more than 24 frames per second art. The five senses are art, are evolution; technological evolution. Everything starts a classic and all classics are reproduced but reproduced to infinity if need be so that we realize that this is all beautiful. It’s all a dot, a cell, a pixel, a color, a sound. Art of a moment, come together on the radio, stoned looking at a sunset on water through framed glasses thinking this exact thing that I’m laying my eyes on is a classic painting that I’ve seen. This song has been done before. A classic. Everything is a story. Why did I wear sunglasses? Buy them? Who invented them? Why would aerosmith cover come together? Why would this d.j play it at this moment? Why would Rotti stop on it? For this very moment. Fate as it were. Just to show me that there is no life, no death, no heaven, no hell. Just beauty and art. And now instead of thinking it’s cause I’m the messiah, I realize that we all depend on each other. It’s a give and a take so that we all can get it. Beauty in evil. Beauty in good. You’ll know what I’m talking about. Figured it out, you will too.

Let the world change you and you will change the world. I’ve had to delay my life in order to have the opportunity to do the great things that I’m destined for.

Change is not only eminent but now is essential because it means growth and evolution. I don’t want to let anyone let me rot. I want to be forgiving. I don’t want to let anyone let my rot. I just want to be forgiven.

Live a lifetime in a year that once belonged to the dogs. Cells rejuvenate. Looking to see where all of the pieces fit. The pieces of this world I’ve accumulated, in order to make the puzzle that will alter lives. Hopefully for the better.

When I consider the short duration of my life, swallowed up in the eternity before and after, the little space which I fill, and can see, engulfed in the infinite immensity of space of which I am ignorant, and which knows me not, I am frightened and am astonished being here rather than there, why now rather than then.

Life becomes habit and diversion. Everything that is trapping. In order to make us forget that god is dead or that there is nothingness that waits for us. There is only one type of people; those waiting to die.

Come and scoop me up, god.  Reason has leaded me to a place where faith needs to take over and run with it. Run with me. Definition of a drug I guess.

Time just keeps on doing its thing. It’s tick ticking. Seconds, minutes and months are wasting away without my thought to catch up with it. It’s been four months, it’s been four years and anniversaries are escaping me. I guess I’m still getting used to this new skin. Haven’t had time to do much thinking in it. Maybe that is what’s meant by habit and diversion and it’s sad. I never wanted it for me. I’m onto bigger and better things and thought will creep back as routine and comfort return. I’ll figure it out. Just bear with me.

Constantly a few steps behind a fluorescent, flickering halo that has burnt out many times before and will probably continue to do so until he is finally really ready to get it right.

More obsessed with how I can make life SEEM as opposed to how it really is. Maybe that has been my own version of killing myself all this time. Maybe that is everyone’s slow but sure suicide. Living for some story or some version of a story that maybe never happened. That’s what life is. Some version of some story that may have never even existed. I have until I’m 25. Need to buckle down. Only a year and some change left. I need to be extraordinary in some way or another. Read these words not out of nostalgia but out of affirmation or re-affirmation of truths. These are my psalms. The bible of an alcoholic who thinks he’s a savior. Here I sit with yet again too much hidden behind too much lip. What’s behind the lizard skin of my eyes? I hope someday you’ll get it though I fear no one ever will. Need to slip it all in subtly. Hide it behind a story. A story of how death dictates life and vice versa. Collision of coincidence.

Opportunity has brought me to nobility. Could do’s have turned into have to’s. Coincidence after coincidence all preparing me for this. And I feel ready and excited to raise the most beautiful of all human beings. Finally someone to talk to that will listen with eyes not yet judging. I’m going to make one damn good father. Hope the mother and me can make it through without spite or the slightest bit of hate. It starts now. Love starts here and remains eternal. Love starts here. A father starts here and now. I just want to be capable of providing only the best to both of my new loves. Am I up to the challenge?  To breath life into a family. To begin, or continue taking care of someone fully. Two people that aren’t happy with the world decide to make their own. That’s love and family and I’m ready. There’s nothing else for me. I’ve run the gamut. Finished my circle, my cycle. I hope art doesn’t escape me. I hope my genes fit all right and aren’t whiskey stained and bruised so bad that all will see right through me. Trying to find a love that’s pure, found it in my unborn child’s eyes. True martyrdom begins now. Nobility. Selflessness. All the things I’ve been striving for will be brought forth through a womb. Life is whimsical. It’s moments that are chaos in theory. Split decision thinking. Moments are divided: sadness and nostalgia for what’s been lost and happy excitement and anticipation for what’s to come. I’ll make it all make sense. Read it all through the pupils of god’s eyes. “The pupils in her eyes dilate relating this moment to many in her past.”  What does she see in mine? Why does conversation dissipate slowly over time? Big thoughts trapped within the boundaries of small words become small words only. My daughter or son will know big ideas, will live big dreams. I may not be the savior, the messiah, but they might be. My children or my children’s children. Cycle of life. Found me a home life. Now I need to know how to find money.

Strangling starts with two open hands. Another man’s freedom is your suicide (van gogh’s last painting). All art has boundaries. And I’d rather feel like shit sometimes, or God some other times than just feel okay all the time.

Life begins getting used to the previous moment. Remember it all changing as if it had taken place in one day. Can’t prepare for the next moment just learning to live with the last. Getting used to the last.

I can’t wait to tell you stories and feel your unconditional love and have you feel mine.

It’s a little past 4:00a.m on the morning of your birth. I hope God is with you and is with me. I love him though I don’t know if he’s here or not. Dear God, I hope you’re sending Gabrielle back a piece of her mother, a piece of her family.

Notes on a Break Up

First signs of Carly  brilliantly beautiful in a non-blonde and blue-eyed kind of way. Not a classic but definitely my type I find. With the black hair and the gorgeous brown eyes making it that much harder to be alone. She drinks but is never drunk. I’m out of words. My head hurts. I’m tired.

J.R’s birthday   got drunk on red death and car bombs. Chewed an ear off or two about love and loss. Constant in my predictability. Felt friendship strong. Three conversations deep and on and on. Long and pending, hoping for the never-ending comfortable.

Red death and car bombs, a girl in love with a drunk    I’d die inside you. A climax insighted by sweetness. My sweet death. Caressing you. Every hot breath with you. “Wouldn’t it be fun to fall in love with a drunk”. Red death and car bombs. This and thats: long island iced teas and manhattans. The only things I like about the city. Hoping you’re getting as dizzy as me. A kiss. A first kiss when the only spin the bottle I’ve been playing is where the bottle spins to my lips and I drink her all down. Your taste is that sweet and your touch kills the cells it needs to. So, I’ll combine the two things that I love the most; I’ll order you on the rocks with a twist and toast to the beginning of a better life. A better lie but what’s next?  Hoping it’s finally more than just sex. Finally getting over a three-year hangover of apathy. A vacation of break down. I’d die inside you. I’m blinded by you and I hope you’re getting dizzy because I need you to drink me.

Coronas and cape codders (a guy in love with a drunk) wear nothing but your drink because you wear it well and I want that taste in my mouth. The taste of your body. The tastes of cape codder or corona because I know those are your favorites and that’s what would’ve been spilled all over you. I’m all over you. Superglue my lips to yours instead of soldering my own shut. I’m not as upset about being a big mouth. It’s been working out well, though I seem to tell the same stories. Anyway, enough about me and more about you cause I’d give it all up in true martyr form. I want to take this pile of shit excuse of a beating in my chest, put it into a heart-shaped box and pack it with ice to keep it as alive as it is right now. Then I’d send it over to you. 71 Chester st. no return address because I don’t want it back. Just do me a favor. Give me your neck to have and to hold, to bite and to suck. That birthmark brings out the vampire in me. My fangs showing as I swipe your bangs out of your eyes. So, I can look into your closed eyes and think about how unclothed you should be. My bed is so much better with you in it. Pleasure Island.

Reworked  I’ll stare into you eyes closed while you sleep and think about how unclothed you should be. Stains on your shirt from a night of spilling but you wear your drinks and I wish it was nothing but because you’d wear them well and I want that taste in my mouth. The taste of your body. The tastes of cape codders or coronas because I know those are your poisons of choice. I’ll leave my hollowness for you to fill with whatever you like. I want to be re-built. A born-again schoolboy again. I can’t help thinking how much better my bed is with you in it.

Stick out tongue, insert in cheek   it’s all just an illusion so fuck it, suffer from delusions of grandeur if she makes you feel like a God for one night and one night only because you should live fast and love even faster. Die in your prime. We don’t have that much time on this earth anyway, so don’t waste it. Live, love, get wasted. Isn’t that just brilliant. Fuck you, it’s genius. A fetus with a cell phone in hand because girls like that are born with boyfriends who keep them on a tight leash. Probably from messes like me. You become what you read and what you see. You are what you drink and what you eat. So, I say abuse your body and the truths of it may set you free. Abuse your body then use me for my body though I’m less brawn and more brain. The infected wound. The last days of a lifetime spent trying to crawl back into a dead mother’s womb. Ain’t that the cycle of life?  And maybe this is all just coming from the fact that I get paid minimum wage to contemplate mortality on every Tuesday, Thursday and weekend day. I see the cold and the alone. The too old to live on their own. And it gets to the black pile of shit excuse for a beating in my chest that I try and put into a heart shaped box packed with ice to keep it as alive as humanly possible. And that’s why I abuse my body. And that’s why you should use me for my body. I live for the sped up palpitations in the chest. The tiny revelations packaged in a shortness of breathe. What being high means to me. Abuse your body and die in your prime. It’s all just an illusion anyway. All in your head.

Beginnings of bachelorette  I’ll stare into your eyes closed while you sleep and think about how unclothed you should be. Stains on your shirt from a night of spilling filling my head with the thoughts that you should’ve worn nothing but your drinks cause you would wear them so well and I’d love that taste in my mouth. The taste of your body. The taste of coronas and cape codders because I know that those are your poisons of choice.

What love does  constantly disillusioned. The only constant is disappointment. I’m miserable again. les miserable. Ser sui un bonum. I don’t think I can handle this shit. Falling again. It was fun for a while but now all the fears and looks to the past are back. Thought I’d be better about it now because I convinced myself that I was ready. I was ready. I was ready. That I was fine. Trust is the hardest thing for me. Always. Cause I’ve been burned. Freezer burned. My intuitions were usually right and now I have them again. And I hate it. I hate the past. My past, her past, every past.  Fuck, I hate it. Like she should’ve lived every moment knowing that she would be with me. I’m so fucking selfish. I’m such a fucking idiot. The only thing about being a guy. Fuck. I hate men. I hate everything. Depressed again. And the bottles reappear. I love her. I love her. I love. I love her. I love her. I love her. I love her. I love her. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. And I don’t know how she feels. I am vulnerable. Too vulnerable. Letting too much of myself be exposed again and that’s never a good thing for me. I should get out. Isn’t this always the way? Isn’t this the constant struggle? A love affair in your own mind. This is where the games begin. And I’m not a player. Tried to convince myself of apathy. Pathos is back oh! And how it fucking sucks. What happened to not giving a shit? That was a lot of fun for me. I don’t know where her head is at and I’m just a fucking neurotic. Convinced that I should just be alone. Alone. I want to die alone. I am ready. I am ready. I am ready. I am fine.

Purity in drink  I want you to be drunk and want to call me just to say goodnight and if you don’t, it’s not something that I want to fight about. I have just found that that’s when you’re the most pure.

City nightlife?   Every time we go out in this city, it’s only for some sort of eighties’ night where everyone’s nose smells of cocaine as they’re wide-eyed and dancing to a dj who is his own biggest fan. I can only look around and think to myself “what the fuck am I doing here?” I don’t belong here. And I know it’s only music to you if it is brit pop but it’s not always at the top of my list. The only blur that I wanted to see that night was you through blurred vision because I enjoy a drink with friends now and again and again and again and again. But I don’t belong here if only for you. The dark red taste of wine on my lips only for you. One booth for two. Something we never had. A dinner we never got but I had intentions of a normal life for you and me. A normal dating game but even that is all about ratings because it only matters if everyone’s watching. “You’re with the beautiful couple, right?” words spoken to stinky as we danced and lost ourselves in each other as much as we ever could. As much as you would let it. And you care what people think. What people think is normal.

Another relationship done  I kissed it all goodbye after I kissed you goodnight that one last time because I don’t have the strength to fight for what you don’t even know to be great. Now all I have is a memory of you to make love to. When you were with me, you were the shit but without me you’re only shit. And I have to hate you for it. And, believe me, I do. Because you slapped me in the face and gave me freezer burn. You are cold, you are cold, you are cold and you have no fucking feelings. And you have killed me just like all of the rest. And I am done. Done. Done. Done. Done. Done. Thanks for telling me. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck you.

Up the beach   I don’t know what you are thinking until you say it and words never fought passed your closed full lips. You said all of the right things but to the everyone else that never matters. And that’s how I find out. How I found out that you lack class. So sure in your adulthood. Ms. independent but you dealt with this like a child. And I hoped that this would be the one time where hatred would escape me. I debated about it and the verdict is in. I couldn’t be more pissed or more hurt. You bent me over and fucked me. I hope I was wearing lipstick at least. You have a way of stripping me of my dignity. Making me feel like less of a man. I’m done. I’m out. My middle finger isn’t speaking in tongues. It says and means the three words tattooed on my back “…so fuck off” more than you could ever say. Not even some simple syntax. And your story’s probably different. Have fun being alone. Because without me, you’re only you. And that isn’t as great as I thought it was. You made it clear with a slap to my face. Brilliant. And I’ll make it clear by being everywhere you’re not and by being everything that you thought I wasn’t. You were dead wrong. Dead. Dead to me. First I was crazy about you, then I was just crazy and now I need you to be dead to me. If you can’t be an adult about this, then how am I supposed to? “You’re being a kid.” “No, I’m being a drunk” so fuck you.

Falling to shit   logic is cold and heartless. Sterile. Thinking with your head and using your reason. I am illogical. I am a train-wreck. I think in waves of passion and fuck your a to b existence. And now I have to chew my leg off to get out. It’s not going to be pretty. Not pretty like you. But I either die or live the rest of my life wounded. Pass the salt. Pour it in. you think with your head and I think with my heart so, on paper we never should’ve even started. But it felt so right when we were together. The kind of fit that a drug spins your life into. And I was high on your pheromones. Smoked them, drank them, shot them up, snorted them down. A quick fix to a non-existent problem. Pure bliss when we first kissed. How drunk do you have to be to actually fall in love with someone? With someone like me. Love is not a top priority on your list and it’s basically the only one on mine. To find what it truly means. Why is it so hard to wake up? It’s just opening your eyes. So open your eyes to me and my way of life. I’m neck deep into you. And the only thing that I’ve given you is a cold. I can’t provide the normal for you. I can’t be your norm, your status quo. That’s what should be exciting though. Shouldn’t it? You did that shit, over and over and all it got you was to me. That says something but you never look for meaning. Your rationale is based on numbers and stats. Figures and facts. I hope you find what you’re looking for if that’s possible. Because apparently I will never be good enough for you. Though I’ll continue to try for the rest of my god damned life. But someone else will end up reaping all the benefits. I wish that someone were you. Fuck! You should give yourself that chance. I’ve given you the greatest gift though you don’t even realize it. I’ve made you immortal. Lost you in a song, in a movie, in a fiction that is forever. It’s the only forever that you or I will ever know. Because this shit is fleeting and this shit is fading as it always has and probably always will. You are the closest I’ve come though. Maybe the closest that I’ll ever come. You are the only one. So take me with you. I’ll die alone because it’s not with you. And I’m not that sad about it. It might be where I belong. Alone. My life wasn’t meant for structure. It was meant for living. I should’ve known when it takes at least 3 glasses of wine deep to find myself deep inside of you. When you were concerned with everyone else’s sex life instead of the lack of yours. When I need to be touching you in order to fall asleep but you can’t sleep while I’m touching you. Light rub of the back or of the arms or of your neck. Giving you no warm feeling. Cold. Sterile. Surgical gloves for hands. You took away all of my powers. You confuse the shit out of me. I don’t do the things I want to. Take you and make you. A memory of you to make love to. Passion. Eat of the passion fruit. And call me. Because I would give you the best fucking of your life over and over again, if it were what you finally ever wanted. First moves aren’t my strong suit when it comes to you. Because you are dead. And I wish you were dead to me now. Because I don’t want to hurt. A memory of you to make love to.

U.s first   I wish I could open up your chest plate, find your fuses and hotwire you. Can a robot be stolen? Cause I’d steal you.

Twenty-two teen angst  life becomes teen angst transferred. We live like little bitches when teenagers. We get hurt; we focus on the hurt in the most immature of ways. Then we build up a wall, turn to stone because we feel like we know pain and have to shut down. And the only pain usually is unrequited love or first-love breakup bullshit. So we run around at eighteen and party our nuts off. Saying fuck you to pathos. Then life as we know it ends and all’s we can do is remember. And that only churns more pain. More reason to be stone. More reasons to turn hearts black.  We keep running around and partying, saying…so fuck off to the thoughts of new loves. Then bam! Something real happens. The first real reason to feel pain. Adult hurt. A loved one lost. Dependencies on immaturities strengthen. Booze, drugs, sex without love. More lies, more walls built up. But we grow older and realize that that’s not really living. That that is in fact avoiding life. You only can feel something when you know it’s there. Pain let’s you know it’s there. Throb. Love the throbbing. Masochistic, right? Then you let your guard down at twenty-two and feel happiness strong, for maybe the first time ever. Everything fits in working order. Then summer lands and ruins you. Reminds you of the mess that your life has become. And now here you are again. All cooped up with a bottle supposedly numbing your pain. Ask the ice.

Drunk; noun   a drunken mess of a drunken message. Thinking of being drunk and massaging your back in your bed. Where we used to have sex. At the foot. A drunken message telling of how I’m not fit to drive but left while I was driving. And they all just prove that you were right. I’m basically just validating your decision with my incompetence in facing my problems.

Drunk; adjective   I’m already a 6 piece deep and it’s not yet 3:30 in the afternoon but it’s not unusual for me these lonely days. I’m bitter and alone. I’ll admit it to you and no one else.

Chicks for crutches  you are the blonde for the moment, and I like brunettes. I only drink when I’m smoking and I am a smoker. Your eyes and your dark hair, what is apparently genetically inclined to be my type, leave me in need of damage control. Because I’m back to my messy ways again. I forgot how much fun it was though. I’m a dirt pile with legs and arms. You are the blonde of the moment but I’m into one brunette. And I am a mess again. Importance of friends and a place again. Home. Fuck everything. No one knows…no one gets it but me. My relationships are grounded in history. I wish I could say that your touch didn’t mean that much. But again I’m born a liar. Born-again.

Alcoholism   if anyone actually needs me, I’ll be out in one of my favorite spots meditating and by that I mean that I’ll be on the porch of a new home self-medicating with cans of the faintest pale ale because light beer has been all I can afford this year. It’s the only thing that brings me peace and brings me closer to god, puts the voices in my head to sleep and oh yea, I almost forgot “hi, I’m chuck and I’m an alcoholic”. Spent a lifetime in denial of what is right and what is wrong. But I’m ready to tell it like it is, as I have always had a way of doing. I might be drinking for all the wrong reasons. “My baby done left me” type bullshit but it’s the only thing that feels right because my baby done left me.

We’re all whores   run far away from the whore that we all know you are today, were yesterday and will be tomorrow. And I’ll follow suit because I’ve stopped being true to my morals. Piss poor performance as far as ethics are concerned. My tactics only putting me on a faster track to hell. A bastard child that fell from his high horse of standards. Sucking face, saying fuck it to fate because the one didn’t turn out to be the one. It was the closest I’ve come but still not close enough. So, fine fuck it…. you can be the blonde for the moment. It’s now what I live for. Whatever face that pleases me. It’s what I live for, the taste after the tease.

Need to leave  the only thing I can do now is clean the shit off of the fan because it hit and hit big time. Broke the blades. Sent my world up in flames. And I know this way of life would come back and bite me on the ass. I just didn’t think it would bite so hard or so fast. You have to give up love in order to do what you love. What a fucking paradox right? When you have to live like at any moment you’d have to give it all up and drop everything in order to grow wheels and windows again and be off. The only lover being highway lines and audience minds because this very much is a mindfuck that will never end until a you a you and a you cum again. But maybe my concerns of pleasure should’ve stayed with just a one her. But this is what gives me peace, lets me sleep with a smile on the face. My passion, my fashion. The only thing we can make love to is sleepless drives and load in times where we’re always late. And of course there’s always the chance of getting laid. But I’m not much of the casual guy. I only have one thing on my mind. You. A ten year crush, a chance I could’ve took, but I fucked up and didn’t take the serious serious. Now I just want to fall in love in every state. Actually, fuck it, every city. So as to ensure that, when the inevitability of years of the road comes, I’d never be as lonely as I am now.

Resume   it would be in your best interest to fall in love with me. I can’t believe that you think that I’m not good enough. And for a minute there (okay a couple minutes) I believed that you were right. What the fuck was I thinking? I am the shit. It would be in your best interest to fall in love with me. I am passion, I am ears in the early hours of the morning, I am witty, I am thoughtful, I am conversation, I am your shoulder, I am laughter, I am lazy Sunday afternoons, I am a drinker, I don’t smoke, I am teaching, I am learning, I am someone to be better for, I am someone who tries to be better, I am a constant search for meaning, I am everything every other him wishes to be, I am kisses for free, I am a touch that doesn’t mean that much to you anyway, I am late night back-rubs, I am any time of day wonder-fucks, I am immortality, I am the best you’ve ever had, I’m the only thing you’ll never know……believe me, it would’ve been in your best interest to fall in love with me. You wanted a business deal and here is my resume. You already know how good of an interview I give.

Still dealing like a mess    if you thought I was a mess when I was with you, you should see me without. I’m about as messy as a train wreck. It’s ridiculous. With one flick of the wrist the shot glass hits my teeth and warmth barrels down my throat. I watch Nicolas cage drink himself to death as I drink myself to death. The liver’s only purpose is to remind you that you’re killing yourself slowly but surely and suicide has never been so much fun and more informative about the world we live in. where the best romance involves a drunk and a whore. When your body just gets so used to something that it just can’t function right without it. I’m not talking chemicals. Unless we’re talking about the chemical dependency of the chemistry between you and me. When you can apologize with just your eyes, fucking the words that just escaped your delicious lips. They all want to rip you from the claws of her heart, as they all want to rip you from the grip of your heart. Only the young know the illusion of poetry in the simplicity of a moment. What was beautiful between you and me becomes the disease of distance.

Still missed   I miss our mornings, you in your towel, I miss our afternoons, you in your little sweats and a faded old t-shirt, and I, most of all, miss our nights when we lose each other in a drink, a movie, a dance, a TV show, a delicate fiction, and most importantly a kiss. Goodnight kisses validate life.

Statutory   the things that I would do to you are illegal in more states than one because you are a year, one fucking year too young. And I’m never that guy that hears the yells of statutory. I’d rather stay stationary. Consenting adults, resenting the faults that leave every open sore for salt to be poured into. You would be a rebound. For me, found shit. Consenting adults, resenting the fall from grace as I look into your cute face the morning after. Never wanted to be that guy. No control.

New record of sobriety   I finally find out why I have been how I have been for the past 4 years. Sluggish, lazy, dead. It’s because I’ve been an alcoholic. Now I’m making an effort again to be on the wagon. 6 days clean and sober now and I have more energy than I have had in a long time. I feel good. I’m over the hump of misery and withdrawals and I know that I’m going to be dry for a while. I just want to be better. Isn’t that funny. We do crazy things for love. How stupid is it to self-improve for someone else. But for me. And I will drink again, I know this. But I just want it to be saved for special occasion or dinners. Bring back the sweet. Cause I’ve known the sour. And then when it’s all sweet, that ain’t right either…it just becomes the norm. My life has been too sweet. I’ve indulged everyday. Everyday was a special occasion. I’m bringing back some control. And it feels fucking great. I’m the exact opposite of me these days and it’s not a bad thing at all. Though I do miss the mess. I am seduced by being reclusive. Reading, writing, creating. Exercise. Sleeping right. I’m going to be better for you and for me and you’ll fall in love. You’ll have to

Thoughts on vanity   life is a compromise, love a sacrifice. Lead me not into temptation and deliver me from evil. Isn’t it so foolish to be as concerned with self-improvement as I am? Just to get her back.

Marlboro lights   you could save my life with your breath. I could’ve saved your life with just one breath. As you inhale, and exhale. I would kill to be the cigarette on your lips. Fuck the filter. I wish I were the chemicals. We had chemistry and it should fuck the filter of the rational mind. The smoke that leaves after you exhale. I can only wish for you to blow me…. out like that. I wish I were your addiction to tobacco. I would kill to be the cigarette on your lips. The smoke that you suck in and blow out. I would kill to be the ashes at the end or the lipstick marks on the front. But nothing is more finite than the smoking of the cigarette. And I am that: that idea that everything ends once you throw me to the ground and give a twist of your foot. A twist of fate brought me to you, but I was just one white stick in your pack of 24. I was just another cigarette that you have smoked and you have a half of a pack left. To set on fire with a thumb flick of your lighter. Nothing is forever and I’m just another name on your list of things not good enough for you. I wish I was your addiction to tobacco because that’s the only thing that you actually have to try to stop but just can’t. The only thing that isn’t cold turkey. Because you have found the switch on your body with my name on it and turned it off. I don’t really know if I ever really turned you on. And oh I would kill to be your relapse. Because that’s the only thing inevitable after cold turkey. I would kill to be the cigarette on your lips. Just to do it one more time. I’d let you breathe me in and blow me out in the two halves of a second that make up one breath.

In shape for you   I want to see you tonight and it’s only because I look the best I’ve looked in years and it’s totally just to spite your eyes and how you live your life. I miss our mornings, I miss our days and I miss our nights. I miss your fucking life and now I look better and feel better than I have in years and it’s only to make you drool. I hope I see the saliva on your lips tonight to spite your empty heart. Razorblade stares. Who cares?

Wishes of love  you want this so bad, the man that I’ve become but your heart is still black from the damage that every someone else has done. But that someone else isn’t me. Your problems with intimacy. So, do your best impression of someone that matters. Get all dressed up. “Oh I’m so flattered…you gussied up just for me?”

Marlboro lights (part two)  little white cylinders filled with your black death. Tiny little funerals in every five-dollar pack. I’d kill to be that cigarette on your lips. Oh I’d kill for you. For you to be addicted to me, like you’re addicted to nicotine. You let smoke fill your lungs and never let me fill your heart. As they expand and contract, it’s the only thing I can do from stopping the start of killing to be the cigarette on your lips. I need you to inhale and exhale. The second that makes up one breath. Inhale and exhale. I need you to breathe for me again. And again and again and again. Suck me in and blow me out. I’d kill for you. For you to be addicted to me like you’re addicted to nicotine.

More thoughts on you  my stomach fills with a butterflied mess as your eyes pull me in again and again. And how I could’ve steered you away from crazy. But “the way you live and the way you love me only mean one thing; nothing.” the only thing we all need to forget is how to remember.

Still Carly-fied   wherever I am is where you should be. And I’m going to die alone because it’s without you. I’ve become just another notch on your list. You’ve made me into what you know best; a statistic written in graphite. Punch me into your calculator instead of punching me in the face with your lack of concern. I need a sign to let me know that you might be thinking of me. I need a sign if only to feed the big ego that is me. I need a sign to let me know that you’re missing me. I need a sign, just do it by fucking kissing me. I don’t like being anywhere if it’s not for you. You said that I wasn’t good enough for you and maybe that’s the truth. I’m not good enough for you but in all the wrongness of ways. I was so better for you than you will ever know in all the right ways. I wish you could understand, and maybe someday you will and realize your mistake. I picture you telling your girlfriends that you feel like you might’ve been wrong. Bla bla bla. I had to go from all over you to just plain over you in 3.3 seconds. I can’t just shutdown like you can. My veins don’t bleed blue.

All the real girls   the movies I see, making me hate the weak. Showing me that what I’m longing for is what makes me the most sick. I need to be deprived. I hate forgive and forget. They keep it in and with silence. The role they play in silence. The soul that we hate revitalized. And we show. We live the mess. They begin living lies. When mistakes are the only way we know we love but the mistakes are always the unforgivable. Discipline. We all need discipline and maybe it’s ego talking. I want them to be the mess. It’s what you learn after the mistake and what role you play. Your disease has already entered my bloodstream and it only feels good before it hurts and it can only hurt after it has felt so good. Chew on that. Learning how to miss you. They live in hurt but don’t let us see it…whereas we live the hurt and hide nothing. We live the mess. We become jokes of ourselves. Fuck them. Fuck them all. If you’re going to smoke, I wish you’d save the cigarette for after sex. Apologizing with words is never enough, but it’s the best that you’ll ever get.

Silent  you can hear me speak but you will never know what any of my words mean. Like white subtitles fighting to contrast against their own draping across a white backdrop. Your eyes, like razor blades, pull me in and slice into my veins. I breathe you in; my lungs swell as your air poisons my lungs.

Romance  the amalgamation of brake lights paints the wet street a blood red hue. Setting the stage for the romance blossoming between me and you.

Reality of finality  I’ll never feel the weight of you next to me in my bed again. I’ll never wake up to the sound of you breathing. The heaviness of your breath. Your weight shifting my fate, next to me in my bed. Wow, I still miss you. How weird. Flowers on the small of your back. Birthmark on your neck. Songs I’ve never heard reminding me of you. Every time she looks at me it’s as if it’s for the first time. Butterflies. Wish I had the strength to fight for you. But I’m sticking to the easy. The subtle ease of my misery slipping in again.