Tue
Nov
1
if i have no one to share my music with i swear to christ i’ll hold my breath and retreat under pumpkin seeds and fake blood having been that boy with exhausted eyes and dyed hair that didn’t give a fuck about their tableware or golf trophies i just loved their daughter madly and swept her away into dazzling conversations in moldy hotel rooms on shoebox boulevard and forced drugs into her heart and fastfood paid with cupholder quarters into her hips and took her vertical up the snowcaps where she forced her tongue into me and the fall fell on scabbed lips and fishnets scaled down miniskirts and post-rock explosions in borrowed cars where red wine with screw off caps swished from mouth to mouth and the fall fell on black cat snap shots and spider bites on median pissing trees and cd tracks numbered 8 and then i saw her in a profile picture in an orange dress wearing a suntan and her hair only one shade of blonde and straight as the model’s on the dye boxes in our pale year of unwashed underwear that she’d wear to work two days in a row without a thought of sleep and fingering herself on lunch breaks for the endorphins while on the phone with me and she said i ruined her and i hope that’s true having been two sheets of paper crumpled up together before being rehabilitated unfolded and pressed between bible passages but they could never smooth the creases that unpleasantly match my own perfectly and perfect pretty men with perfect hair keep their hands between her knees and she keeps circles of friends that link like those stapled construction paper halloween wreathes draped on wall hooks and full of just as much joy as the christmas ones oh where’s all her mascara gone her tattoo ideas her cold coughs and blanket walls her anemic wrists and protruding ribs and who’s she told about her mother-forced abortions and dollar bills with dates and phrases like never forget or you’re my princess and too many times I’ve taken those songs and blasted them for pop ears with snarled lips they just don’t get it I hope she’s newlywed now and four a.m. fevered mirror apathetic and back against the bedroom wall on the floor with a flickering chandelier and tears and I hope she’s electric heater dependent and falling out of well-worn underwear in erotic ways and eating oreos on bed sheets and watching black and white horror flicks for her I’ll carve a jack-o-lantern in that insane artistic way where I make things look like music sounds and blow minds in those days she’d sit on my back and find the knot in my neck and run her finger down the tips of my spine discussing arcimboldo monet and bj sextape angles and she’d share her fondness for the old new england coast architecture and witchcraft and the terrible novels she’s been force fed and the dumbshits in class who loved them
Thu
Sep
1
being on the creative side of the film industry is an odd thing. to say the least, it seems like every other day i get a surprise call from the business side telling me i’ve got vip passes here or comp tickets there, if i want them. sometimes they’re big events, sometimes they’re weird little things i didn’t even know were going on down the street. it’s pretty great, but weird.
Mon
Aug
15
i was pissed. we thought that everyone should love, that love should rule, but when hate suppressed love you don’t fight it with love, you fucking murder hate, then go back to love. its what made sense to us.
all things fate-foes: so called lovers
have written in letters
that they’re desperate to attempt
they’ll never get the chance
heaving one more “our next life”
on their shoulders
we must, love
though we’re tampered horror shows
snow globe caught ghosts
hauling glow sticks
to enlighten every frostbit body part
pillow case faced
mittenless
eyebrow draped
white caterpillar patterns
straggling hair strands
knotted at un-brushed intervals
as if time lines marking
champagne charades
catastrophic innocence
where heaven is limitless
or in complete lack of maps
chest pumping still frames
we must savor temptation
take liberties with stop signs
beg forgiveness without sincerity
leave secret notes
for scarecrows
“we know what you’ve been up to
and we like it”
not that i meant to flower you with love
but that i got carried away somehow
i apologize for your allergies
and those thorns
though our cacophony could core
the seedlings in their soil
i stole a matchbook with no real intent
every now and then
i flick the fire on
to scorch the land
i gave the end result your name
blackened fields
every future tense
left your fingerprints
passion might be
bruised shoulder blades
meeting feelings your fingertips
will slice the glass
those same fingers could also paint
a line of sight
down the misted pane
slowly
reactionary raspberries are
scuffed skin marks blood dripping
bitten lips guzzling
holy vowel sounds
quicken
too momentary to be photographed
the backseat is a porcelain horse
poised on a carousel of such dizzying force
color stops being color
just whirls of light
white as wonder
hair to brail
hands telling tales
home safe
a cabbage in a field
with a good fence
i drove drunk
and survived
a lyrical mind wanting to say things
i’ve forgotten now
long drives
take the windows down
cold as rain covered lawns
post-fall
to stay awake
3 am is wonder time
it used to mean miracles happened then
and i guess the clothes shed
we’re waiting on the left side of my contact lens
at this point i’m pre vomiting
but tired out of my skull
post vomiting:
i’m raving
i’m a lunatic
i’m sick of how the cold air soothes me
i want to feel warmth
i hate you in ways more complex than you could ever know
i want to cut you loose
a barrel dangling by a thread
the dull scissors in my hand
i’m a part of blue
the color that creeps
in and out of pensive scenes
the sky wove a tapestry
to remember it
a pen and paper
around 2 or 3 or 4 or 5
misunderstanding balancing
offense taking
look no matter what i’ve lead you to believe
i’m not a good person
i’m aligning knives
into romantic places
implying
passion had it’s way here
i’m undermining clever words
with pictographs
of pin-up girls
language became a guessing game
an ancient grunt rolled off a tongue
a little sweeter
than the swarthy mumble
that bore it’s meaning the night before
the only moment we were alive
we couldn’t describe a thing
we reformed primitive words
cut every letter out of them
and dispensed intelligence
for the only moment we were alive
it’s what made sense
let’s give up our selfish strings and play chords we’re afraid to learn
