Thursday, February 19, 2009
The body of a teenage mistake falls backwards in slow motion onto his bed. The eyes are closed, squeezed shut. He can still see it all. Above him the ceiling spins. A giant smile grins, and a giant eye blinks shut. Inside of him the universe explodes into a million little pieces that make up a million little people. Dawn does not come easy, rays cut through his bedroom glass like wide cruel daggers. His mother Mary yells. His mother is a whore.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Down on your knees, a slave to authority, don’t pull it down, let them wait a little bit. Join the vocal majority, join the realm of insanity, with more mental cuts, more mental silence, then all your fucked up ignorance cults. Boy know what I could do for you? Girl know how I could make you? Worked in a small town, for a effeminate man....with a family. Angry Americans, scare me, like snakes in a bed, like badgers instead. Broken poison butterflies. Broken monochrome families. You’re a what, a what? A real man. A real manly man. A skinny girl. A short skirt girl. You’re what? Hollow heart, you’ve been with too many sickest sons, too many burning like gasoline. I’m no mad man, but I’m all for insanity, not your insanity. Insanity. What makes you eat their shit. Everyday. You eat their shit. What makes you eat their shit, and love it?
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Cities are washing out, and you’re chewing on teeth leadings, praying that we’re wrong. You don’t say anything because there’s power in words, but it feels like even your mind is screaming out loud, still clutching a brass idol to your chest, you swallow it all down because you’re to proud. And now a plague has reached the gates of your heartland, it’s borne in the blood, carried with love; you get scared and cut love, you shut it away, and let the rest bleed out in the sun. Of the old world, so you fight against change, you bathe in the stained glass light of a broken home, and wet the sand with our children’s lives.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Saturday, August 16, 2008
People try to figure out problems like me, to draw a diagram of something simple, something we can all understand, so you’ll all understand. So you can say I knew it all along. So you can say “this is your song”. That bird doesn’t sing though. Not songs for you. They asked me to take a pencil and write the last time I felt something, they gave me “safe” and I gave them nothing. I sat there staring; a revelation surrounded by one hundred others. I think some of us are always falling. Like at the start, we were pushed from the nest before life taught us to fly.
Spill and shatter into the street,
Like broken light bulbs,
Fallen from grace, fallen from right
From the light
Crushed like so many paper cups,
Water cooler talk for the caffeine hogs,
Emptied and pourn out, and left to be destroyed.
Falling tenderly into graves.
What women will weep,
When we’ve fallen into the streets,
Into the streets