Rhythm

I like to get dirty words in there sometimes

Because they’re so ugly that it doesn’t matter

The hardest part is finding the rhythm

Anything sounds pretty good with the right rhythm

Tame

Squirm with it

Fuckin eat it

Black mass, ugly

Shut down

Locked

Hard shell, won’t break

Work hard, less hard

Fuckin gross

I just want to be in the movies

Yeah

Yeah

Fuck

Fuck it all up

Write it on the wall

Fuck it all up

Let

Let

Let

Fuck it’s not beautiful

Fuck it’s not what I wanted

Shadowed without

Plastered within

Godamnit

Life Goes On

I want it to be good. I want to feel it. I don’t want to just write it I want to feel it.

But I can’t feel it because there’s blocking, I’m blocking, and I won’t let it out. Can’t let it out.

It’s underneath. It’s way down there and it’s underneath.

I open up the front door, wonder what the beast is for.

I just put my hands around the leather wrapped steering wheel and drive. There are lights and they pass over me on the freeway. I’ve got a pistol on my lap.

It’s not about the details, I hate the details. It’s the bigger picture, the sad-denouement, the top of the mountain and the tip of my finger on the trigger.

It’s closer now and the more I tug on it the more I can see the surface begin to boil. Warts break out all over my disgusting arm. This is disgusting. This is what’s down there.

Their sad sons will always know the answers though.

Cathartic, without the needle. Spastic, this wasn’t part of the deal. Here we are now, at a crossroads, where my soul meets the telomeres in my DNA. Peeling back the skin, the connections are long and stringy. It makes a popping noise and again I think how disgusting this is.

 

I only call you when it’s half past five

Trying a little experimental blog section, might get rid of it, not really sure yet. This is just free-writing, letting the words come as they come to try to get the creative juices flowing. Can you guess what songs I have stuck in my head?

I only call you when it’s half past five. This tribe you call your friends takes you out on limousine dates, and you hardly try to stop them. Just last week I saw you at the barbers, and you were laughing, and I saw that you were ugly in the mirror. I don’t care though, I never trusted your reflection anyways.

I only call you when it’s half past five. The first time and the last time I saw you I loved you. I can’t speak for every day in between, and I wish, for you, that I could tell you that every moment was consistent. At least when I call you, you pick up every time.

You used to call me on my cellphone. I don’t wait up anymore, it’s not fair that you still do. The man who doesn’t trust himself pulls the strings again and I find myself wondering why I don’t wait up anymore. I know why though. It’s because I only call you when it’s half past five.