[Bravado Wears a Mask of Leisure at the Masque of Seizures.]
We have no thing (not nothing: no thing) of importance to say but there might be a quaint glass green bottle in which noxious or unnoxious gases are trapped. And gases trapped are like oppressed citizens. Must...be...let...free. I long ago stopped pretending that I know what I'm doing, where I'm going, and the like. It is a daily battle, a battle against every force of a mind once set in ROT mode. The urges to starve, puke, smoke pot, get drunk, listen to Interpol all rise up to meet me when I rise from the bed, or the futon. It's easier when I'm not alone, but inside my head, I'm always alone. Do I dare eat a peach? I have earned the wrath of several.
Chest is a cavern with sharp stalactites and stalagmites poking at my heart. (Shameless interjection that no one will understand because no one will read it: Iron Giant...in my pants.) I am the serial monogamist with an exception. I have a relationship with Pepto-Bismol and a second affair with American Spirits. These, my creature comforts, consumer comforts, companyinmyback conveniences. Walk to the Mobil to meet your alcoholic friend. He drinks and contemplates the Virgin Moon while you, wistful, grip a bottle of non-diet soda in your hand, intending to drink it but too frightened of calories to actually physically bring it to your mouth.
Set in limbo. Set in outer space. Set in a stuffy New York apartment in the days of yore. I don't care so long as my cigarettes are there. I exchange letters with friends across the country and attempt on the pages and pages of script to sort out the thoughts and emotions that plague and batter my skull and my ribcage in a raging mission to eat the brains and devour the heart. I spoonfeed these useless Precious Things to whoever comes near. I don't want them here.
I don't know what I want or do not want. I love and I love. I care too much but my shoulder is cold. My cactus tears tickle the stranger's ears. And I shout your name I scream it inside this cavity where I hide, but you're so far away from me, so far I just can't see. Dire straits, these times? Yes and no, and a maybe for good measure. To meet again? Would be a pleasure. I think of Tom Petty, I hum the Moody Blues, and I watch Garden State. Never part. They were wise. Were I as wise, and were I brazen as before, you would hear all the words that catch in my throat on their harried journey up, words that like warm blue blood redden and drip when emitted from a mouth too shy to enunciate proper.
Chest is a cavern with sharp stalactites and stalagmites poking at my heart. (Shameless interjection that no one will understand because no one will read it: Iron Giant...in my pants.) I am the serial monogamist with an exception. I have a relationship with Pepto-Bismol and a second affair with American Spirits. These, my creature comforts, consumer comforts, companyinmyback conveniences. Walk to the Mobil to meet your alcoholic friend. He drinks and contemplates the Virgin Moon while you, wistful, grip a bottle of non-diet soda in your hand, intending to drink it but too frightened of calories to actually physically bring it to your mouth.
Set in limbo. Set in outer space. Set in a stuffy New York apartment in the days of yore. I don't care so long as my cigarettes are there. I exchange letters with friends across the country and attempt on the pages and pages of script to sort out the thoughts and emotions that plague and batter my skull and my ribcage in a raging mission to eat the brains and devour the heart. I spoonfeed these useless Precious Things to whoever comes near. I don't want them here.
I don't know what I want or do not want. I love and I love. I care too much but my shoulder is cold. My cactus tears tickle the stranger's ears. And I shout your name I scream it inside this cavity where I hide, but you're so far away from me, so far I just can't see. Dire straits, these times? Yes and no, and a maybe for good measure. To meet again? Would be a pleasure. I think of Tom Petty, I hum the Moody Blues, and I watch Garden State. Never part. They were wise. Were I as wise, and were I brazen as before, you would hear all the words that catch in my throat on their harried journey up, words that like warm blue blood redden and drip when emitted from a mouth too shy to enunciate proper.