Van Gogh's Ear
And you just keep singing 'save me, save me' while forgetting that these hands on fire won't go out if I dip too deeply. The burning sensation still comes, the reminders, the feelings. The times spent, like the curling candle wick alongside sleepers, turning to cracked black by the end of the flaming hands. Where did that wick go, blasted matchbook, so I can light the shiny rainbows of the streets and streams? Remembering the archaic obsessions with fire from so long ago, struck into my veins by fiery inscriptions. When I saw the lightning strike and the sparks flying, and ideas licking; a new method of charring bones.
I’m trying to see where we’re going here. I’m trying to wipe off the wind and tell backseat riders to watch and learn. It’s harder when you do everything with one hand. One action here, one action here, and something dangerous on the side of the road. Never admitting that on one hot day, you looked down and admitted for a single second that you wanted to try and lick the asphalt. No one will ever know, so the secret’s fine with me. Black liquorice ice cream and something to spike the drink afterwards; it’s tough wild turkey whiskey that the cigar chompers and suave men of the west dare to dance to. What was on that road? Sexy? You’ve made yourself a deadly agreement there, thinking it’s safe to fuck in the backseat.
But while this is that, there’s still bliss on tap somewhere else. Somewhere that’s that. You know, that place? Already at the stardust hotel and you couldn’t resist sticking your fingers into the soupy sky and mixing it around. Liquid light that rolls down into shadow splashes. For one second there, I thought you and I were going to fall for quite sometime. You can start flying now. Grab that broomstick tightly and speak, sociopath, tell me why I can be manipulated. Tell me what turns the colors of my rubix cube, what makes more complex and colourful. Is it that sweltering heat from two floors up? Ear drums are still beaten, adjusting this difficult music that plays from the outside of the stereo.
Scritching and scratching the black India ink, a border and half of a face. These two don’t meet for coffee and cookies any more. No, new lives, but no new lives, you know? So alike in so much, amounting to keeping care package filing cabinets, lined with all things wonderful: Keyholes, flowers, pressed clovers, cinnamon, and a delightful brew nicked from the Empress’ teatime. Clocks can be ticking, but not tocking. Pens can be scratching, but not scritching. Failure, poor machine, an error of your ways. I’m sorry, it’s my fault. I should have never invented you. Feeling’s mutual, you can now be programmed to feel pain.
QUESTION OF THE DAY: What's the first thing you do when you find yourself in a blank, white, room?
I’m trying to see where we’re going here. I’m trying to wipe off the wind and tell backseat riders to watch and learn. It’s harder when you do everything with one hand. One action here, one action here, and something dangerous on the side of the road. Never admitting that on one hot day, you looked down and admitted for a single second that you wanted to try and lick the asphalt. No one will ever know, so the secret’s fine with me. Black liquorice ice cream and something to spike the drink afterwards; it’s tough wild turkey whiskey that the cigar chompers and suave men of the west dare to dance to. What was on that road? Sexy? You’ve made yourself a deadly agreement there, thinking it’s safe to fuck in the backseat.
But while this is that, there’s still bliss on tap somewhere else. Somewhere that’s that. You know, that place? Already at the stardust hotel and you couldn’t resist sticking your fingers into the soupy sky and mixing it around. Liquid light that rolls down into shadow splashes. For one second there, I thought you and I were going to fall for quite sometime. You can start flying now. Grab that broomstick tightly and speak, sociopath, tell me why I can be manipulated. Tell me what turns the colors of my rubix cube, what makes more complex and colourful. Is it that sweltering heat from two floors up? Ear drums are still beaten, adjusting this difficult music that plays from the outside of the stereo.
Scritching and scratching the black India ink, a border and half of a face. These two don’t meet for coffee and cookies any more. No, new lives, but no new lives, you know? So alike in so much, amounting to keeping care package filing cabinets, lined with all things wonderful: Keyholes, flowers, pressed clovers, cinnamon, and a delightful brew nicked from the Empress’ teatime. Clocks can be ticking, but not tocking. Pens can be scratching, but not scritching. Failure, poor machine, an error of your ways. I’m sorry, it’s my fault. I should have never invented you. Feeling’s mutual, you can now be programmed to feel pain.
QUESTION OF THE DAY: What's the first thing you do when you find yourself in a blank, white, room?