post-apocalyptic pop.
it's ok. you'll get there. you're almost done.
you can taste the finish line in the san something surf, south of the pine trees but north of the bay of sunscreen sheen. you can do anything with the right latitudes. any lovelorn coast that has the foresight to allow for both snow and sweltering summer rain will do.
you will not be here forever. no freak accident will take you, and you will not simply melt into the bubbling froth on top of the swampland.
you just get frustrated. there is never enough time, i know. it's all going so fast, and you're almost twenty-six thirty middle-aged dead. but you figured it out years ago -- the days accelerate out of boredom, like topping out the speedometer on straight stretches of highway out in the bush. the days will stop to stretch their legs, and you'll find yourself on another planet.
you will find the pieces of your lost love. you'll find love in the little, fucked up family of friends you create. you will jump from smokestacks of speakers to the stairwells to the balcony where, for once, you'll freestyle instead of spit sonnets you memorized years ago. i don't know what color her eyes will be, but they'll be rolling in the back of her head.
she'll still fall. you'll both collide so hard your atoms will fuse.
and the renaissance is coming. the world will turn back towards the summer that never ends. the roads will be free of the potholes and gouges from your horrific wrecks. one day the alzheimer's will kick in. one day lacuna will open its doors. one day you'll wipe the hard drives and burn the backpack you keep your past in.
you'll make us all immortal in other ways;
in words, in notes, in profane monologues.
you can taste the finish line in the san something surf, south of the pine trees but north of the bay of sunscreen sheen. you can do anything with the right latitudes. any lovelorn coast that has the foresight to allow for both snow and sweltering summer rain will do.
you will not be here forever. no freak accident will take you, and you will not simply melt into the bubbling froth on top of the swampland.
you just get frustrated. there is never enough time, i know. it's all going so fast, and you're almost twenty-six thirty middle-aged dead. but you figured it out years ago -- the days accelerate out of boredom, like topping out the speedometer on straight stretches of highway out in the bush. the days will stop to stretch their legs, and you'll find yourself on another planet.
you will find the pieces of your lost love. you'll find love in the little, fucked up family of friends you create. you will jump from smokestacks of speakers to the stairwells to the balcony where, for once, you'll freestyle instead of spit sonnets you memorized years ago. i don't know what color her eyes will be, but they'll be rolling in the back of her head.
she'll still fall. you'll both collide so hard your atoms will fuse.
and the renaissance is coming. the world will turn back towards the summer that never ends. the roads will be free of the potholes and gouges from your horrific wrecks. one day the alzheimer's will kick in. one day lacuna will open its doors. one day you'll wipe the hard drives and burn the backpack you keep your past in.
you'll make us all immortal in other ways;
in words, in notes, in profane monologues.