Vampire establishments

Here comes the crash and the kids are fucking digging it. i think. i can't tell. my thighs are bruised and my liver is worn but there's nothing in the tired face of god's green that can keep me from staring. from clicking. from wishing these high altitude fuckers could be my friends just because there's enough in one lick of their mayhem to make me believe that there's a movement there still left to bring home good even if it's garbled, screamed and desperate behind pockmarks and adages that would be pissant if it weren't for the lights flashing comely. begging us all to die along with the beat. the sound. the siren screams that herald anarchy.

But man-sized. boyish. baby fat and all the failures punk rock postured away in leather jackets and bullet chains.

The new sound, i suppose, that might make it if only there were enough motherfuckers willing to seek its solace come the sunrise twist and subterfuge.

Should be the biggest fucking thing. should change the world. should shape things, damaged and artless, into the monumental fix we'd dream on years from now just because one day we paid a beer and happened to witness the sweating fibers shaping it.

Or it was the right thing and we were lucky enough to know just long.

Whiskey Is Alright in Its Place But Its Place Is in Hell.mp3

Play the drums

I don't know, either but it's perfect. certainly as anything else that's going to fall my way on the cusp of an epic spazz attack tucked under three minutes and even going so boldly as to reference 'sell out'.

Carl disagrees. so does danny.

But fuck 'em.

This is my hangover. hot time in the city. sipping tea and wishing it could be 12 hours ago, already. a few hours later.

And there's nothing that can suit me better than the mark of steve albini.

He's zorro for the wan-set, hacking lines of misanthropy.

Spoke.mp3

Thinking matters, man

Some songs just save your life. wake up one day with a jarring, hapless 'what the fuck' and smack you right across that fetid face to remind you there are a hundred reasons you should be smiling. yelling. waving your fists in endless rapture at the chance just to breathe in the presence of beauty. that beauty's all around you. frail and brusque and earnest. that to surrender your days to the tawdry solace of night is a sin you can't always redeem.

Because when you do, you leave hope to the lechers.

And those fuckers don't earn a thing.

Unnamed Expression.mp3

Wasting my time to pursue

There was a girl. there's always a girl. one of those beautiful, drop your jaw and run the way of children because there's nothing in her soft red lips that you could possibly understand even after a long, hard lifetime standing spartan as the men who make their demons beasts of burden in death as they did in their time as roaming giants kind of girl who slinks her way into your lazy summer days and makes you crazy as they sat down and said you were one day in the hospital sitting crossed legged and dazed at the crying lights and crass cocktails making medicine of your young and innocent brain just because she could laugh at the least little consequence falling at her beer and copper feet.

I don't remember her name and even when i did i couldn't tell you how she spelled it.

Not that it matters.

I had my chance. a moment where i could've made a perfect mess of things just by leaning forward once when her mouth was loose and wandering in silence that only meant one fucking thing back then (and still does, i suppose).

But i didn't. i didn't.

I didn't because i was lost in my loyalty and love affairs that would carry me into dark drunks and fucking places where not even the memory of a hand along the small of her back could remind me there was something better to make us men than black, relentless sorrow (passing and pointed as it turned out to be).

I think it was zia.

But irish, whatever that means.

She was a friend of a friend of a fucking something other and over the pond because in the hamptons they don't care what you have to speak of when it comes to residency so long as your breasts can sell a drink or seven if only to the friends who made who came miles just to get you to laugh at their stupid jokes.

And we did.

And one day. maybe her last. justin and i drove all night. around and around the backroads of long island. smoking cigarettes. clashing sobriety with the beers in the back seat and the cup after cup of black coffee we kept picking up at gas stations along the way because it was simply too much for us to walk by the living room and hear her breathing underneath that thin cotton sheet because we knew almost every inch.

Listening to this song.

Repeatedly.

Incessantly.

Screaming over and over the parts that we knew and stumbling fiercely through the bridge that escapes us to this day.

Because it makes sense. the raw and earnest lovelorn fury wasted on the deaf ears of teenage boys who should be, but would never because for all the flagrant courage of youth, the manic death defiance, there is a coward writing the most important movements. the ones that mark the chin of the man.

When we returned, i wanted to sing it for her. wanted to shake her and kiss her and tell her that i may never live to know the best of me but if she loved me, i could try.

But i didn't.

Might.mp3