Faster moves bastard

So, thirteen years odd now, and we weren't as wise.

I guess i should've known that at the time but it's hard in the throwing conceit to believe that, even for a moment, you might be fucking wrong or simply off base when there was just so much to rail against with those skinny little wrists and still fat fucking faces that sang and scowled and laughed much harder and longer than any one of your small arsenal of best fucking friends would've ever deigned to admit no matter how wide the blonde grin in photographs or how bright your nail polish.

When you believed in the ills of selling out. when you didn't want to buy in. when the targets were easy and the cost was a bruise or a scar you'd still be wearing to company barbecues day to shilling day.

But, shit, it was a good time.

I guess it still is.

Even if the horns turned into screaming and the enemy's left the white hat for a polyester arm deserving sweat and you'll never quite be the star you imagined plastered on the sidewalk by some dumb kid just like you.

And the hands don't hold like they used to when rode on high with strangers and hit each chorus with a shot straight to heaven knowing somewhere, someone was given the damn that made it all worth dancing.



White steel

I threw the watch away. i smashed it to pieces. i burned the fucking thing and vowed i'd never speak to the son of a bitch again so long as i lived and breathed an ounce of the man he'd made a broken means.

I'd sooner die.

And so i did.

Now i'm his son and he is...



This morning bed

Sorrow comes in days. sunshine settling over the pale skin where hands once trembled in loving shame. in fear. consequences born from being under the wrong side of the right and just wishing there was a way to say 'this is how it is. this is who i am. and that's why i've got to be...'

But there never is. never will be. no matter what corner of the street you slink and smolder ashy eyes along familiar bodies (tracing them later on the ceiling. bare-chested and desperate for a taste of sweat along the thigh).

The horror illuminates. the imp cries perverse.

Skips his own love. tears this hole and ribbons around a dream of smiling faces. sweet summer sighs and lemonade by firelight. the next one. the future. the name drifting on into the unforeseen.

The unimagined.

The time when you might curb these shakes and cry with dignity, alive.

A Hundred Years.mp3