Amend goodbyes

Live as much like you should have. throw the microphone through the ground and yell.

Every one's our perfect hour. every one's our setting scene.

And what i recognize from settling smiles doesn't matter now because i'm torched and torn. the sheets have gone the wrong way, winded by the pressing fate of handshakes when all i want. all i need. all i care to steal and see is so fucking close.

So struggle meaning.

Salted lips and melodrama.

Keep my time for counter theology.

Wishing it was better. wait and sleep. carve silhouette dreams.

Make the name and wake up.

Write it long across the ceiling.

A Responsible Person.mp3


The wax philippines

There are men for seasons, all right. bold statues high above the arc of your last fucking prospect who weild their power like a thirty pound cock and terrify just about as many (if not countless more) than they could possible impressive by the sheer, veiny force of their begrudgingly loved.

These men make nations. they make deals in the dark. see saints fall, hallowed over a martini stained olive and laugh as hopeless as the champions they march off to lose a war.

Then, there's danny.

He works in advertising.

He likes his girlfriend. pork products and the cheapest swills of american whiskey bartenders only find when the night is shitty, the shift is endless and a pair of cops busting up a brown-bagged genius seems like the last semblance of hope in an otherwise meaningless life.

He also likes him the shit out of some rock and roll records. he's got a bundle. carried them from seattle to santa barbara to new york to philly still honored with the same plastic seals they came in.

And that's something.

They used to remain in alms above his work station where he labored to comfort his delusions of adequacy.

Who fucking knows where they rest now.

It hardly matters.

If i know the man as if a fucking day, i know those beutiful pieces of wax are stowed safely in wait for the day that the turntable wakens to melt the fat face of some hipster dipshit mistakenly referencing latter day replacements as the best work of an american songwriter's career.

Like 'merry go round' is any 'dope smoking moron'. or 'the ledge' carries the weight of 'fuck school'.

Fuck you.

The mats were a band when they were dumb, white and lazy. when tommy was a teen. bob was living and paul could've given two shits for busting out of minnesota into a slumbering world of humdrum one man anything.

When they were drunk and throwing their lunchmeat.

All hopeless and free.

I'd like to say he taught me that but nihilism's never quite been my thing. danger, sure. drunk and yes.

But he did remind me that there was nothing better than a rock song to save your life. and i mean rocking. not the lamentable dirges of endall wet dreams you'd hold a candle to if you weren't so busy torching your own prospective being.

To remind you that there's a line out of everything.

Fist pumped, mouth sweating the garbled scream of an idiot kid dead set on having everything an inebriated street in this city can bring.

And that saved me once.

To this fucking day.