3.20.2008

For a small comedy

And hope and hope and hope i say will keep me from the dark wilds of forgetting myself in the book of dead names and homesick faces hungry for the righteousness ready to arm itself against the world. for the focus of a curse. a cause. a reason to rise up from the leatherback life and have the merit to make new mistakes.

No matter who the fuck there is, tonight, to listen.

To see.

To feel the impact of decades spent desperately living the wrong way half the time just because it felt right to come home half-naked and bloody, mumbling something about god's glaring light to the cold, sweating mirror. the piss stain lost in the floor.

Those pattern days of low romance.

Cast off the comelately and staged.

Naive as pigeon prayer and the idiot feet marching onto the ides.

But i believe.

I have to.

Even curled against the sound of kisses. even swollen drunk and tracing the floor for a reason to welcome the morning when all i could do is sleep myself off into the thousands dead and shuffling. tapping. keening. lying to themselves that this poor excuse for a generation (then, before and since) is a goddamn way to treat the only chance they've ever had to be.

Their only goddamn shot at beauty.

I Just Make Faces.mp3

3.18.2008

Ruin undoes ruin

Run wild. run down. run amok in the face of our father's countenance. his warm white hair. his balding taste.

His chance still to try and keep something right from what he did in the place of all other options of hope before the flint locked and let loose the canon.

All hours.

All flame.

All fucking pain and principle to bootstraps when it's plain to the rest of the polished keening that this is, in fact, a different age. a time of slippery martyrs. cocksuckers. and the cavalry counted it's convulse pleasures from the fattened hand of apathy.

And the war at home remains a hateful one. cold. counted over the county again and again until the right makes a play and all we can do is moan about it.

Mark the walls in our complaint.

The pages.

The peasant boys of idol status claim their stake and indifference to the bar where the old steel companions still. where the night mandates the middle road between the foregone end and the arrogance of living.

Lighting still in the time of our plague.

Brother Run Them Down.mp3