(snapshot artifice)

My brain is an air show just waiting to kiss the ground.

I shouldn't be typing. i shouldn't be standing. in all likelihood i shouldn't even be fucking breathing considering how much blood has slipped down my gullet with vodka and whiskey and beer with cocaine to chase the last of those midnight blues away.

Days later still and i can barely stay awake.

It's just a habit though.

One more i can't fucking break.

But there are worse fates. i've seen them. known them. loved them longer than i've ever loved myself and that's just fine because in the end i'll have imagined this life was a better one spent unhealthy.

Even if my blurs, at times, supercede me...


(trouble fines)

My brain is the curious anchor that keeps me from going off that fucking deep end where all my heroes end up stunted and slated in the wake of remembrance. not where they fucking ought to be. just where it ends up. the line that chokes philosophy. cries murder and the fire that burns in my soul even if i'm not as mad as i once was...

The place where lions slay the ordinary birds just to prove their hearts bleed different in the moonlight.

(eclipse ease)

My brain is that half broken ended conversation where the only motherfucker gauranteed to sleep well enough to see dawn with a clear fucking conscience is the drunkest...

And here i am, scrambling. struggling. choking down water just to insure that there's some viable part left of me come morning when i should be investing my life in more beer and cocaine and carl and the rest of the punk rocking fucking rhetoric which i'm still so amazed to be a part of...

It's that summer kiss (half-spring, really) that keeps me here. pissed and chained to my vice. the beauty hidden (poorly, i imagine) among the fury and stunted arguements that weren't designed to have anything like an end.

A fucking girl.

A beautiful fucking girl already versed enough in breaking my heart to know how best to get the blood rushing right out of my mouth.

But that sounds cynical.

Truth of the matter is i'm just as lost in her eyes as i was the first hangover that brough us together. and tomorrow (today, really...holy christ) i'll feel the same loss of breath. the same skipping beat. the incomparable joy of the night we first kissed on her doorstep late at night just trying to keep our dreams on straight.


(note whisp)

My brain falls silent in the throes of unkept beauty. the sound of a sunrise. the hope of beginning fresh and new under the waves of feedback coming into view this evening across town. across the river. across all things sensible and true to these ears who've known enough in their short (half-broken) life to understand when they've met a match in something perfect. strange. and well worth its due.

This night was a treasure i won't be sleeping off anytime soon.


(slap shod)

My brain is a low rent scrape off the wasteland where all the dreams are freezing loving songs of forgiveness and the despair of the lost dogs of summer howling in the dawn and wondering just what it is these fucking sweater smiles are for...

I, for one, am happy.

Pleased as a punch in the face that soon enough i will be shivering. cowering. cozying into my bed with the morning lament 'i hate it when...'.

I'm a fall man.

A patsy of the circadian rhythms who seeks out that sweet chill steady as a heartache when it comes to marking the more noteworthy times in his life.

Still, i'll miss the sun. i'll miss the skin. i'll miss the parachute of coney island...