(stole an ounce)

My brain is the salt crush of the sea come off of western lands to remind me what it was/fucking is ot be be me even if i have to choke down a thousand awkward calls pretending everything is fine when all i want to do is hide back in my tired pock mark of a home.

So, once more, these lies are strange.

Remembering the dead. confounding the past and scrambling through the futures to find simple hearts that might fucking last a little longer than phone calls stuck in tired rhetoric...

Drunk. lost. and staple.

I am the third generation of failure in this home i call a pleasure club (for reasons that are hardly obscene) stuck once again in the the flailing arms of a woman who would remember me if given half a chance but until then she'd rather be the life of the party. the star of the show. the heart of the lonely club picture no one ever remembers (not through cynicism but experienced stupor).

And so i yield.

I quit.

To sleep and at dreaming something better than what ought've been.

Precious.