(rapt in glances)

My brain is a kiss lapsed along the old freakout of who we are and what the fuck we were doing way back when we first decided it was time to fall in line. arm in arm. hand in hand. hearts locked in artless symetry deciding just when and where we were supposed to be the hapless item of the year.

Lost in love and vice. the perfect rhythm of broken bodies hungry for something burning in those nights we spent drunk and fucking until dawn.

The trawling love song...

That could capture us emphatically. turn my hopes for you into poetry and your dreams of me...well...we still haven't seen those have we?

Because i'm half a punk at best. some haggard manifest between bukowski and alcoholism and the rest, as they say, is a story best told by and idiot at a creeping pace when (really) we'd suffice with a mexican howl and some cigarettes.

Smoked long and pleased because we ddin't come this far to give a shit what the other kids had to say about us kissing on the road to avenue a. it's our city, baby. our fucking home. our fucking life.

And if i were a better man i would have made everything all right.