(half lightning)

My brain is the rot on the turkey neck, soaked in whiskey and wasting away in the corner of the old room we fell into for parties before this fever fucking set in and now...now its just a fucking place to wait until its time to sober up long past that last cigarette and anecdote you've heard a thousand times before.

The one about the love lost. the one about the song. the one about the headwounds and close encounters with the cops. the guns drawn. the california sun. the moments we pulled off so long before our prime. the moments we cheated death. the times we wished we'd died.

Am i tired of this all? do i wish i had some more than a stomach full of rich food and another gallon of alcohol?

I suppose.

It might be nice to have a fucking thing to call my unflinching own, but i don't. not that vice is so much better but at least with them i blend. wrap up in intoxicants and run rampant away from what screams in my head every time i try and find some rest.

Escapims, babeez. stale death at its best.

Sometimes i love it. raise the glass high in the dream that this pleasure could last for fucking ever. other days its just a cheap course for running from every heartache until its just too goddamn late to sober up.

And then we're fucked.