(shotgun wealth)

My brain is the last flame on the mast before the ship finally sinks into the shivering sea leaving just the rats and a swirling ash to recount her hollers of glory.

And i'm left with a question.

How do i shake the bones of moral fiber that keep me from the the real decadence that i so readily admire?

The sun is shining on a saturday i met early enough in the morning to earn the black coffee shakes by noon without the desperate headache. i'm five smokes and two cumshots in. and i know that by the time darkness descends i will be drunk and ready to blow the fucking lid off this lifestyle of giving a shit about how my friends fucking sleep at night.

So the ale abates, i guess. strips the man from the gnarling bitch and lets the muscle loose in the back of my head where i keep all my best stories and impotent rage.

Right now i give a damn. right now i want to say that there's one big fucking land in the sand between what i want and what i am willing to do to make it happen. this evening i imagine it different. i imagine wanting to kiss her, knowing that i can't because, really, she doesn't give a shit about anything other than the party. and it will piss me off. i'll want to smash some lovers face and storm off into the sunrise to tear back my skin and break each bit of my skeleton into a powder of inconsequence.

So why am i going?

Because i can.