(stint in laps)

My brain is the whisp of chagrin you can read in the kids the first time they fucking realize that their parents love it all as well. the drinking. the fucking. the drugs and regret of running blind as a fucking babe into the world with nothing but the coarsest regard for what the fuck sort of history you'll leave behind so long as you had a good time (at least, a shameless one) making a mockery of the will to survive long enough to see a grandchild.

Or just the tenets of a family to carry on the name you cursed so well when you were younger. the face you've felt kicked in. your father's nose. your mother's eyes. that fucking smile you carry (as you would say, to the fucking grave).

All to keep from the bounds of obscurity.

But its the fringes that mark these days. the forgotten favorites and the ones that never should have seen the same savage rays that mark your monday mornings with the knowledge that even when you did it. when you sent that motherfucker through the wall. there's still so much left to accomplish. so many bastards there to grind you down. so many puppets on the beck and call.

They're the ones. the fucking mainstays. that make the fire worth the fall.