tight-rope walking

ashing my cherry cigarette gives birth to fireflies at night...i smoke out of the same window...doing everything in my capacity to avoid the wall next door...i think about my life, wish i had love, and hope for the next solution to surface...to save me from nihilism and negativity...if i had more time to contemplate my current displacement...i'm sure that the tears will fall with great fluidity...but for now...i lay still with the sadness that is my prison...the cells that restrain my childish curiosity of alternate realities...the prison that disallows me to have time to think for myself...my mind belongs not to my sincerity but my obligation to my ignorance of freedom, to my prescribed notion of survival, and to the shitty paycheck that i cash so that i can repeat this ugly process...where is the hope?

Coooo Cooooo

If a nightmare is a spatchula then my ass is whipped cream...shit was vivid---{It's darker than the inside of eyelids, then the moon unzipps the sky to molest us with it's eyes while luminating the rooftop as if questioning the whereabouts on a monday night. My old man is looking at almost 35 attenas, the kind that feeds food to our television set. He says "what channels should we order". Then i see myself negotiating a treaty to my sister on the bench, on the rooftop. In harmony, we say "the animal channel, the music channel, and the food channel" like we were a Nat and Natalie Cole duet. My old man's brows extend their wingspans in what-the-fuck speed. Me and my sister point to three attenas that were blinking like "look over here, we are blinking, fuck" so we say those attenas are what we need. Then the old man starts to malfunction and sparks are fireworking out of his dome and then the most dissonant sonic boom of "goddamnit!" spews out of that hole in his face and i get pissed off all over the place and yell this exact phrase---> "aahhhhh" except I play my vocals too meistro and wake myself up from the dream....this was the first time that the waking life was juked out by the R.E.M. life...no escaping the blush face...i'm sure that scream scissor kicked my roomate awake some...so i couldn't sleep afterwards...i was too embarassed of myself from my own perspective witness...a few hours later some lady knocks on my door and i peek through the cheat hole...she's carrying a bible and i saw it necessary to earn my come uppins from being mind raped by those cacaphonic evangelists at school last week...so i strip to my nature suit except i put on my chef's hat and answer the door...then i do a drive by seduction stare and and say "ooooohhhh" like the way kids do when they catch someone fucking up...she goes "eyeee" and does this whiplash flinch number, retaliates with the sign of the cross runs off...i was the devil i guess...fuck valentines day

Crimson

This bar is a place of worship, stilted on runaway souls, loose change and day-to-day pain. We congregate amongst liquid idols, awaiting promise of distraction from mediocrity. Our sores are new and old, some bandaged by a mask we enlist for hours but masquerade like permanence. We expertly perform the muse, the concubine and the hero, chancing at best a microscopic thrill of belonging in this script and at this habitat. We meet at a glimpse. It repeats and we never trade secrets. The pupil returns to the pew and anticipates communion, praying the next sip of wine will grant peace and clarity. This place is a big fat bore, but we still continue to fuck around. "This place is a prison" by Postal Service says it all.