Monday, March 1, 2010

i don't want to be your post-modern protagonist


Lesson .25: Keep the change (cheap)
Lesson ∞: Why a woman can't be more like a man (easy)
Lesson 13: People need to make money but I don't need to listen to it (smooth)
Lesson 16: Sluts up, shit titz? A knack for the (offensive)
Lesson 21: Aquanet, pantyhose & slutstick (mature)
Lesson 33: Bending over backwards into a pile of shit (pride)
Lesson Five-0: Pretty Petty Larceny Lady (risky)
Lesson 69: Fuck the things you hate (harsh)
Lesson 420: Will there be cigarettes at this party? (suave)
Lesson 666: HUSTLE OR DIE (hard)
Lesson 711: The value of vague (low)
Lesson 11:11: What's mine is mine, what's yours is mine for the taking (TRUTH)

Two years ago I said:

" I've decided to spend this summer perched upon my bicycle with my banjo on my back, spread-eagle soaring down the coast towards and into Mexico. As soon as I've grown tired of tequila sunsets and salt-shine sunburn and you've decided I'm deceased or disappeared, I will peddle back up to the suffocating surface to kiss away your tears. Lucy (my bicycle) and I plan on meeting up with good friends in traveling bands and dancing on the grave of my indifference-and-inhibition. Lazy days will be spent sedated on water bodies and stealing Polaroid film to capture what I must remember, and hazy nights will be made up of booze and spray paint and tired limbs. I've got to make it to the Midwest in time for the RNC before I'm summoned 'home' to the sound"

Two years ago I sold my banjo to buy cocaine. Today I am 6+ months sober. There is nothing holding me down and I'm bursting out of my skin and I feel alien and I need a change of faces so TBall & me is biking to California in April and I need this now and I know it will be harsh and I don't expect a smooth ride but I am stubborn and my pride is all consuming and I'd rather bruise my body than my ego so we WILL arrive to bum luckies to the freaks on 16th street. Today my romanticism is a dull ache. My spine is sore from lasciviously bending back in a bed wreaking of bawdy decay and sweating dog shit. Weight's lost when you leave. When you're not here I hate you and your teeth when they are. Don't believe anything that comes from such a pretty mouth. Big words can't cover SHIT. THIS is your method for making material?! Disgusting dudes deserve disgusting diseases. I'm fast to feel at fault and I'm convinced I can't believe me and hes tell me when to be angry and how but I can't when hes are here because people just don't cry when they're angry and tears aren't words and it feels like foreplay and calm down baby, you'll get it and quick 'cuz true love waits but this isn't that. It's only diet dialogue and I'm starving for something more enriching in everything. I might believe it but know. This stagnant coffee is getting to me. It's more than caffeine causing kitchen spins. Where is that stank coming? My hair grows slow. Going down surely, I've already decided. Giving head to the dick of the dead. DON'T TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME. Tonight I practice boiling it's never worked before traces get faint fainter with redder reds and my eyes are hot interjections and I've been doing this my whole life and I left my parents house but it doesn't feel like it when I'm here like this and sometimes I want to live alone forever and my notebooks are filled with you full of yourself. These nights remind me of high school songs like I shouldn't admit. Syncapated breathing means what i expected but never explained. Crazy shit gets sucked into a vacuum you can't live in. Skirt issues. Older men send their concerns in the form of cryptic TXT MSGZ. I think things through so far I don't move. I regret the words I do make. Now is never the right time when more is required to decide how to be who I'm not yet nor ever will be truly. It's good we have consolers for when things are over and again and over. This town gets slick. I want: to tear everything from these walls: them clean and white: slow fingers with long nails. Both my hands are packin. Throwdown on my neurorecorder. Not gaunt enough to hip. Keep your eyes on the thighs. Look one those punk bitches. Ever be a groupie? Who made you think what i think is important? Who made you think? Don't think this line is about you. Wait sitting here shaking for years, some times. I think like this i like it sometimes. What use are these bland words of an undead blond bitch? All i can do is think about it all. I can't be myself around you. I can't have respect for you. I don't want to be your post-modern protagonist.

No comments:

Post a Comment