jeebus13
Bluelighter
NEED A HOUSE CLEANED?
CALL US!
Too late you all did it earlier in the week and apparently I "used an excuse to get out of it." Oh, well. Business as usual, right? Well maybe not quite usual, but pretty fuckin close. I keep waiting for somebody to tell me something I've been waiting for, but I don't think I've been listening all that closely so hopefully it was already spoken and I missed it at great personal expense and much regret, if you still believe in that sort of thing.
I'm fairly certain that words are my cross to bear- probably the reason I like them so much
I love playing Jesus , as much as I like to cast that aspersion on every one else. Maybe i can create some lepers ot heal in this too-dry town of grass and brick. Maybe they were waiting for me all along? Maybe I already met them and they decided cures were for suckers. I wouldn't blame them. Seems like everyone wants to be their own personal virus, and unfortunately they're all catching each other.
Not humble little me, though. I'm just a lowly rash or case of the squirts; a passing phase in some archaic medical journal of the universe's ailments. Just another evolutionary fuck-up in an eddy of life and death called Earth. I suppose that's the role I've chosen to play for all the leeching tired pairs of eyes glancing up as they roll by on the stone streets of this ghost town, now seeming so preternaturally alive: I'm some crazed hairy beast watching all the THINGS roll past with a sleepy withering interest and a shuffle off into parts unknown with a cat-like shrug. It suits me fine. Better than another bleating call into the waning twilight.
Perhaps I'm just dramatic with a penchant for a cool breeze and a colder look. The perennial hero of Tom Waits' fabled warm beer and cold women. I'm falling in love with loneliness but I'm inventing someone to speak at. I'm sick of answers and swimming in questions, how embarrassing.
Don't give me that heavy breath or that sidelong glance, it doesn't become you. God, you're ugly when you smile. Please don't make me hurt you again; I know I'm good at it, but it makes and angel of me and I like sleeping on my back too much for wings.
Good, the streetlights are coming on. I was beginning to wonder if I were the only real person left in the world. Maybe I still am, but the lights will keep me company. They always do. John Lennon was right, this bird HAS flown, and some guy named Mark David shot him for it. If only we could all be so lucky.
Surrounded by savage beauty and the feeling I'll never find home, but hopeful nonetheless. I guess medium does define tone. I feel like something much bigger and somehow more real is carrying me around as if I were a good luck charm or a picture of a long dead friend who gave up but still whispers from time to time.
Perhaps the dream is becoming a nightmare and you already woke up, but only into another sleep in another bed in a far-off dark night. You wanted to shout but something silenced you, something amazing and beautiful but still only a dream. Should you be thankful for sleep or angry at waking to this? Maybe impatient for tomorrow is the way to go. However, champagne wishes and caviar dreams bring tomorrows full of vomit and headaches.
Forever... now that's where we should be building our bridges. Well, maybe not through, but across forever. Just one long silent drive over a great swirling pool of tomorrow. Little people pulled over on the berm to cast lines in and search out baits that work and people who don't .
Help, someone stole me and I don't think I care. Did I matter in the first place? Probably not...
CALL US!
Too late you all did it earlier in the week and apparently I "used an excuse to get out of it." Oh, well. Business as usual, right? Well maybe not quite usual, but pretty fuckin close. I keep waiting for somebody to tell me something I've been waiting for, but I don't think I've been listening all that closely so hopefully it was already spoken and I missed it at great personal expense and much regret, if you still believe in that sort of thing.
I'm fairly certain that words are my cross to bear- probably the reason I like them so much
I love playing Jesus , as much as I like to cast that aspersion on every one else. Maybe i can create some lepers ot heal in this too-dry town of grass and brick. Maybe they were waiting for me all along? Maybe I already met them and they decided cures were for suckers. I wouldn't blame them. Seems like everyone wants to be their own personal virus, and unfortunately they're all catching each other. Not humble little me, though. I'm just a lowly rash or case of the squirts; a passing phase in some archaic medical journal of the universe's ailments. Just another evolutionary fuck-up in an eddy of life and death called Earth. I suppose that's the role I've chosen to play for all the leeching tired pairs of eyes glancing up as they roll by on the stone streets of this ghost town, now seeming so preternaturally alive: I'm some crazed hairy beast watching all the THINGS roll past with a sleepy withering interest and a shuffle off into parts unknown with a cat-like shrug. It suits me fine. Better than another bleating call into the waning twilight.
Perhaps I'm just dramatic with a penchant for a cool breeze and a colder look. The perennial hero of Tom Waits' fabled warm beer and cold women. I'm falling in love with loneliness but I'm inventing someone to speak at. I'm sick of answers and swimming in questions, how embarrassing.
Don't give me that heavy breath or that sidelong glance, it doesn't become you. God, you're ugly when you smile. Please don't make me hurt you again; I know I'm good at it, but it makes and angel of me and I like sleeping on my back too much for wings.
Good, the streetlights are coming on. I was beginning to wonder if I were the only real person left in the world. Maybe I still am, but the lights will keep me company. They always do. John Lennon was right, this bird HAS flown, and some guy named Mark David shot him for it. If only we could all be so lucky.
Surrounded by savage beauty and the feeling I'll never find home, but hopeful nonetheless. I guess medium does define tone. I feel like something much bigger and somehow more real is carrying me around as if I were a good luck charm or a picture of a long dead friend who gave up but still whispers from time to time.
Perhaps the dream is becoming a nightmare and you already woke up, but only into another sleep in another bed in a far-off dark night. You wanted to shout but something silenced you, something amazing and beautiful but still only a dream. Should you be thankful for sleep or angry at waking to this? Maybe impatient for tomorrow is the way to go. However, champagne wishes and caviar dreams bring tomorrows full of vomit and headaches.
Forever... now that's where we should be building our bridges. Well, maybe not through, but across forever. Just one long silent drive over a great swirling pool of tomorrow. Little people pulled over on the berm to cast lines in and search out baits that work and people who don't .
Help, someone stole me and I don't think I care. Did I matter in the first place? Probably not...
