the 37th chamber

remember the day you got the gift of your old pen back,
remember they day you lost it cause you pussyed out when the first oppurtunity with a pretty face finally came
my taste buds and my stomach are competing for my attention
my scars are telling stories of people who died for a reason
they didn't even get a chance to get their wings yet
what the fuck can we use to bargain with now
i need to find something else other than ink for memories and reminders to look good in
i just want the safe feeling of knowing it exists somewhere else cause i'm running out jazz to sprinkle with
and I don't know if these coffee and cigarettes are going to last…

SubRosa

damnit,

i find myself lost in a current state of transition, going back and forth between displacement and running back down the old roads that gave me my scars.
i've worn the robe of a hermit too many already, and there are only so many dvd's and internet sites to entertain my growing beard. this cave i pace back and forth...
i project the surrealist narrative unfolding in my imagination onto it's blank walls, and even though it's my story that i'm watching, i feel like it needs a new director.
or perhaps the thought of having to bear through the buzzing that echoes through the silence after the credits stop rolling has me feeling a bit uneasy. because i don't have
faith that s/he'll be there afterwards wearing the same red dress s/he would wear when s/he would sing on thursdays.

i need an easy friend, who can help me justify my insanity, and make feel like a genius. i hear music in noise, do you?