pb

staring the prospect of another drab new year full of pomp and deflated pseudo-circumstance right in its ground-down teeth. yuppie posturing swirling amid ivy league predator smiles. mock shock; flocked to the money and the prestige and moral certainty of misguided guile, they wear a constant expression of frowning surprise. (you can have that muscle snipped, you know) plastic, stuffed full of years of ambition and disapointments and political crises to come; all the while going to ruin from outside in, disdaining as plebian the base emotions lust, heat, honest eyes and firm handshakes. "you're just another pretty face in a room full of whores."

they work me dry for intelligence and info, probing the surface crucibles i must needs wear like a badge with my fake name scrawled across it in hopes of eventual familiarity.

i'm shy and surly. scarred and beat to shape. i'm molten life flowing under skin and hair and crooked smiles. it screams and eats its way around just under the husk, raw and clawing and killed away by your disinterested choreographed surface-scratching. i'm heat and life and sincere depth, serious and strange and comforting breath.

i'll sweat my appreciation all over you. i want you to suck your thumb when you come. i want you to believe in me because i can't. bring me real. give this collection of bad chemicals and raging hormones and resonating hollowness a noble purpose.

-pb



--------------------
from charlie's journal almost a year ago:

"i woke up
this is killing us
go look someone in the eyes
go outside go to a library
quit fucking up your ego we're damaged enough as it is
im done
let the novelty wear off"




we're damaged enough as it is, indeed.




-pb



book: lamb, christopher moore
music: tricky, excess