true to customary form, the sunday afternoon blues found me raw and low. despite a late morning and early afternoon filled with new and old friends, good tunes and strange snow falling through cold yellow fingers of sunshine, i felt like Abels head, giddy on God and righteous spilled blood, waiting like eggshells for Cain's black blow. aught that finds itself high must, by all rights (or so says the shaman or the prophet, depending upon your Book) eventually look to the low dregs of the evening for cold, sparse comfort.
well Lonliness (pockets full of blood-money), she pulled herself a razor (pearl handle) from her boot, drew it across the shade of my newfound smile and bled it like a hard-luck dame in a speakeasy alley. the green, cursed enormity of a continent and devil click-clack of the gov'ment machine stood by smiling and feeling vindicated.
how was i to make it happen in the faces of such colossal foes?
don't care. i'd do my damnedest. it's all i had left to do. anything less would relegate my razor-cut corpse to the midden-heap of possibilities dead on the vine like withered limbs. like Kurtz and his friend Horror, i'd make fast bedfellows with Doubt, romance and stroke his wiles until they shone like deep, loving green eyes shot through with ebony scars (dark jewels on soft green life).
i took a walk in the cold white, or it took me (whatever's your pleasure) onto icy wet concrete, steel toes crunching frozen bones on quiet streets. i watched life fog and dissipate with each breath as the Poet crooned in his corn-rotted voice. such things he says, such raw, brutal things full of imperfect longing and impefect(perfect) love. rough, plebian words strung together with reckless meaning, stark and beautiful in their sometimes ugliness. the cold, those dark and sad streets, those scratchy words drew awkward courage and threadbare(vintage) resolve over me like a mantle of bum-newspaper, keeping me warm and thawing frozen hope.
come this far despite myself. walked the broken glass floor of this oft-empty soul barefoot, carrying the weight of yawning chasms of misgivings for years. im still here (razor scars and lingering taste of gun oil notwithstanding), still ripe and capable and deep and red. i can do this.
-pb
well Lonliness (pockets full of blood-money), she pulled herself a razor (pearl handle) from her boot, drew it across the shade of my newfound smile and bled it like a hard-luck dame in a speakeasy alley. the green, cursed enormity of a continent and devil click-clack of the gov'ment machine stood by smiling and feeling vindicated.
how was i to make it happen in the faces of such colossal foes?
don't care. i'd do my damnedest. it's all i had left to do. anything less would relegate my razor-cut corpse to the midden-heap of possibilities dead on the vine like withered limbs. like Kurtz and his friend Horror, i'd make fast bedfellows with Doubt, romance and stroke his wiles until they shone like deep, loving green eyes shot through with ebony scars (dark jewels on soft green life).
i took a walk in the cold white, or it took me (whatever's your pleasure) onto icy wet concrete, steel toes crunching frozen bones on quiet streets. i watched life fog and dissipate with each breath as the Poet crooned in his corn-rotted voice. such things he says, such raw, brutal things full of imperfect longing and impefect(perfect) love. rough, plebian words strung together with reckless meaning, stark and beautiful in their sometimes ugliness. the cold, those dark and sad streets, those scratchy words drew awkward courage and threadbare(vintage) resolve over me like a mantle of bum-newspaper, keeping me warm and thawing frozen hope.
come this far despite myself. walked the broken glass floor of this oft-empty soul barefoot, carrying the weight of yawning chasms of misgivings for years. im still here (razor scars and lingering taste of gun oil notwithstanding), still ripe and capable and deep and red. i can do this.
-pb
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man, lingerie when she's on the phone. you lucky devil.