Fuck.

November 10, 2012 § 1 Comment


Kevin Devine playing in De Nieuwe Anita (Amste...

Kevin Devine playing in De Nieuwe Anita (Amsterdam), 9th of May, 2008 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I wouldn’t waste my time if I were you.” – You’re my incentive – Kevin Devine.
Make ’em worry. Dance. Fuck. There’s a beauty that comes with being lost like this. Lost like us. Lost, entirely lost but not without hope. Hope, not that we will be found, but that we will not be found. That we will stay lost. Lost is us. Lost is safe. Lost is home. Firm ground always made me dizzy. Made my head spin. Made me lust after exactly what I wanted to be. Made me chase and chase and chase. To be young is to be lost. To be drunk is to be high is to be lost. She still dancing out in some field somewhere. I’m bouncing. I’m kicking. I’m making those wild eyes, the ones I wouldn’t get any with with anyone who really knew me. These people don’t know me. All the worlds a stage. This, here, this is my stage. These people aren’t audience, they are players, they just need guidance, hey, what can I say? They forgot there lines. They don’t need to trust me forever. The next three hours should be fine. The next three hours was all I ever asked, not what I ever needed. Yuck. That madness. It’s so unclean. So unme. I want to fade out and wake up somewhere else where no face is familiar and I’m left by myself, to keep plugging away at my own wasted time, to eat badly and spend all my money and write, to not fell to guilty and be tired at night, since were not fixing things here lets just leave it behind, so make your decisions, I’m through making mine. Easy. My heart always beats on heavy when I’m like this. Like pebbles on a rake. Like a real, physical weight, imposing itself. Fuck. I have this one then two more. That makes three. Three. I have three left. Three. That’s one more than I’ve had. I switched off. This ones for me. Zing. Finance can go hang. Go easy, you’ve been working hard, treat yourself. But you look so sober! Two left. Feel that slip, like someones twisting the dials. It feels like falling from a plane in the dead of night. An extraordinary feeling. A feeling of that cold November wind, perpetual motion,  terminal velocity, dropped in middle of nowhere. Kicking out. Scanning for a sense of light. Falling, seemingly forever, waiting for that big black landmass to come up out of the big black nothing and end this. Like riding a bike with your eyes closed. That’s where I am. Wow. Go easy. Make ’em worry. Did you ever think that making them worry as a atavistic  pre-approach  to putting yourself in a large amount of danger. Who cares? One that makes one. And the last two are kicking like mules. Like jack hammers. Like go easy. Holes in doors. Here’s Johnny. Why break a hole in a door just to nearly die in the snow? Because, why go to work? You got nothing. Hands coming up empty, a pair? A pair? fuck that. All aces. Run and a flush. A jump. A fall. A big black splat. If a boy falls from a plane in the pitch darkness, will anyone see him die? I look up. It’s two and 550 words later. It bled. I know little about it. I think about proofreading. No proofreading is for liar. Cowards. The dishonest. Those with something to hide. Intense. Outense. Pastense. Soundbite. Bloodcells. Bibles. Blankets. Slingshots. Pillows. Calm. Rested. Refiled. Eggshells. Regroup. Where is it. Calm. It’s easy. Guitar. I missed you. You got a bit broke but that was just outta love. Aimless graduate. Loans. Marks. Marxs. Blood. I watched an old friend hit the drums. I watched that look, the one, you know the one? Relief. Home. Easy. Worst case, dressed and dazzling. Boy that bubbles bound to burst and what a tragic way to fall. I sad to say we’re lost and I’m embarrassed for us all. Everything else is borrowed. Actors. Running lines. Her. And her. Want it. Want it fucking all. Why can’t it be yours? If you think the greats would turn down an opportunity? The problem with you is you never had the fear. The fear. God bless the fear. That makes none. None green bottles. Hold tight. Go easy. No wall. I asked his empire eyes. Answer. Tounge. Tell. Director yelling ACTION, set, aswell. Sense is lost among all of this. Don’t you think? Sense is conclusion. Conclusion is for the dead. She works hard. She types. She threw her typewriter, that her boyfriend bought her, from the window of their third floor window onto his two month old car. Windshield fucked. Bad boyfriend 101, don’t leave a fucking paper trail. Don’t you watch TV? Might swoop? She has a mother fucking type writer. That has to be worth something.I write like this for a reason. It’s not just words, well, for now it is, but in your head it can be more. I write, to say to you that you are normal, relax, you are not alone, we’ve all got crazy. We’re all vulnerable. Relax. The worst that can happen is suffering, and suffering is good for the soul. It’s loving lives we long for. Heaven bound and glory be. You see. It’s not easy. This isn’t easy. This is words. I have to deliver the oldest form of entertainment of the newest of median. Words on the internet. I just hope I keep you happier than me. It’s just comfort. If I had one more that would be none. Bang. Off goes her gun.
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