You keep on calling, and I'll keep pretending I'm not around.

Tonight the company of a bottle and a record on repeat is all I really need.

I don't know if I'm drinking to remember or drinking to forget; forgetting doesn't come easy.

Remembering is a sun of a bitch - calls back the insignificant memories that curl your lips into a smile and then immediately sink in your gut like a bad meal. Those heart beating, nostalgic ditties that bring on the "I Miss You's." Well fuck those, and fuck me for bringing them up.

Another drink.

It's funny how another two fingers of whiskey can turn that sappy nonsense right around.

No time for remembering. Time to head into the night like some devious underworld creature; a loud, cretinous, drunk monster with bloodlust - blood, and lust. Fill myself another glass of the bitter bite; spit and spite, and now I'm clutching the wheel. No destination really, just a pedal to the floor, and music..

Ah, music.. the god damned savior. The soundtrack that drowns the dialogue of the worst mental movies. Turn it louder. LOUDER. Before I know it i'm out the door, tripping over fire hydrants and cursing those horrible colored street lights. Up some steps, push through a crowd of who give's a fucks; "Hey watch it asshole!".. "Fuck you" - and I'm sitting on a stool with another glass in hand. A voyeur at heart; I could care less about the dribble salivating from these fools lips. The kind of people that even make ME question if I'm a cretinous low life. Find the music. Ah.

Jameson rocks please.

I catch myself staring across the bar; heels, stockings, a dress, a face. She's standing there with some cookie cutter asshole who's about as deep as my back pocket. I immediately want to fight him and save the day, but this ain't a movie, and she ain't in distress. She looks over at me, our eyes meet and she flashes one of those smiles. The guy looks dissaprovingly at my demeanor, and blatant disregard for vanity. I shrug, finish my whiskey, and haphazardly make my way out of the stool and towards the door. Our eyes meet again.

"You're absolutely gorgeous" is probably what set him off, but the next thing I know i'm shifting gears and putting the pedal to the floor with this asshole slamming on my windows. She's smiles again as I tear up the block in front of the bar.

Home. Nightcap. One more whiskey, and that same record.

You keep on calling, and I'll keep on wishing it was her.

Against The Sun

come on down, place your bets, live and learn with no regrets.

fillin' cups, bathroom bumps, light another cigarette.

strum the chords, I'll learn the words, and we'll all sing along.

scream and shout, and thrash about, you know we can't go wrong.

you gotta roll the dice. put it on the line.

don't think twice, make haste, don't waste your time.

this ship will sink, we're on the brink, times a runnin' out.

late night regrets, you wont forget, throw away your doubts.

from bow to stern, it ain't what ya earn, it's how you navigate.

so take the wheel, with sturdy keel, and keep on sailing straight.

you gotta roll the dice. put it on the line.

don't think twice, make haste, don't waste your time.

make haste, don't waste your time.

make haste.

don't waste.

your time.

salad days

put those uneven bricks beneath my feet,

roaming timeworn streets, endless heat.

roll of the dice, boots laced tight,

spin the same three records all night.

your first bands, and one night stands,

walking tall, with open hands.

never thought twice about wasting time,

or leaving this city behind.

So simplistic, so realistic, so sadistic.

scrape and skim.

make do on whims.

roving troop-like,

with infectious influence,

clanking glass, and humor; crass.

crazy, cynical, cretins,

calloused, and carefree.

reconcile to the relief;

consumed in sacred ground for me.
there wasn't always a place to go,
but there was always an urgent need to belong.

and there..

it's all too often i fear that my eyes rat me out.

maybe the stitch job was too obvious.

maybe theres just too fucking many stitches.

confident, yet reluctant in advance.

out on the firing line one too many times,

stay steadfast, hold your course.

Ostracized if not otherwise ,
Left to my own device you'll surely see,

Rabbid dogs chewing at my feet,
Trying to protect their side of the street.

i am not a writer

i am human. i am the greatest fucking tool in the world.

i am twenty two years worth of self development; a hotbed of skills, stories, and creative thought. i'd even go as far as to say i am an interesting human, a strange mold-breaking foundry fuck-up crammed with real thought and idiosyncratic insight. and yes i do hold myself above many but that is mainly because the shit i like is cool, and our generation is filled with fuckin' retards. i am willing, able, and equipped to do great, but what good would that do?

you gotta realize nothing fucking matters; unless it matters to you. and what matters to most is pure bullshit. what matters is passion, talent, and bonds. everything else is based solely on monetary value and a sense of normality.

sorry i am not furthering my "schooling" and "career". sorry i still fail at getting a "normal" job, or for that matter living a "normal" life. sorry i am not climbing a ladder that is most definitely in the process of being kicked from beneath. i don't like the way the generations have transcended, and i will continue not being a part of it. rewind the calender half a century, and take a long fucking look. it boggles my mind how such a resilient, bright, intuitive breed of humans have devolved mentally into the dribble that leaks out of loathsome lovers today.

feeling the slightest guilt for the simpleminded guises i do not follow, only induces a discharge of stolid detachment.

"what are you going to do with your life?"

- live it motherfucker.

UNHINGED

Being severed from serenity ain't

an easy wound to lick.

Uprooted from native soil, ya know?

Little black address book is filled with numbers that never call.

Forgetting faces, trying to track down memories. Trying to read a map that's been torn in two, and taped to a mismatched half.

Absolutely unhinged trying to figure out how they intersect.

NO HEROES

These days, cowards outnumber the heroes, and the begging souls outweigh the calloused hands of the hardest of workers. Both in life and in art, the lack of passion is sickening, and the lust for complacency is poisonous.