carpe noctem:

deadly heels and hell-bent grins,
giddy girls with intent to sin,
the night starts early,
but they never end,

while the punishments wear off,
the memories will never fade,
until next weekend...
it'll be the best "worst-mistake" i've ever made.

annoyed and ready

annoyed and ready,

i walk in again, knowing what i'm getting myself into,
not caring,
no point in being polite,
let's get down to business,

pour the stiffest drink my stomach can stand,
no, stiffer,
no point in hiding my intention,
let's get down to business,

i don't want a conversation,
i don't want to hear about your week,
just pass me your lighter,
no point in proper introductions, i don't really give a shit about your family name,
let's get down to business,

pull me closer, let me pull you back,
i don't want to talk about tomorrow, or yesterday, or this morning,
make me feel like someone needs me,
if only for fifteen minutes,
no point in telling me the truth,
let's get down to business,

i see them from the corner of my eye,
and boy does it sting like hell,
so make my drink stiffer,
no point in taking it easy,
let's get down to business,

i look in the mirror,
and i feel sick,

sicker than that time i got the flu,
sicker than that time i projectile vomited,
sicker than that time i got pneumonia,

so i look down,
down at my toes,
i take a break,
take a deep breath or two,
splash some water on my face,
and crane my neck,
i look back up,
but i can't stand to look myself in the eye,
i don't know what she'll say,
actually,
i don't know who she is,
and i don't want to think about it either,

annoyed and ready,

i walk out again, knowing what i got myself into,


and tomorrow morning,
i'll wake up feeling like hell,
laughing at the good times,
pushing away the bad times,
and i'll sigh,
because i don't approve of myself,
but i'll just push it away some more,
because i know i'm going to do it again and again,

i crawl out of bed,
annoyed and ready.

i think it's called a breakdown

It slapped me across the face,
And it punched me in the stomach,
And it kicked me on the floor,
till I spat blood,

And I repaid it,
By shoving my tongue down it’s throat,
By swallowing the fire dancing in a glass bottle,
By sucking the poison in a paper tube,
By doing anything and everything to put my life on pause.

It’s killing me,
It’s making me kill myself,

And I still welcome it,
Every night and every day,
With a smile on my face,
And a knife in my back.

Ars Gratia Artis

In the absence of sanity, art is born.

An artists greatest masterpiece is never initiated just because he or she was having a really great day. The most inspirational, life-changing, and historical works of art are derived from torture, hate, loss, lust, and sadness. Whether their guts be spewed on a canvass, or through an ink pen, or projected into a microphone… it’s spewed nonetheless. Art is messy. She doesn’t sit quietly in organized drawers, folded, waiting patiently. She is the pulsing gun whispering secrets to your forehead.

So here I am. In my darkest hour. Heart in my hands, head in my knees, arms offering. Art is killing me and I thank her all the same. Hard liquor lingers on my tongue, the stench of stale tobacco and menthol cigarettes slither through my hair, and memories of a night’s past dance between my ears. Laughing and singing and enjoying the torture burning my eyes. A walking, talking masochist...ready to strike. So here I am. In my darkest hour. Heart in my hands, head in my knees, arms offering. Art is killing me and I thank her all the same.

Art
is pain
is life.

dumber with age

i dont know too much about too much
but i know im blind, when it comes the time,
to say sorry

i dont know too much about too much
but i know it was your lips, that triggered the bliss,
in our kiss

i dont know too much about too much
but i know it was your fears, that i could hear,
that turned me deaf

i dont know too much about too much,
but i think it might be love,

i dont know too much about too much,
all i know is
when we touch, the world turns to dust

we tried and we lied

my eyes ache and my head itches
with a cluttered brain thoughts escape through twitches
im punching the air
but there's nobody there
and my knuckles start staining their stitches

my forehead sweats curse words
to my new-found executioners
they don't care
grinning at despair
preventing their victims to be disinterred

i know i fight an already-lost war
i feel my bow and arrow getting too sore
there is no hope
from my scalp to my toes
but i know that there's gotta be something more

i peer through the crack
but with an unexpected smack
my gut kicks
my stomach flips
now all i see is pitch black

tuck me to sleep -

i want to run through the city streets with my beat-up leather boots (they got in a fight with the moccasins... who the fuck knows why) my arms will wave gallantly like they're about to explode i want to sit on the hood of a yellow taxi cab with my eyes squeezed tight shut humming these great 70's songs i heard the other day i want to wear those fucking colossally huge sun-hats that those unbelievably rich women wear to horse races who have nothing better to do with their time then spend their almost-6-feet-under husbands' money and pick fights with each other about one another's wardrobe i want to dance in circles in a lumberjack shirt without getting dizzy i want wavy hair that reaches my hips i want to laugh at the sun i want to sing into the moon light i want to punch the clouds with my ugly arms i want to forget about the bad stuff and be happy all the time like butter cups i want to figure shit out i want to be debonair i want to eat at a great trattoria and order the food in italian i want to live fast i want to live great i want to live monumentally i want to live infinitely i want the desolate in my life to pack it's bags and leave me without explanation i want to sky dive