Drame

Indie girls of the world

Ignite!

Don't deny your death in big words and long obfuscate stories.

The days aren't bright enough for you, I think. That's why you called and said you couldn't talk right now. If I didn't love you so much I wouldn't have had the strength to take shit like that but I'm getting a piece on the side lately and so it all just makes me patient. The guilt, that is.

I'm sure they've stopped looking for me now.

Bar walls

Brick.

And art house chick who I'm unworthy of.

Saying that sounds authentic, know what I mean?

Say what you need to say.

There will be Kentucky. And roads to Satan's doorstep South Dakota.

There will be roads leading away from every moment of your life

and its up to you to sit in the car idling and experience the momentary

myth that is neither here nor there.

Honeytone ultrasound.

Herds of nothingness puddle and pool.

The baby was dead and I doubted it was mine until the end.

We don't talk about that anymore.

Your doctor was drunk.

She's got that gas mask filled with spunk

and on her way, she's on her way

saying

we're on our way

Eyes half closed to the world.

Sure I listen to M83 because Spin told me to.

Sure I made sure to buy converse when they came back in for the 4^th time I can remember since the 5^th grade.

Sure I took loud footsteps coming home that afternoon.

WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON IN HERE?

There's a man's ass and it's naked and facing me. And the man is fucking my girlfriend from behind and they don't stop pumping and humping while they turn to look at me they only slow down a little bit and she moans like I haven't seen her do in years like when we first messed around and I didn't have to be drunk to get it up anymore.

Fuck man you can have her.

Just where am I going to sleep now?

Dear ****edit*****,
Don't call me. Don't you ever think to call me. Don't.
Say you're busy. Then this. I'll dream of you and not sleep. I hope I haunt you. I told you I was fucked up and I knew how to handle you better than anyone with a map but whatever. Needs? Fuck you. Fuck our history. Let him fuck you.
Just don't come back.
And I know that sounds cliche. But I mean it.
-DMM

Too young to know what conscience was;
I make these same mistakes. Again and again.

Living in base animal instinct and guilty of nothing but the con of nature. Evolution's little faults and betrayals.

Down to the marrow of my bones I would delight in settling down. One of those Marriages that rust.
I can be noble and my skin can betray me.

I don't need you.

I don't need the panhandle of Michigan.

The smaller island of Hawaii.

The Texas coastline of my past needing to be mopped up off the floor.

By the time I finish mopping up the past the future has spilt all over the fucking place.

Metal on Metal. That's what we are right now.

The crisp aluminum frier of the End Times.  For the pleasure, to connect. There was a time when I couldn't get it up unless I heard your name.

Little bastard gets up and points only to you.

That's love, right?

A big hairy pet follows you around.

Sniffing and making a mess when you'll let him.

Early in the morning.

He's not even ashamed of himself.

He looks fucking proud.

Ignite!

Over!

The

hands of the Receivers.

Smooth and grim you wonderful creature you.
He is contented to drudge about with only one aspiration.

To be.
"To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
No want of conscience hold it that I call
Her 'love' for whose dear love I rise and fall."

Some say life is a swift and terrible race

I say life is long.

Or some such simulacrum of truth which is the assumed color of my absolution.

What was I talking about that night?

Remember when I came over feeling the old desert urge to hurricane across the abyss in one fell Katrinan swoop of mad fucking desperation?

Accept psychic cures. Don't get mad.

Garbage bags full of Russian nesting dolls. Night trucks to Utah.

She said I’ll think of you every night
The vulture, she sang: why’d you wait so long
You're gone. I'm gone.

You're gone. I'm gone.

We've built up this world in our head and the expectation didn't exact its toll on reality, and so I paid for a ticket and paid for a pack of cigarettes I don't smoke and give two to a guy who was talking to me about pianos. Memorized dances. That's all it was.  I was on New York City stoned and neon highlighted binge of war memorials flew past in upturned bottles shouting

I loved her and you hated that.

She was 16.

Call it what you will but she was alive and her hair was knotted and her clothes were patched and her vagina bled her own blood not just the dead kind that you blamed me for with withholding, because she wrote poetry and sold pot one summer and listened to bad music passionately and wrote in many colours and had many men and fell hard and drank harder and drove her car off the road and skinny dipped with complete strangers in the middle of the city at midnight and thought about kissing me but didn't that one time and I loved that girl.

That ruddy lifetime or two ago. How many have we wasted on this lie that we call birdsong?

Baby. Blasphemy. Don't kiss me.

Don't seduce me with your sex. DON'T STAND SO CLOSE!

There's no cure for your disease except release.
I've got a picture of you I can find my release to.

Over the sea.

Jacking off the end of the docks.

Baby's dead in a pool of blood I mop off the hard wood floor crying smoke dangling ugly plot hanging out like a limp dick for all to see and suck on if they wish

Saying that sounds authentic, right? Real enough to ignite the corpse of a story? My life? Know what I mean?

"Where Am I Edison?  Where'd it all go wrong?  Vincent? St.  Thomas!  Barnard, dive into the lakes!  Freeze your little white girl asses off!  Oh a Malay?  So sorry.  Indie chicks of the world, Ignite!  Indie chicks of the world, Goodnight!"