Faces don't get... any fresher.
No pressure... on either of us please.
Just saying is all. Just saying.
Methol break. The cook's sneaking shots in plastic cups. They're left in the butt can with syrupy fireball residue, golden brown, texture like whiskey. Who would fail to notice? Who would care? No pressure, on either of us, please. Luxe eternal for a woodsprite splinter.
Empty adulation - but I crave your masturbation - like the rock I didn't smoke today. Not attention starved, only carved with blunt instruments, memorial park granite, first initial, last name, accounted in aggregate, stat.
I could be yours. I could be yours, all yours, for the low low price. I shaved my head, just for you - cause the rehab dope-peddler told me to - he said I have self confidence issues, don't I? Here, a broken clock's right thrice a day, so I shaved my head just for you. I'm the missing ingredient, pared down to nutritional value. I could be yours, all yours, for the low low price.
Technique. A slug on a straight razor, spelling technique. Ring of empty, rattle. All research done. Shutters on Black Mesa, flickering lab light, making anything everything. Trivial pursuit, playing to win, lose, or drawing room comedy, parlor guitar. If you drink, I'm gonna drink, cause Mr. Overbee is falling, falling down like an Irishman. An Irish wristwatch tells all time most of the time, and some time all of the time. An Irish clock is broken most of the time, and right once an aeon.
High concept, star-speckled loneliness - rubbing alcohol and icelesta. Sucked in, but it don't blow. As below fruitfly, so above fruitfly. Broken earth makes molten tires. Tires full of rainwater make mosquito lagoons, larvae by any other name fails preschool. Flunky mozzie. Et, it just ain't the same, they're playing for blame, après extra terrestrial tabernacle choir.
He's a leaf thief but wouldn't you? There's window washing work for you, heebie jeebie jesu squeegie hustle and cocksucking crack hos. Back home, they smoke rocker. Do you recall its name? At its suggested beck and call. Paraphernalia amounts to a mound of pre-lapse, under every skirt's a slip, under blond skin, an expected involuntary giggle, he's silly, this player, with his grim passion, like he's fucking for babies for jesus, exposed bishop, lapsing in catholic fortitude, lost, found, in the jungle, cold, behold the desert nuns in summer clothes, in breast-hugging navel-baring clothes and sweaty pantie-hoes - yes, pull her panties off with your teeth, a maneuver released to the public domain in 1984, but you're so punk you're not neo, nor retro, but imprisoned in a no smoking symbol, hippie craque, so you don't care.
Gypsie hair - you're in my dreams. Still. A little taste of what could be for me, in another key, one I never learned. It was beatific, an F sharp I say, in impressionistic insulation. Harmony was hard, fucking you right to orgasm, or so I imagined, was led to believe. I also remember, Nikko said you would meddle with my poor little head, and leave me broken, haha, broken, what ever, crazy Nikko. Well I can't say I was broken, or not for long, I patched myself up with what was available, and now I'm here to recover from the chemotherapy. It's all part of God's plan.
I'm in rehab like I said I was gonna be, but I'm sure that makes no difference to you. This torch song serves only to illuminate the dungeon I pace, back, forward, back, dripwater chat with dead player. I had my shot, haha. Now there's a new guy for you. He was only referenced in an email, telling me to "man up". And get my stuff from your house, cause I wouldn't want him to come bring it over himself. So I went to an empty house, shuddering, and grabbed the drawings and gifts, the ones that were stuffed into a home hardware bag. My friend Neil here in Kelowna, he said, damn, at least she could have put them in a box. Haha. That made me smile.
Does it remind me a little bit, of something? The end of the preceding relationship? No closure, and on her terms. Pseudo politeness, infuriating euphemisms. I was gonna write my grief letter to Desiree, but for some reason, here at Crossroads, I'm thinking and dreaming about you. Are you worth this grief letter, and this sore wrist? Are you that important? Well, I'm writing it a half hour before group therapy. I procrastinated this far. Figure I'd keep you as an afterthought, like you kept me. That was your torch song, a snappy little ditty, ended with a quick sarcastic curtsy cadence. But I still freeze in vertigo when I see anyone who looks or sounds like you. Like that chick in that movie, "Changing Lanes", the office girl Ben Afflick was cheating on his wife with, the one who looked a girlish 30ish, and reminded me how filling it was to have someone to myself, someone who wasn't the ideal, but realer and better than that. So I guess you are that important, even if I was a provisional partner.
For some reason I flash back to the night we dressed up as pirates and went to the Spiritbar. You with your long wig on, looking so hot. You thought it was a riot, us playing dress-up on a boring tuesday night, and me, the initiator, no less. On the way I bought some K and got kicked out of the bar for doing rails, the mystery man. Even pirates have to follow the rules. Clandestine hooping. Well I knew in a factual way how much of an idiot I’d appeared, but the fact didn't bother me so much with my head full of animal tranquilizer. Now the feeling comes back, hard. Oh man. But you followed me to the Royal, where I snorted more K in a more hospitable environment. That got me gooned, High Weirdness that always seems worth it. Ended up talking halfsense with hippie trippers outside for hours while you were inside with your gypsie wig.
I guess you're more perfect than I gave you credit for. You had standards, you stuck by them, you decided I was choosing the drug over you, and you left it for me to figure out what real life things were variables in your equation. Maintained I was an invalid for loving ketamine dissociation. Funny, Desiree always said I never showed as much passion in loving her as I did with drugs. She never said that when she was drunk though. And I always insisted: love, drugs, they're both chemicals yeah, but it's so apples and oranges, girl.
So now, outside the haze, in rehab, where everything is perfectly clear, crisp static, hacking signal with a machete, things come back to me that I never processed before. I remember that night you said, in a sad voice masking rage: "I got offers tonight. I could have gone home with this person, that person. This person in particular." I thought little of it at the time. Maybe that pissed you off, haha. Thinking back to that gave me a sick jolt. You with your sexy gypsie hair. And I guess you stuck by me that night, although you were this close to leaving. So I guess you were angry that you could have had someone better, while I was anesthetized outside the bar. Understandable. And you stuck by me, and I won't qualify that. And I stuck with drugs, although I stuck with you too, like a Velvet Underground song. But I'm sure you thought, what did I give up, for this K-tard?
It hurts thinking that I proved you right, that I wasn't worth it. Yeah, you're too healthy and balanced for the likes of me. You've got your neuroses and battles with life, but I haven't been granted those magazine struggles. You, blond lawyer hair, girlish thirty, old enough not to waste time with men that don't measure up. But we could have been friends, still. I don't understand why that was noise to you. Didn't want to be dead to you. I throw death around too often, like it's a ninja weapon. Haha. Contriving dignity or at least assholery by hanging on every chuckle. It's my hang up, my dial tone on the call you never took.
You're sorry, just a little bit, that I hurt, despite all the custom cabinets your boyfriend, the real one, builds for you, and despite his spare spite. I hurt, yeah, perhaps, you'll think, every six thousandth drag on a belmont cigarette. Even healthy livers gotta have a vice, and you only think of cancer every eight thousandth drag, I'm a higher priority than cancer. I hurt, passively, nobody hurt me.
You shouldn't have refused to remain friends, you think. That must have sucked for me. For you too, but it's like Jerry said, do it like a band-aid, one motion, right off. Your skin healed well. You see that my self-worth is fragile - most of it is tied up in investments. You can sort of understand abandonment. You still think of me often. Well, not really, but often enough to justify a white lie. Those three months, you say, they were significant. Not scrapbook material, but, you know. They required cleaning fluid to cleanse. That's not nothing, is it? Things change, rather quickly sometimes, you should know that, you should be philosophical, there's dignity in that. You don't know how else it could have ended, it's like the best of all possible worlds. I might enjoy living healthy, you'll say. It's worth the effort. And no smilie. Just a period. Love, Wendy, haha.
No pressure... on either of us please.
Just saying is all. Just saying.
Methol break. The cook's sneaking shots in plastic cups. They're left in the butt can with syrupy fireball residue, golden brown, texture like whiskey. Who would fail to notice? Who would care? No pressure, on either of us, please. Luxe eternal for a woodsprite splinter.
Empty adulation - but I crave your masturbation - like the rock I didn't smoke today. Not attention starved, only carved with blunt instruments, memorial park granite, first initial, last name, accounted in aggregate, stat.
I could be yours. I could be yours, all yours, for the low low price. I shaved my head, just for you - cause the rehab dope-peddler told me to - he said I have self confidence issues, don't I? Here, a broken clock's right thrice a day, so I shaved my head just for you. I'm the missing ingredient, pared down to nutritional value. I could be yours, all yours, for the low low price.
Technique. A slug on a straight razor, spelling technique. Ring of empty, rattle. All research done. Shutters on Black Mesa, flickering lab light, making anything everything. Trivial pursuit, playing to win, lose, or drawing room comedy, parlor guitar. If you drink, I'm gonna drink, cause Mr. Overbee is falling, falling down like an Irishman. An Irish wristwatch tells all time most of the time, and some time all of the time. An Irish clock is broken most of the time, and right once an aeon.
High concept, star-speckled loneliness - rubbing alcohol and icelesta. Sucked in, but it don't blow. As below fruitfly, so above fruitfly. Broken earth makes molten tires. Tires full of rainwater make mosquito lagoons, larvae by any other name fails preschool. Flunky mozzie. Et, it just ain't the same, they're playing for blame, après extra terrestrial tabernacle choir.
He's a leaf thief but wouldn't you? There's window washing work for you, heebie jeebie jesu squeegie hustle and cocksucking crack hos. Back home, they smoke rocker. Do you recall its name? At its suggested beck and call. Paraphernalia amounts to a mound of pre-lapse, under every skirt's a slip, under blond skin, an expected involuntary giggle, he's silly, this player, with his grim passion, like he's fucking for babies for jesus, exposed bishop, lapsing in catholic fortitude, lost, found, in the jungle, cold, behold the desert nuns in summer clothes, in breast-hugging navel-baring clothes and sweaty pantie-hoes - yes, pull her panties off with your teeth, a maneuver released to the public domain in 1984, but you're so punk you're not neo, nor retro, but imprisoned in a no smoking symbol, hippie craque, so you don't care.
Gypsie hair - you're in my dreams. Still. A little taste of what could be for me, in another key, one I never learned. It was beatific, an F sharp I say, in impressionistic insulation. Harmony was hard, fucking you right to orgasm, or so I imagined, was led to believe. I also remember, Nikko said you would meddle with my poor little head, and leave me broken, haha, broken, what ever, crazy Nikko. Well I can't say I was broken, or not for long, I patched myself up with what was available, and now I'm here to recover from the chemotherapy. It's all part of God's plan.
I'm in rehab like I said I was gonna be, but I'm sure that makes no difference to you. This torch song serves only to illuminate the dungeon I pace, back, forward, back, dripwater chat with dead player. I had my shot, haha. Now there's a new guy for you. He was only referenced in an email, telling me to "man up". And get my stuff from your house, cause I wouldn't want him to come bring it over himself. So I went to an empty house, shuddering, and grabbed the drawings and gifts, the ones that were stuffed into a home hardware bag. My friend Neil here in Kelowna, he said, damn, at least she could have put them in a box. Haha. That made me smile.
Does it remind me a little bit, of something? The end of the preceding relationship? No closure, and on her terms. Pseudo politeness, infuriating euphemisms. I was gonna write my grief letter to Desiree, but for some reason, here at Crossroads, I'm thinking and dreaming about you. Are you worth this grief letter, and this sore wrist? Are you that important? Well, I'm writing it a half hour before group therapy. I procrastinated this far. Figure I'd keep you as an afterthought, like you kept me. That was your torch song, a snappy little ditty, ended with a quick sarcastic curtsy cadence. But I still freeze in vertigo when I see anyone who looks or sounds like you. Like that chick in that movie, "Changing Lanes", the office girl Ben Afflick was cheating on his wife with, the one who looked a girlish 30ish, and reminded me how filling it was to have someone to myself, someone who wasn't the ideal, but realer and better than that. So I guess you are that important, even if I was a provisional partner.
For some reason I flash back to the night we dressed up as pirates and went to the Spiritbar. You with your long wig on, looking so hot. You thought it was a riot, us playing dress-up on a boring tuesday night, and me, the initiator, no less. On the way I bought some K and got kicked out of the bar for doing rails, the mystery man. Even pirates have to follow the rules. Clandestine hooping. Well I knew in a factual way how much of an idiot I’d appeared, but the fact didn't bother me so much with my head full of animal tranquilizer. Now the feeling comes back, hard. Oh man. But you followed me to the Royal, where I snorted more K in a more hospitable environment. That got me gooned, High Weirdness that always seems worth it. Ended up talking halfsense with hippie trippers outside for hours while you were inside with your gypsie wig.
I guess you're more perfect than I gave you credit for. You had standards, you stuck by them, you decided I was choosing the drug over you, and you left it for me to figure out what real life things were variables in your equation. Maintained I was an invalid for loving ketamine dissociation. Funny, Desiree always said I never showed as much passion in loving her as I did with drugs. She never said that when she was drunk though. And I always insisted: love, drugs, they're both chemicals yeah, but it's so apples and oranges, girl.
So now, outside the haze, in rehab, where everything is perfectly clear, crisp static, hacking signal with a machete, things come back to me that I never processed before. I remember that night you said, in a sad voice masking rage: "I got offers tonight. I could have gone home with this person, that person. This person in particular." I thought little of it at the time. Maybe that pissed you off, haha. Thinking back to that gave me a sick jolt. You with your sexy gypsie hair. And I guess you stuck by me that night, although you were this close to leaving. So I guess you were angry that you could have had someone better, while I was anesthetized outside the bar. Understandable. And you stuck by me, and I won't qualify that. And I stuck with drugs, although I stuck with you too, like a Velvet Underground song. But I'm sure you thought, what did I give up, for this K-tard?
It hurts thinking that I proved you right, that I wasn't worth it. Yeah, you're too healthy and balanced for the likes of me. You've got your neuroses and battles with life, but I haven't been granted those magazine struggles. You, blond lawyer hair, girlish thirty, old enough not to waste time with men that don't measure up. But we could have been friends, still. I don't understand why that was noise to you. Didn't want to be dead to you. I throw death around too often, like it's a ninja weapon. Haha. Contriving dignity or at least assholery by hanging on every chuckle. It's my hang up, my dial tone on the call you never took.
You're sorry, just a little bit, that I hurt, despite all the custom cabinets your boyfriend, the real one, builds for you, and despite his spare spite. I hurt, yeah, perhaps, you'll think, every six thousandth drag on a belmont cigarette. Even healthy livers gotta have a vice, and you only think of cancer every eight thousandth drag, I'm a higher priority than cancer. I hurt, passively, nobody hurt me.
You shouldn't have refused to remain friends, you think. That must have sucked for me. For you too, but it's like Jerry said, do it like a band-aid, one motion, right off. Your skin healed well. You see that my self-worth is fragile - most of it is tied up in investments. You can sort of understand abandonment. You still think of me often. Well, not really, but often enough to justify a white lie. Those three months, you say, they were significant. Not scrapbook material, but, you know. They required cleaning fluid to cleanse. That's not nothing, is it? Things change, rather quickly sometimes, you should know that, you should be philosophical, there's dignity in that. You don't know how else it could have ended, it's like the best of all possible worlds. I might enjoy living healthy, you'll say. It's worth the effort. And no smilie. Just a period. Love, Wendy, haha.
No comments:
Post a Comment