I only find inspiration when all my pencils are m.i.a.
once upon a time in new jersey...
I met a girl, with cupcake hair, and the most beautiful personality; she was polka dot betsy johnson heals, she was band t's, she was a champagne super nova.
We met, we made love, and we moved like a tidal wave together. We took our breath away and started a fire with the spare oxygen.
Then, down the road, we met in a by-the-hour motel. A date that had been planned for months.
We sprawled out on the bed, myself, shirtless, wearing my most appropriate pair of $200 skinny jeans. Her, in her pink boyshort panties and a white lace bra. And we opened a tin containing valium, oxycontin, heroin, ketamine, xanax, lsd, opium, weed, cocaine, propoxyphene, tylenol 3s, tramadol, kolonopin, vicodin, and we sipped pink champagne from the bottle.
We spent the next two days on a binge, one drug after the other, over half of them were done while we were together. We would fall asleep during the act, and one of us would wake up and continue until the other woke. Or get off and do some more of....whatever.
I know I came inside her more than once. No protection, no birth control...we weren't worried about pregnancy, there were so many drugs in her system, we knew there wasn't a chance she would carry anything. Hell, she hadn't had her period in 5 months.
I wrote a poem about that weekend. It consisted of a list of drugs that rhymed. And something about us being fiends and south jersey elite.
Sure, we ruled the music scene. But big picture, we were just junkies having dirty sex in a dirtier motel on the white horse pike.
...and even that, a dream. an unfulfilled fantasy.
a napkin poem, scribbled alone, with my family fast asleep.
I've begun throwning away my memories. I started today by, literally, cleaning out my closet. Fishnets, bondage pants, jelly bracelets, from my glam rock/hard core days.
I checked every pocket in my extensive wardrobe from that period over ten years ago. I found 5 band pins, which I will keep. 2 fliers from some of my earliest shows. and 2 dollars, which will probably go to gas to get to my favorite trap house and back.
I plan on cleaning off my walls soon, covered in birthday cards, show fliers and tickets, sharpie notes from conquests above my bed, music awards from schools, wedding invitations, business cards, prom photos, so much history, so many anchors. So many reminders of my past, when all that's left is a bleak future.
I get trashed and write depressing stuff now. That's what I do.
Incase you haven't noticed.
"sittin' on my bed, wit my laaaptooop, sippin' on gin and juice, laaaid back, with my mind on my problems and an inebriated mind"
change subject. keep the mood.
The last girl I made love to, and I would call it making love, -I consider myself an expert on differentiating between that and fucking-, just told me that she has found a boyfriend because she knew that we would never become anything.
And that made me sad, however true it may have been.
I just want to stop thinking about girls god damnit.
I need to throw everything away and start fresh, with leather shoes, and an empty house, with a small shrine, containing those things that I have truly pored my soul into.
Silver, String, Momentum, Beat, Sounds, Lies, Wings, Wind, and Writing.
And in those, you will find my soul.
All my writing has the same basic feel. Or maybe I only write when I feel the same basic way. Like life's a lymeric or something. Ya dig?
So check it cutes, it's the content, the concentration in the craft.
The conspiracy and companies and we were worried of a draft.
It's a condition that you can't care, can never keep the crime scene clean.
It's a classic clash of circumstance, called out from your sleep.
I'd rather see fire in your eyes, then have to fight for apathy.
And I'm good at dreams and cocky closures, and you're good at one word replys.
And you can work a room beyond belief, and I'm just good at blurring lines.
I'm silver, I'm sing and string and momentum, I'm beat and sound and lies.
I'm dreams of us, I'm trust, I'm pixie dust, and I'm great at wasting time.
I'm genuine and calculated, and the easy part's the shine,
And I've got a box of secrets, full of the wings of things that fly.
And I can tell the day's desire from a glance towards the sky.
And I've got a cost, it's steep but it's for things that you can't buy.
And you're a mix of fae and fel, with super novas in your eyes.
You've got a grace that tastes like hell, but holds your halo high.
She's smoke and bars and billards, with a body built to blind
and she's got a smile to show her teeth, but never speaks her mind.
So I'm left to guess, and hope for the best,
and test the ice from time to time.
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