Yes I think I have the working man blues
The headlights will cut through the morning haze as they always do

That deal with the Devil type feel
Short walks to the liquor store

We go on and on
Circular motion
Until we hit the ground

Tired of Women who don't know what they're doing or what they want during sex
Tired of hands that are too weak to wring my neck
Tired of always thinking "What a fucking waste of time"

Closing eyes, opening consciousness, shift of reality

This cold lifeless season filled with folklore haunts Me
The feeling gets stuck in my bones
Hides and often resurfaces
Like finding yourself humming a carol you heard yesterday


Horizontal with the Earth beneath My body, Eyes opening like a dumbwaiter
Sleep paralysis
Dreaming and an imagination running wild have become indistinguishable experiences
The grip tightens

Months without a kind touch, My eyes are eternally closed to the external world
I can feel my body restricting the airways and carotid arteries of your body
I can read the sweaty, straining, panicked, feeling like body language braille
I can see against my eyelids the room of future endings, it's walls are not bare

On the walls are reflected flashing lights from outside, pouring through the windows
While warm dampness drips and slowly coagulates
A single sentence hastily written before departing
"We had a pact, it's your turn now."

Memory

There's a reason that it's Men who sing the blues.
Nights that begin first with the bottle or glass in hand long before the guitar or mic, night after night in bars with cheap drink specials and uninterested audiences.

Prophetic dreams are left for interpretation by the wise and marginally schizophrenic.
Hesitant to use the word "haunting" because "haunting" implies that the thing in question is frightening or malicious, especially when it comes to dreams of memories.

Everything. My life, my endeavors, everything I touch.

It's a brightly lit hallway.

It's a bit long and everything at the end of it is at a distance, but I can still make out most of it.

Eyes skyward, the stars have never been so bright while whiskey stained breath materializes in the chill of winter nights.
Maybe I think of you in some cliche and melancholy way, like how you're looking at the same moon as I am.
Maybe tonight I managed to get your memory out of my mind.
Maybe.
But always I'll look to the low hanging sun through my morning headache and sunglasses and think of you.

Perceived Lapse of Continuity

The cigarette hangs loosely from My dry lips like a man whose sentence was just carried out. The rope is cut, letting gravity have it's way. Gray ash clings to the black shirt, because deep down nothing truly wants to die. My head rests zen like against the white (soon to be yellow) wall while the vibrations from within and outside this structure meet. Perfect resonance. An introspective view of the exterior: My essence stands over My shoulder to gain new perspective, It instructs Me to rid My shirt of the cigarette ash in a cool manner. Like James Dean probably would. A single bulb fights to permeate the low hanging and quickly growing cloud as if we're reaching deep sea levels of thought. Too soon the struggle for steady breath forces a window open. The pool above us drains, only to be rapidly filled again as if summer ended and then resumed immediately. A neon grip takes hold of consumption by the throat until it's lungs burn without emitting light. An assembly of sultans(Satans?) semi-circle seated in Indian style, of both posture and methods of ritual, in a room perfectly sized to "contain" or harbor a soul. The center of the universe is a second story flat. Perfect resonance found in the later hours, we're left baying at the moon.

Passion Without Fire

Splitting wood in backyards of suburbia while splitting hairs of necessity
Stacking the cracked and weathered wood grains. Accidentally thorough. Energy and vibrations and a basic level.
Take from the land what you need and nothing more.
Exhale and see the warmth that is leaving us all. See your soul while it exits your body.
Stale sweat drapes us while bacteria thrives in dry mouths but all that matters is that constant wailing of cymbals in my head.
Independence seems like an unattainable beauty
The one who always gets away
The one who leaves you alone in bed at night
The one who apologizes for running off and laughing and carrying on with that other crowd
Self imposed dogma to govern the self leaves a soul self loathing
Bottle tipped night after night with a weak wrist
You don't understand a simple mind like your own, how could you possibly begin to comprehend Me?