You and MeMe...
My heart was shattered into pieces
spread all over the floor
broken red shards of glass
And I was at the bottom
giving up on people, humanity, life
I was without a friend
Surviving on dimes I found in parking lots
living out of my car
You came along with a broom and some super glue
and swept up the shattered glass and glued
the pieces of my heart back together
You picked me up off my feet
held me in your arms
saw through the frown on my face and the tears in my eyes
(which you promptly kissed away)
You didn't support me like I expected
but rather picked me up and made me stand on my own feet
you said you'd be behind me if I should stumble
But I'm doing it on my own
With three words you built my confidence, made me smile
pushed the hair out of my eyes
With a single kiss you through a rope ladder into the hole I had dug
And gave me back my faith in humanity
and of course in myself
And I ...
I love you for it.
Because of your love I am stronger
I see you at shows, slamming into the crowd,
Your blue mohawk, oddly in place amongst your friends.
Your ripped jeans and tattered Vans are more than just a fashion.
To you it's life.
The feeling you get when you don your studded jacket and mosh to the sounds of Anti-Flag get you high.
(Higher than the dope you shoot into you arm)
You live your life as if it were a scene from SLC Punk,
Or a Ramones lyric.
Can Jello Biafra do any wrong?
You try to fight the system, to fuck the man.
You'd rather die than bray along with the rest of the sheep.
And still, in your own irony you bray with your own.
Eventually you will cut your hair, trade your jeans for a suit...
And let your ideals and that wonderful feeling fade
Into nothing but a yellowed photograph of what you used to be.
An anarchist evolved (or maybe devolved)
into a a quiet conservative businessman
And you'll tell your children to avoid the kids with the blue mohawks and the ripped jeans
A home without a homeAgree(ment) with the pouring rain:
It comes often, strolls past, and (I) will stand,
under bridges, face
Until my shirt sucks against my skin
and my pants slink low.
It will all flow away
AfraidI sit here, watching the smoke from an abandoned Camel drift up in the air,
watching the way it mixes with the steam from my semi-hot Tim Hortons'.
Not knowing where to go, but dreading going home.
Afraid of the darkness in my room, afraid of the emptiness in my bed...
Afraid of the hopefullness in my dreams.
(why is that the hardest part?)
I flip through the pictures on my phone, they're all of you.
I can't help but smile as Black Francis repeats the words to track 10 of the cd left in my car.
(La La Love You...)
Don't mean maybe...neither did I.
Smiling through tears is such a strange thing... like sunshine when it's raining.
Smoking In the DrivewayI could see my breath forming words--
sounds-- You pulled me closer
and closer tight against your taught
I don't remember if I dropped my cigarette
or just let it burn holes
in my hand. Grayish yellow carpet;
littered with down feathers, hidden
in a corner.
lingering smoke, hugging empty bottles, sticky
counters and cups overturned.
We live in a woods of rum bottles and plastic cups
and I can't wait to start fires…
"Just Be Friends"mascara running down my cheek, my stomach is dissolving, I can't move my hand, everything is tense, it's silent, I can't hear anyway I have blood in my ears
Breath in Breath out
I look like Rudolf, my cheeks are puffy like marshmallows in a microwave, 5 more seconds and they will explode, watch out you don't want goo all over you.
Everything is blurry, I can't stop coughing, there are no more tissues, but my skin is rough from being rubbed over and over, I'm too raw
My heart beat is drumming in my ears, I can feel it beat behind my eyes, My body aches, my muscles are twisted thin, sleep for me make me stop shivering, I'm cold and sweaty.
I can't breath anymore Fuck counting…
Debi At The Drive-InYears before she thought
she might want a daughter.
Standing on the side of the road
leaning against an abused mustard
charger. A Purple drive-in sign, lingering
in the upper corner, listing The Exorcist
as its must see.
Her eyes hidden behind circular sunglasses,
mouth in a straight line, head cocked,
arms crossed in front.
Sun-kissed brown hair in thick
straight lines reaching the wide buckled belt
that cinched tight bell bottom jeans.
A version of me trapped in the 70s.
With the pin straight hair I was never blessed
enough to receive.
Did she know then?
That in thirty years her face would
yellow with jaundice and liver spots
would decorate her wrinkled skin.
That this version of her would visit
blue veined legs, bloated stomach,
and failing kidneys.
Until slowly her blood, poisoned
the liver into submission, leaving
this hated photograph and sunglasses.