Twenty plus mix tapes later and,
not much has changed.
You still don't have the decency
to pull into my drive way, you don't
even pull over.
Every new moon I may receive a distant
removed wave from the window
but, its rare.
So I thought mix tapes might be a good idea.
To give you a taste of how you left me feeling however,
you've never been good at holding things down.
You always think that everything doesn't have to have an
underling mean it but, I always do
so, let me explain some songs on  this mix tape.
The first song reminds me of how you always
poked fun at the little I do.
But I never once
let two words slip on
how I felt about your "666" tattoo.
I just don't understand why you suddenly
decided that you're going to worship yourself.
Number two on the mix tape is about something
I'm really not a fan of,
republicans.
And the third song on the mix tape
is about you.
Which is funny since you are a republican;
so I guess song two and three go hand in hand,
unlike ours.
I wish I could of designed the cover with better words besides
"shut up" and "fuck you"
but, unfortunately whenever I think of your name now,
that's all that comes to mind.
The fourth song is about breakfast.
You love breakfast, I've always hated breakfast.
Though you did turn me onto french toast however,
you burned it and whenever I see it now
I,
want to regurgitate.
If you're wondering why the CD say
"72.8%" on it four times, its because
I just keep reminding myself that you,
are made up of 72.8% water.
You are mostly water.
A flat substance;
nothing more.
The last song on this mix tape is messy,
like the way you left me but,
you've never been much at cleaning up.
But
just like the worst lyrics in the worst pop song,

I can't stop singing you.

Factories are empty and all closed down,
The slow death of a lonely dying town. . .
Nothing left, 'cept for hopes and dreams to build.
Lookin' at the world through my front windshield.

Waitin' around in unemployment lines,
I don't see any new 'help wanted' signs...
Pass through a rolling stop, I barely yield,
Lookin' at the world through my front windshield.

War-time houses... clones up and down the street,
Sad shutters slumped, and paint peeled in defeat...
Waitin' for a light in an empty field,
Lookin' at the world through my front windshield.

Cruisin' the beach, and partyin' at night,
Drinkin', smokin', dreamin', lovin' this life.
Roll the windows down, see the world unveiled,
Lookin' at the world through my front windshield.

But the flag still flies here, so proud and strong,
And people still sing those sad country songs...
I see them search around for greener fields,
Lookin' at the world through my front windshield.

To get lost, like when all the earth goes black, sinking into silence
stars tumble into darkest seas, hidden from love's moon
that cannot shine alone

Many the deserts, dust covered roads
with wind to blow a path of love
toward home

The rains will come with songs and Spring
gathering clouds and lovers
your days will float - high
on dreamy waters

There once was a man who said you could beat the world with your words. That you could conquer an army with the knowledge of a greater narrative and move the legions of many with the action of one verb. I want to believe who ever can recreate the frameworks our race. The foundational narrative of our moral ethic, the guidelines mankind has been leaning on for millenniums. I want to know a alternative story, with made up words and no respect for a-priori intuition or tradition but a legend of unabiding experience that is unlike any tangent or discourse known. I want to reinvent another codex.  

I saw god as the architect I consoled in the grand tree house, with the grand green house sitting in a quaint english archway. The telescope room was laid with bricks and from it I could see all that made me content. I felt the time changing before my eyes. Whether I was in compromise or not was entirely up to the seasons of zeus.

I am now never afraid of myself, I almost died and I remember it all. I have known fear and still revere the quenching of it's animosity. I am only a swerving flake of inner rind. I am all that is exhausted of my honest dive for humanity. I am me finally, a shell no more! Man is the helplessness of lost spatiality in his own timid surrealism. I have never been satisfied with the explanations no matter how exhaustive! Revisited by the techni-color outlook of the turning millennium craze. The alleviation of all hopes when they turned out a dead end inthemselves, a lost avenue of my childhood.

I guess we all wanted that age-old rampant abuse of youth in ways that were neither aesthetically pleasing or unifying towards our own, best. I was tired of the beautiful sprites I grew up with. I was tired of locking myself in closets at nights and rubbing my face into the it's knotted carpet floor. I'm tired of the songs that advocated joyful frolicking into the drapped daylight. The oddities grow old and the used up phrase are clique now. I lost my mind seeing the years of my language frightened by the sound of my own breath. Grow into yourself. I am done with you anyways. I am done seeing them engulf a titanic drift of colorful intentions; flirting around the grand bonfire of the uncreated experience. I am lost with them. I question more than just our own value and I resign my thoughts on themselves for their own wealth and safety. When you want it said so bad but the forces of those unforeseen, creative hives oscillate and never stop it's steps into the night-legend. Then the world ends and was never in out of tension. I electrify my time and run into the a.m. frantic like a monkey, waving around and jesting my arms. I'm tired of the old music, in with the artifacts who architect the reverberation of my heart.





Your myth has lived into the century and I can see your ideas into the lives of all maniacs and the honest young, the deranged youth. We are amidst a heavy tension, i cry again. I want my mother's words three times a day and more on my weak hours. I am content in the alien maze of my music and want only the childhood campers to love me like a king. They gathered around at night, around the campfire. They initiated the song and dance with gaiety rhythm; that was the nights stars collided into bedtime. The same night I was torn by the dreams of an old horrid man who gave me no name and no rest from tear and horror. What evil is an anonymous the Will that censors awareness and knowledge. If it kills


So what then of the tribal pack psyche we all inherit. In days where beauty was up to chance. Our proximity to a woman was determined by breeding patterns and the realm of funds available for travel and food. What now in these days of the internet? When the whole world is at the tops of our finger tips and even more far away is the understanding we gain of our inability to have the cream of the world. We are in a great exaggeration of ourselves, of our will, and of our determined out-come. We have little but the pessimisme of our predecessors to guide our philosophies application. The translation of dream-world is perfectly out of reach for us and always for our posterity. From here on out we are a new age. A new age whose gates are christened by the ungenuine thugs and malevolent brand names of our civilization. We are faking it till the end. I am scared and drilled by horror and filled more with black premonitions. I wish I had eyes to see myself with a more generous charity but I don't and neither do you. What you see is an age of outward anticipation for the soring ribbons of undone realities.

The artist is the one who has seen the broad fleeting wisp of an out-of-world innuendo. It is the ethereal encounter with a cognitive defect that mimic as a supernatural sensation, this is seen by the artist as true humanity and rightfully so as it brings him to tears.

I always forget that we are always on the cusp. That we are simply a few bruised years away from reveling in the stained, sealed golden sunlight of the age that has came. What we do now is entirely crucial to our ability to be in unending sorrow and remorse. We see our people in a clearer way, for what they where struggling with, for what their reverie finally came to look like, ugly or gleefully self created, their vision of the world will always be our continual source of inspiration.

We danced with lilacs
and told our stories to the demons that hid in our ratted hair.
Our pillows were aviaries for the broken corvine hearts
Our tears turned to black ink to write them love songs for them to sing in their mourning.
We wrote our secrets in the bark of trees
and sang our sweet nothings to our monarch butterflies,
but flew away and never came back again.

I stand aside sometimes
And await my punishment
Await my flogging
The consequences of my actions
I know I've been bad
I've lied to myself so, I have been had... by me
But that false reality, for a second, filled me with so much satisfaction
I stand aside, stand out of my own way... so I can see
The ability to be in denial to myself is one that I lack, that character is hardly me
And so, I stand aside sometimes, turn my gaze inward, and look inside at times
Correct my wrongs
The rhythm somehow kind of went off key
Re-write these songs
These bad ideas come in crowds... in throngs
These crazy things that we conjure up
That flow freely
Damn this tap
Will never stop giving
When will it dry up?

i want a love
that will make me feel
like the world
was made just for the two of us,
the stars revolving around our lives
like they're connected by a red thread.

i want a love
that will be so strong
it will burn the world to pieces,
and then
build it all back up again.

i want a love
that people will remember,
one that strangers
on the street
will be able to feel
just by looking at our smiles,
and the light in our eyes
when we're around each other,
the others' presence
simply just enough.

i want a love
that will last
longer than a lifetime,
one that would have us
shifting in our graves,
one that would be spelled out
in story books
and love songs.

i want a love,
this love,
to be between you and me,
because darling,
i would do anything for you,
hold your hand,
kiss your tears,
know your mother,
make you tea,
plan out dates,
take you to new york city,
paris,
collect sands from the moon,
if only you would ask.

These lost years of loneliness and social depravity
Have left me with nothing except this written tragedy
I sat and watched as the walls of my life crumbled away
Into this contorted sensation twisting through dismay
These ceaseless rememberance sessions screaming inside
A dead fixed stare on old friends taking cyanide

These bonds have come together in such a swift motion
And, just as fast they've came to their abrubt destruction
Dispersing any tint of mutual belonging from view
Molding a sad landscape of sighs and failing virtue
Watching as the remnants of my relationships loiter
The catacombs of these stockpiled confession letters

If only I could say anything my empathy had to tell me
My skeletal pose might have perched upright in a higher degree
And I would of have grown to a more formidable size
A clear cut aspiration that I never came to realize
Until all that I held grew too big for me to carry
and left me to stumble and sleep at the cemetary

Scratching dead love songs on century old gravestones
Where the forgotten have slept for generations alone
Hoping the crude penmanship might grace a weary heart
Or help a looming ghost feel a taste of love and depart
From the fog filled graveyard parade that it dwells
A final ringing from the synapsis of the greif bells

Sparking the ruin of a memory that doesn't seem real
A fading echo of a brotherhood I wish I could still feel
Detached from a reality that lurks in a decrepit imagery
Reshaping my empty cognition through a fake neuro surgery
I've reached the point where I have no reason to find
A replacement for all these buried pictures astray in my mind