Strumming like a metronome
the feeling sinks like yesterday -
or Tuesday
maybe even Sunday.

It's all the same.

The days end in Y
and God still sits on the *******
reading Newsweek.

If he runs out of paper,
I pity the Watchtower.
It might come out with
post traumatic stress disorder.

Self awareness is the currency here
but all the mirrors are smashed,
or covered in grime.

The question remains;
When you're not sophisticated enough for here
and too sophisticated for there,
Where do you go?

I love the security
of the way we drink tonight.
I love the ambiguity
of the way we say hello
and the manner in which your taste
like the first drop of wine
sets my standard on broken edge
and my teeth are praying.

The roses in your eyes
the truth in your lies
come from the same place.
Lets just hope you know this
the way I do.

I wonder where the local rock stars
get their rhythm,
if they didnt pay for it
they surely stole it
from Bob, Simon and the rest.

Never trust a man who doesnt drink,
when he ***** a guitar into song.

You can hear it moan and crackle
as its heart seems to crumble
there in his sober hands.

If only I knew what he meant
by this adultery
he might make a dollar out of me.
But since he coats himself in mystery
a poor man pays not a cent
for a taste of his $2 life.

The Big Bopper got *****
by the ghost of Heath Ledger.
Somehow I think it made him smile.

I'm Not surprised;
all shock has worn off in subtlety.