you want pretty pictures?
i want ugly.
i don't mean i want to be ugly, or that
i want a woman which is ugly,
or that you are, or that i am.
i just want that sick sad truth
told by lies. it can only be told by lies.
because the truth is what you leave out;
those whispers, little insignificant
details you "forgot" to mention;
those colours and smells that burn the
back of your brain, the shapes and sizes and
faces and flavors you savor and
forget as a favor
to yourself. the truth is that we want the
best, but never give our best,
you can't accept embarrassment
so it's denial, which tastes somewhat
sweeter.
so does scotch from orkney.
i write a lot, and get tired of sharing
because you must get tired of reading
about a drunk punk with
motionless ideas
who questions himself
and you
and your motives
and the everything in between;
craving solidarity, craving connection,
craving clarity,
craving does nothing until you sleep it off,
wake the godfuck up, and open your skull
to today.
therefore i sleep some more,
you turn the page,
and the globe
fits like
a glove.