Click click click goes the lighter

I stare at my beautiful back bone as she breaks a part

She takes her poison just the way I taught her

But is time with her new lighter

Click click click

Tears run down her soft face

Click



Her nervous tick gets slower

No please keep going

When she clicks the lighter at least her mind is on something else

Just for that split second

Look forward, only a little longer

Why can't I help you like you helped me

I want to hear you trucking on strong




Click click click

That's better

Wrote this while my best friend since childhood and I drove 1300 miles to South Florida on a whim for Spring Break. It's epic, so get comfortable.

"Approachable but you wouldn't know it.  Proclamations of the Romantically Challenged"

Day one.

We meet, old friends...watch old friends...become old friends again.
We find our lost grins, ones only shared with our closer than kin.
Thin shagrins of lasting cynicism and sinister pasts are masks to the blasts we got away with and lived to tell the tale.
Alas, we are sons and friends first, not last.
We cling to our good old glory stories past,
But at last the time is new, our trip begins.
Wheels burn, stomachs churn.
Our aspired souls yearn,
to fire the liars and unconcerned.
We head for the East coast.
With temperatures rising,
approaching unseen horizons,
rejecting the superficially tantalizing,
we begin to feel our tattered souls wisen.
Talking a new talk, calculating the steps to walk a new walk.
Testifying our pains, devilishly dodging heavenly rains, the bitter bites but invites change.
Watching yourself in a friend, a cynical kidder gone bitter.
Your mirror becomes your babysitter.
We search our hearts and back again down I-10.
We find strength and talk about things friends for life can only talk about on a walk about.
We lift some Spirits to lift our spirits.
Night falls,
we arrive alive… our walk about calls 1,365 miles in 18 hours.

Day two begins.

Meet and greet with the beach.
Get a handle on some handy sandals,
some nicotine candy and butane candles.
A fifth of Daniels.
Jack and Jose will duel this day.
"You know it's know your fault, pass the lime and salt," ends most answers before noon.
Let's take some dares with the local fare, shadowing the glare of our wear and tear.
The sun fries,
windy sands fly,
waves pacify,
dropped bikini tops glimpsed from the corner of our eye, testify.
The Sun sets.

Shuffing off the nightlife status-quo of Clematis Row, we turn our walkabout into a Palm Beach Safari...Club.
Whoa! Rows and rows of walking, talking shows barely clothed from head to tanned toes.
Making funnies about hunting honies preying on money.
The unattainable passes. We tap our glasses.
"Point in case, what a waste, such tragedies as these, a lot of money and a little cheese meets a little ****** in high cut sleeves, low-cut cleaves & cuts way above the knees.
Our cuts are deep. Bartender, two Yagers please."

Low and behold…on those stools sit no fools.
Breaking all rules.
with Coronas as fuel,
we inflate our jewels.
As we coach our approach, mentioning "I-10 and back again" prompts grins,
hides our cynicism and sins,
then, moving in to win friends.
Names and places put to faces, careful glancing, winks and dancing.
Alright, the trips to the bathroom are getting old.
Warm smiles once cold, honest questions and truths told…no souls sold…we fold? Hmmmm.
We leave and arrive alive.
Caffine and nicotine stay the scene until the wee hours overpower us.

Day three unfolds

The sun rises and the ocean calls.
Old molds broken
No lies spoken.
No need to peddle your life away settling on the day-to-day following peers falsely content and full of contempt.
Eyes turn bright,
the Sun pours over night,
dolphin, lime and salt,
golfing talk,
day approaches night.
Less tense and more pensive,
more apprehensive and less expensive,
even so we head out to even the evening,
to end our grieving and start achieving....something.
Latitude changes have rearranged our attitude gauges.
So we choose West Palm's Clematis Row to show us how a little rude,
lude and tattooed could clue us in on the anew.
Fools with jewels.
Girls with rules.
Uncool tools abound.
We walk this street of sleekish freaks,
the falsely meek,
lions that squeak.
"Club Respectables" is dubbed rejectables as the objectionable scene is seen as a scheme by vampires with recessive genes.
Next is Spanky's…Best described as "A frat boy fishing pole contest to tackle box in bait shack." One bucket of beer away from "I got your back Jack in case of attack."
We move along.
Colombia Supreme brewed proceeding it's fine grind and American Online becomes the sign of the times swaying us to stay and play at an Internet Cafe.

"I could live here," proclaims a cynical kidder once bitter now soothed by the sea spray and salty air.

Enlightenment heightened by a magic man,
near night's end, inspires an O'Shea's Black and Tan.
The crowd mocks and baulks the sidewalk scene from the patio Pub Dubbed Irish.
We greet the ground,
not the masses' frown,
seat our ***** down,
toast our glasses of black and brown,
our bitters with bite wash down the bitter frowns we normally wear out in our hometown.
"That's a sharp Harp's and sinister Guinness; can I get a witness?"

We head back down our beaten path, writing our epitaphs and usual eulogies...But you know that the "place" or your "space" will change your face, one makes the case."If you sound bitter and you look bitter, chances are you are bitter."
I begin to smile during our final mile of token jokes,
Corona smokes,
shiny Harley spokes.
We leave and arrive alive at the realization,
we have things to strive for in our lives.  
We smoke and joke and poke fun at the run down broken blokes we were before our fun in the sun had begun.
  
Day four begins.
  
We embark for the Ozarks. Our souls at ease.
Save the scene...the last palm tree's waving leaves,  
we wave our palms and leave.
1300 miles more,  
Pushing the morning hour of four,  
empty coffee cups galore,  
moonings a score,  
pedal to the floor,  
memories and more,  
we knew we would be back for more.  
Suddenly learning how insane our inane claims of waning fame should hold no shame,
we reframe our game.
Upon our return…
the strength to strive, take back our broken banks and breaking backs.
Less taxing, more relaxing..."it could happen"... eliquinent waxing.
As we search our hearts and back again, down I-10,we find the strength in things you can only talk about on a walk about,
but that's what it was all about.
By R.Craig David-copyrighted 1995

It isn't the fuel I lack,
My heart rests at the spilling point.
I look not for kindled wood to keep me lit,
But for the Kinder voice that would yield the appropriate heat.
I am as cold as butane alone,
I burn for a companion.

Sparks are as cheap as thrills,
The wholesome whisper of the promised ignition teases the flint in my pockets.
I yet burn for another temporarily.
Yearning for the forever, while bursting over every one, ever.

Peasant pleasantries persist painfully,
Pouring through my pursed lips I stray a plenty.

For every fragrance carriers more then a scent,
They collaborate together,  a massive cyst in my mind.
I cannot overlook the Siren's smell.
Rather I take note and dwell.

Dwelling in the dark, looking down, I drink.
Water that rushes through the world comes to rest in my glass, as I contemplate the transparencies of my affection.

Every ounce of pressure against my veins,
like the flood of heavy summer rains.
Trying to escape the coating of my flesh,
internal tensions I could not oppress.
I hear crickets, smell the morning dew.
All I can ever concentrate on is you.
Made to feel nervous but oh so calm,
sometimes even sweet like cherry lip balm.
A moment of combustion then release,
your tongue wanders onto my body, into a crease.
I'll never care if I get rich,
so ever long as you ease my twitch.
Stale smoke and the scent of butane,
breath seeps into me like a bloodstain.
You, a child at heart
and I, a freak into abstract art, like Ad Reinhardt.
What a fine creation, our own constellation,
an innovation, better than intoxication.

I feel like going back to those days,
when I could feel and not fear it.
When I didn't know the world's ways
and I didn't yet need my fighting spirit.
When I could simply have a romance,
nothing complicated or categorized,
that would come up by happenstance
with no limits needing to be devised.

I miss those days, I could awaken
find another body next to mine,
and not even be mistaken
in thinking this won't be the only time.

I miss those days with a passion,
too often I feel like I'm crashin'
straight through the mud and the dirt
all the pain and the hurt.
I render my poems inert,
when I stare in the mirror,
see myself crying and dying,
insanity getting nearer.
I one day hope to rise from it all,
stand from the ash, proud and tall,
but I know that after I do
I'll eventually once again fall.

I miss those days
in more than a million ways.
Watching my eyes glaze over
thinking about days over
again.
I flow my heart into this pen
put my soul into what I write
now and then.
I know I'll be that happy once more,
I've got that joy kept in store,
for a future when I suture
this wounded pride and mind.
I've got a stride in mind,
for when I return.
See the surprise in their faces,
I bet they thought I would burn
up in the anger like butane.
I'm just too hard to contain
and I walk through cold rain,
thinking about once upon a time,
through sweat and grime,
You were mine, I was yours,
now it's vice versa.

Burning her fingertips,
while testing the radius of the flame's heat,
until it meets the end of a Marlboro.

"Happy new year!"
Fireworks ignite,
and she has her first kiss with nicotine.

How can something both scald and soothe?
At least she's conquering her commitment issues.

When people say “rekindle an old flame,”
I find it very misleading.
That flowery wording
Makes it sound so
Musical
So Promising

What it really is
Is that *** lighter
That you sparked
And resparked
And swore wasn’t empty
Before leaving in your pocket
Sometime ago.

When you found it,
you lit up,
Friction flicked that
Wheel
And watched that
Flame dance once more,
Enough to ignite one more
Toxic thought

Getting you high from the
Smoke
Clouding the past
Leaving you
Staggered
When your fingers
Bleed
Begging for
Fire

And you crack it open,
Look for what’s more
Not even smelling
Butane

Just smelling
Nothing.

It’s empty.

You came like wildfire
Indistinguishably incendiary
Struck my butane skin
With phosphorus fingertips

Clouded myopic eyes
Saw the ashes to ashes
Flushed lackluster lips
Whispered dust to dust

What you left me with:
A collection of burnt bridges
A drawer of regrets
A heart of hieroglyphics

Let’s **** through the issues
hash things out
zig-zag our way
to the carryout!

Powder some pozy
spark the butane
a platter of cookies
with sweet Mary Jane!

We found **** in the den that day
high on gas, giddy at the sight, it was inevitable really
and at half past three, sometime in July,
I slide along the living room wall
wearing chintz paper.

In my room I pirouette as a jewellery box *****,
Regal Kingsize, Butane and crushed grass
radiate like a Glade plugin (essence of rebellion).
Barbie snake eyes me “What have you done?
"Oh My God! You know how much trouble you’ll be in,
you shouldn’t have let this happen”
her voice is glacier planes and a million icicles form in my chest.
I tell her to shut her mouth while swallowing ice
before it melts into a puddle at my feet.

She never spoke again.

Butane blue lights his cancer stick
like the colour of his eyes,
Breathes in miasma, the apple in his throat bobs,
Toxic curls around him in tendrils
and dissolves into the night air

He raises an eyebrow and looks at me, curious:
Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout?
I really like his hair,
Wanna feel it in-between my fingers,
Glad he can’t know what I’m thinking
but he stares at me as if he does,
Burning underneath his butane blue gaze

I can hate him at this moment,
Incinerating any capability of lucid thought
but I relish the flames, thinking
I used to love the cold.

Your life is linear, but your mind is sporadic.
You could be anyone, anywhere.
Time stands still.
Suddenly you're seven.
Tugging on your mother's floral print dress and begging her for ice cream money.
Time speeds up.
Suddenly you're behind a register trying not to laugh at the bitter old man cursing you to the seventh layer of Hell for your purple hair and tattoos.
Time freezes.
Suddenly your ten and your mother is shaking you.
She wants to know, where is her son?
Where has her baby boy gone?
It's the middle of the night and she won't stop shaking you.
She stares out your window and mumbles something about drugs.
But you don't know what drugs are and it's three in the morning.
You're ten.
You blink twice and click your heels.
Suddenly you're sitting behind a desk,
And the school system is trying to tell you how to feel.
You don't buy into it, but you learned early on that fighting them will get you no where.
You play the game.
A snap of your fingers and once more you're seven,
And your mother is making you swear.
Not the "f" bomb or the "c" word.
No, she's making you say something much worse than that.
Swear you won't tell your father about the man she kissed on the park bench.
But you're only seven so the words flood out of your mouth.
Before you can even finish your story,
Your father smacks your jaw so hard that your head spins forward until you've turned fourteen.
Fourteen, and now you know exactly what drugs are
And why your brother does them so much.
Fourteen, and you hate your mother for making you lie,
And you hate your father for punishing the truth.
Fourteen, and the only way you can cope with all of the ******* that's written in the fine print of being a teenager is to annihilate your brain cells.
The memories swirl around and all you want to do is burn them down, but there's no more matches and the butane's run dry.
It's all happening in flashes.
Christmas cookies.
Late term papers.
Igloos.
Glass bottles smashed to pavement.
The day you got contacts.
Flip flops.
The icy chill of pumpkin guts on your skin.
Her overdose.
Hot tea.
New York.
London.
Maui.
LSD.
Alcohol.
Vicodin.
It all whizzes by, and you barely know who you are anymore.
Or where you've gone.
Or who you've disappointed.
And these people are still trying to tell you how to feel.
And then you're dead.
And all the memories add up, but it's not enough to fill your coffin.
There's all this space floating around.
All of those lives you could have lived if you just stopped for a moment.
Stopped letting them tell you how to feel.

Such a waste.

Five more dossiers slam down
beside you, bosses look stern
and flick through to spite you,
crossing off task after task:
appraisal target attitude,
shred your worries and feign
a false sense of gratitude,
scribble a signature, pretend
that you won't work here long.
It's just a stop gap, well,
one of two, perhaps after this
you'll be hired by another few.

Ten minute lunch, more bitter
than ***** tabasco juice
but ****** Mary and Jesus,
keep your mind on the salary
and you might get through
tapping and typing away
for a parasitic conglomerate
who barely remembers you.
Wolf down the freedom,
spark a fossil fuel fire on
your tobacconists’ anti-stress
breathing flute, clench
fists as you trudge through
the muck and the mire.

They laugh as you slump
over your desktop, under
the fifteen thousand word
count a day, hundreds
of calls and email favours
still you get payed for less
than half of your labour.
One look to the surroundings,
the folks in your office, step
back from your desk and hand
in your notice; sell your assets,
share your amenities,
cut off your phone-line,
don’t pay your licence fees.

At the door, the postman
struggles with bills and notices,
pushing and prying
more and more letters
the poor fellow moans as
you almost clap his efforts.
Gathering dust, your post
gets pushed up the stairs.
Knocking out your wellbeing,
this builds up in piles to
the height of your ceiling
until one day you awaken
with no gas or lighting,
nothing to quench or feed,
your rumbling stomach
near delirious being.

No more in awe, frightened
to express your distaste
for nine to five slavery
you pile a large steel cylinder
with technology and clutter;
letters and junk-mail literature.
Lighter fluid marinade you
feel empowered like
the folks at the gas board.
Pull out a matchbox
strike to a major chord.
Prepare for the roaring
of bureaucratic nonsense
burning and fizzling.

Strike one, the phosphorus
occupies your nostrils,
how sweet the smell
of keratin, and butane,
kerosine and hydrogen.
Strike two the match ignites,
the wind breaks your bindings,
you relax with such laughter
that the flickering orange
flame blows into a cinder,
smoke pining. Rig the pack
and pull out your portable
lighter, the whole box of
matches sets joyfully on fire.

Like witch over cauldron
you cackle and crack up
toss in the phosphorescent
rectangular prism to
the concoction which kept
you imprisoned for month
after month; year after year
you’d forgotten to fulfil
that dream, pull out your
mobile and text your queen
‘Let’s move to the mountains
and bask in the heat; revel in

rebellion. Reject, neigh, defeat
the notion that we must sit
at computers like digital sheep
that we can’t cross an ocean
on our own two feet.
We can grow our own grain
and cull our own wheat’
Whip out your tickets and jump
on the flight here lies a path,
come forth and fulfil it tonight.

i remember the night you called me and told me you are in love with me

the terror and panic in one's voice when they find their soul bound to another never ceases to amaze me

and i miss you enough to make the whole world feel lonely;
echo dances above my mind in my
subconscious attempts at pulling you closer,
sooner
but she only sits on the best post and combs
through my hair with her soft + unforgiving fingers
she says "you're losing your way + Loneliness stole your line of sight. you're not a bad person for the way you tried to **** your sadness. you're helping yourself survive."
i am alone and i talk to the parts of things that
have been destroyed by love-
the picked flower forgotten
the child's toy that no longer sings
the city benches written on with black and red ink-
"would you do it again? let the fingers trace
with butane soaked tips, let the intimacy ignite
the flame, let the scars raise so terrifying and
pure.

would you do it again?"

yes.
always yes.

The box of fire-starters I had found in the back closet
seemed very simple in their use.
Simply turn the curved side down
and apply a flame.

We really wanted a fire.
Not only were we in need of that comforting presence,
but the spectacular show of  trees and mountains
had disappeared with the sun
and the images of windy lake ripples, although profound,
seemed already years in the past.
We had the night to look forward to,
and our enthusiasm for the stars
would be exercised by our frequent excursions
to **** down some cigarettes out in the parking lot.
So it was decided,
this fire would be our inside entertainment for the evening.

The little black bic seemed a bit inadequate,
but the situation was soon remedied
by the discovery of a larger and quite adequate butane torch.
Now we are in business.
Despite the new firepower
only a small flame caught.

After spending a winter without heat,
in a home that hemorrhaged warmth,
I had become proficient in starting fires
with wet logs and numb fingers,
leaving me with a tendency to add too much fuel.

The little flame was adorable.
it wobbled back and forth on the flat side of the fire starter,
reaching up towards yesterday’s paper
and the cardboard case of Coors from last night.
I felt like a proud parent when it’s wispy tendrils
finally got a hold of the remnants of the pasts dubious reminders.

I’d spent my youth in that one room cabin.
Weekends I would roam the mountains
and dig deep holes in the snow to hide in.
Unfortunately, due to a small oversight,
I had never properly learned quite the trick
for opening up the flue.
I assumed, quite wrongly, that the wee bit of airflow from the fireplace
insinuated proper ventilation for the impending combustion.

A fire alarm
is one of the most panic inducing sounds.
We tried desperately to knock the flue open
praying that the growing fire would have room to escape
and save us from the dismal fate
of burning down my families favorite weekend getaway.

Mere moments after admiring the fragile
and fleeting existence of my little flame that could,
I drenched a towel in the sink
and smothered it out
before any more damage could be done
(which really only consisted of wet ash).

We spent the rest of the night smoking cigarettes,
getting high in the floodlights
and twitching with the panic induced paranoia
the aborted fire left in our chests.

And later, once I had gone back to the real world,
I learned that the flue lever had to move,
not left and right,
but up and down to open and close.

spilled butane from a refilled lighter
heat lightning in the humid air
cigarette butts in a ***** cupholder

— not sure if this is still your number. part of me hopes it isn’t.

hand-me-down jeans that don’t fit anymore
bleach fume-induced headaches
burnt plastic setting off the fire alarm

— i’m leaving soon. i won’t promise i’ll be back.

overgrown grass from 8 days of rain
singed skin over a candle’s flame
rotting meat at the bottom a trash can

— death doesn’t discriminate. i know that now.

Where are you, O valiant knight,
riding on your quest?
Capturing your deadly foe,
your metal for to test...

O'r the mountains lies the dragon,
secure within its lair.
It's gloating over victory...
it ate the maiden fair!

And so you mount your steed,
silver glinting from your spurs,
sally off to slay it...
avenge the death of her!

Oh! Is not this dragon beautiful?
Yes! An AWESOME prize!
With crystal wings and citron scales
and sapphires for eyes!

Emeralds on its sloping breast
rubies are its claws
fangs of alabaster
line it's fiery maw...

Perfumed incense, spicy smoke,
from its mouth a butane flame...
Once you've tried the dragon once
it is hell to tame!

Have you your armor fast secured?
Does the visor block your view?
You may chase the dragon
or it could be chasing YOU.

When will you turn and rend it?
Tear the ***** APART?
Strap your lance to your steed
and pierce it to its HEART?

Now, if you are victorious
you still must have a care...
for its blood is virulent
that cup you must not share!

You could quick behead it.
Mount it on your wall.
But it could poison you instead...
my! How the mighty fall!

So ride off in the sunset.
Leave the dragon where it fell.
It will slowly rust away...

and blow back into HELL.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/19/2015

she paces down the dimly-lit corridor of a modern day ***** den
in a corner apartment, situated on the intersection
of **** carpet and depraved junkies
she knows she was raised better.
guided over heaping masses of humans
cigarette butts
and the burnt carpeting they create
she knows it's only getting worse.
her hands are clenched in tight fists
awaiting the moment
when she can finally loosen up
she knows her father loves her.
her fingers run along the wall
awaiting for a familiar feeling
something to remind her of something she loves
she knows these walls are nothing like her bedroom.
she and he sit down before a snowy television
he reveals a plastic syringe
beneath flickering florescent lights
she knows it's late.
he flicks his lighter and burns the needle
to sanitize it
leaving a layer of burnt black butane
she knows it's still *****.
laying down, a the warmed needle is placed on her arm
she ties her little league shirt tightly
around her forearm
she knows her father wouldn't be pleased.
after leaning back
she's reminded of her last flu
by the initial feeling
**she knows nothing now.

Inspired by “The Burning Giraffe” by Salvador Dali*


I am defined by what clutters my drawers:

• Aortic—a tattered matchbook with a phone number I never called
    scrawled to the inside cover as an inscription to everything
    I never wanted.  A half-empty can of butane with a missing
    cap alongside a dollar’s worth of pennies that weight a scrap
    torn from a newspaper tragedy: four killed, faulty smoke
    detectors to blame.

• Ankle—a charred picture, curled in upon itself and kept as a reminder
              of what I could become; a blackened nest as an omen of
  losing all I’ve ever known and an ointment tube, squeezed
  in the middle as a talisman against blistering tempers.

• Thigh—an empty Zippo with a scarred case, dull and pointless; a coiled
             stove element with an ashen haze that could testify that water
doesn’t douse all flames; and an oily fuse, plucked from the top
of my head to serve as a yardstick of minutes, seconds, then
nothing.

• Knee—a fine layer of charcoal dust and half of a briquette from last
            summer’s backyard barbecue when the wind kicked up to spray
red embers into the air like a meteor shower, streaking in bright
sparks and fluttering to shrieks and stop-drop-rolls along dry grass
until the itching ceased and the bubbles formed in small foamy
patches along arms and strapless backs and sun-red cheeks.

The sun isn't shining,
But it will be.
The birds aren't singing,
But they will be.
The weather isn't sweet,
But it will be.
There's no dancing in the street,
But there will be.
The air is not filled with song,
But it will be.
I haven't fixed what I did wrong,
But it will be.

Even if it isn't
Who cares?

It's re-up day,
And when I open that zip lock bag, and inhale the fragrance of maddening bliss,
And pack up, spark the blue butane, and pull the essence inside me,
All the silly ******* will vanish, and I will smile, because Mary Jane always comes back to me.
And when she is with me
The sun shines,
The birds sing,
The weather is sweet,
there's dancing in the street,
The air is filled with song,
I've corrected all my wrongs,
And I smile like a man who is glad to die,
As I take that first hit, from my bubbling ****.

Autumn leaves.
Autumn leaves us in a wake of what used to be, golden, brown, red memories fill our heads
with promises of a summer never to end.
But it did,
and now it's here,
and I'm falling down like autumn leaves.
Autumn leaves me questioning why those clouds ever had to move away from that beach house
and why the cold wind ever had to ******* away.
And why you never wanted to sit inside,
because we froze our ***** off just sitting on the rocks
and it didn't matter how much we shook, whether it be from the pills or the winter wind,
we didn't go inside.
Autumn leaves us with a bitter winter, pretty for a second, and then gone with the blustering wind
like some kind of ******-up morning after.
Autumn leaves me with a heartbreak, not my first, not my last
but an in-between overdramatized romance novel
with a disclaimer at the beginning that said: This is not a love story. There is no happy ending. (Is there ever?)
You filled my lungs like smoke, and you made my head spin like butane.
You were my first drag of my first cigarette, and my last goodbye of the first summer I stopped caring.
You are this town, a whole lifetime of crushes and a coffee shop down the street.
You're no more than a paper heart, bent up and torn at the edges.
I'm no more than a pathetic piece of tape, trying to hold you together, trying to fit your mold.
Autumn leaves us with an awkward silence, louder than any concert I'd ever gone to with you, any concert I'd ever liked to go to with you.
We could've drawn straws in a steamy cafe on a cold night, but Autumn never gave us a chance to start over with September.
Autumn leaves us with damage-control after your calamity, and the irrevocable steps I took to fall into you.
Do you even remember how I was on that first day? Nervous eyes and conversations about colors?
Do you remember the talk about getting out, New York City in all its romanticized glory?
Autumn left me with an emptiness in the pit of my stomach, because I feel so lost without you.

With eyes turned up to the sky
In hopes to find that piece of pie
How many years of blood sweat and tears
Have you not yet made it out of here

Always asking for advice
When given saying that can't be right
All you've got, spinning like a top
Waiting for the ball to drop

You'll do this till the day you die
Wondering what is wrong with life
Feel the heat moving towards defeat
Press rewind and then repeat

Growing accustomed to the craziness
Pour more butane on the list
Stoke the fire, fan the flames higher
Situation is getting dire

How many times have you raised your hands
Surrendering over to life's demands
Always hoping for a change
Just this side of deranged  

Moving along with the crowd
To the humming of the vacant sound
Religiously you find your seat
Press rewind and then repeat

When you asked me how I had done it
I stared at you blankly.

Were you trying to be funny,
somehow stuffing your face right in front
of mine and his at the same time?

I don't know how you even managed that
from halfway across the room,
but my skin was instantly
and irreversibly crimson,
as if you had just slapped me,
or if the faces of our friends
who were now choking on the laughter in their throats
had the visages of six suns
somehow packed into one dingy college dorm room.

Of course, they couldn't have been suns,
or else the whole **** building would have caught on fire
between the beer soaked beds and butane lighters
and desk drawers crammed with cannabis.

In one blunt
sentence, you managed
to push me outside in the cold
with just the burning coals of my flesh
and my fists clenched, ready to challenge you
to a fight that only I could win.

I could not help being angry -
anyone would be with such a mirror
placed so closely to them, my ego
crisply clarified, sharply dissected.

Finally, you let me back in,
feeling sorry for my cold fingers
and my colder heart.

For the record, I let you back in too,
since we'll both mess up again,
probably.

If I have a short fuse
then you are a lighter,
setting me off
and watching me sizzle and spark
while you flicker out as if nothing happened.
Staring at me with your butane smile as I blow up,
and I can only infect everything around me with my flames.
It’s hardly fair, when you’re the one that started it,
that I get blamed when the village is on fire and I’m shaking in the center,
wishing someone would throw a bucket of water on me.
Yes I may be the monster here
but I am your creation,
a product of your antagonizing heat that hides
the fiery Frankenstein that you really are.

These young kids
look for but don't get it
thinking
Netflix,
boosting
kicks from butane,
got no patination
not old enough

but the last generation
seen it and
deem it
reprehensible
that secondary modern education
fails them because now they
think they're sensible

brawling on Friday night
crawling home
Saturday morning, they
have razors to shave with
high street banks they
can save with
but nothing to give them a clue.

I'm through with this ****
old enough now to sit out my days
in a tobacco filled haze and
gaze at nights full of stardust
because
somebody must
before it all disappears.

Feels like lately
My life's going to hell in a hand basket
Inferno blazing out of control
I've tried but I can't fight it.
Steadily dying
I'm so sick of trying
Pour butane on my life
Then light it.

I see your colours
bending in the breeze
Laying underneath
It's with surprising eas
That we quasi breed

Working on my timing
'Cause my flaws tell you
Of a life I thought I forgot
It seems like your residing
Don't make me something I'm not
Don't make me another one lost
Light the wood match
Then drop it.

I see your colours
bending in the breeze
Laying here with me
Reaking treachery
You're never gonna see.

I'm guessing at hearsay
Clutching at myth
Believing all lies
As the truth becomes a wisp.
Begging for the truth
While spending all my youth.
Watch me burn away
Forget it.

Fingers flick the cold metal,
the butane smell fills the air.
I let the flame settle,
the heavy smoke hits my snare.
I hit the distortion pedal,
gone- the problems I bear.