chocolate city

Porque tus amores perros me van a matar

sin haberme dado la felicidad...

Break away from neon-lights quicksand

‘cause you are not alonnnnnne sonnnnnnnn...

Like the low-light-warmth: smooth, peaceful, good.

A little room, away from the buzz. The crowd looks in, listens, fades.

All away, quiet, cool, all away with nothing beyond.

Wrapped up in the unfolding—what was anxious isn’t; what gave pain doesn’t. 

“I like what you do”; a whisper.

Stay with love

Stay like it’s the only thing

like a firefly under the yellow moon

the muted, curved horizon, broken with

steeples and echoes and windy dark off the high rooftop perch,

down to the tight embrace

sweat and beauty

stay:

trapped by touch,

trapped with love.

Break free but know

you’re in this shit alone.

You know that right?

yeahhhhhboy...

give me your money

And a rapist known as freedom.

free doom

Tangled up deep, I never had my head like this. “Conventional,” she tells me eating breakfast, coffee and eggs, at the edge of the third ghetto. And I’m at the edge of all craziness, ready to launch into the wide nothingness of a life path conceived in the thousand-year grind of steel gears unfathomable, my one soul rising high from the crushed dust of allsouls, crushed after a past we made up when we whispered to each other late at night. Launching towards some triumph of will and intellect where the “words are things” rulebook dictates movement on a slice-dice time rhythm. And I’m dying.

I think what attracts me is how fucked up it all is. The currents of malaise just gentle enough to keep afloat, pointed downstream, conscious, they push; they strip the movement of meaning, a spectacular exposure of the humdrum wild, the prison of white lights. A thousand tangled homes standing tall under sunset pandemonium, a thousand cars driving pulsing stereos by the dude strutting slow, diagonal across the street. I want her to disrespect me and I want to be so mad about it I can’t think.

All I have is ambition and I want more. 

fly high

Dreams of living life like rappers do...

Just trust the world, trust love. Except the world is fucking killing you. How can you say that everything's gonna be ok, when it never turns out ok for anyone?

Fell in love with this chick, drunk-frat-boy-crowd bar on a Saturday night, Saint Paddy's day, too, so you know they were blitzed, but I wasn't so drunk. I was studying before, reading, mind all anxious, wound up and tangled, starved. She swooped me out the coffee shop, drunk-green-gargoyle night with the lames--it's a language I don't speak, that frat language, but we grab the jukebox and she leans on me. And we pick songs and we dance. Nobody dancing but me and her and it's beautiful. Gargoyle dudes all looking, and the most beautiful girl just wants to dance.

And I think the worst kind of loneliness is being lonely when you're with someone. When you're around people, talking to people, connecting to people, and they can't speak to what you're speaking. It's that deep loneliness, and you can't party your way out of it, or smile your way out of it, or even fuck your way out of it. But sometimes a girl can lean on you at a jukebox, and pick a song, and make you believe for a second that these cracker-jack snapshots that are supposed to add up to a life might actually get their weight up, might actually be worth cashing in at the end of it, that the constant becoming might move, that what we shall be, has not-yet-appeared, that we can lean on some fiery truth in this world and trust in its goodness.

But I think my heart is too big, and too closed, so that when it opens it feeds on everything and dies on nothing. I think my heart is too fucked up. And what it wants might not be real, might be corrupted. Dark nights and high hills, master-plans and fairytales. Dreams of a ghetto kingdom, dreams of acceptance from the universe. But I think the universe might hate me.

 

Rock n roll visions before sunrise

and even the saints can't save you