the killers kill.

blonde hair blowing in the summer wind. a blue-eyed girl playing in the sand.

i was new in town, the boy with the eager eyes.

saw Cinderella in a party dress, but She was looking for a nightgown.

change came in disguise of revelation, set his soul on fire

some kind of slick chrome American Prince, a blue jean serenade , finds a convenient streetlight, steps out of the shade- He says something like, "You and Me, Babe, how about it?"

a Dustland fairytale beginning- or just another white trash county kiss-

Miss Atomic Bomb, making out, We got the radio on,

and when i look back on those neon nights, the leather seat, the passage rite, I feel the heat, I see the light…

Juliet, the dice was loaded from the start
And i bet and You exploded in my heart

these changes ain't changing me- the gold-hearted boy i used to be

another head aches, another heart breaks i'm so much older than i can take

he's with the hippie in the park
coming over the dark
just trying to get some of that-little-girl-play

i wanna shine on in the hearts of men, i wanna mean it from the back of my broken hand

a teenage rush, She said, “Ain't we all just Runaways?

10.26.2012

when i meet new people, i'm charming and enthralling, and show a smooth, eggy exterior while everyone else whimpers and talks through their jammy smiles, holding their crisp secrets, paper slips neatly tucked in the intricacies of their veins.

i always look to them with such awe and relief. awe that they have such control and reservation and self-respect to hold their pristine shape. relief that they don't cheaply dole out masses of warm, pink flesh to be muddied and stepped on, that they still have some thing noble to be preserved.

i feel like a macerated tomato

or maybe perhaps like a piece of chalk. this is the most interesting mood. part of me is in a rhythmic frenzy, a transparent, diluted syrup rushes through my too real, perhaps mocking, mass of brain and the other, this irrevocably dense, white noise- feeling the existence of nothing, yet inviting the bone-crushing calamities of this world.

time deteriorates me; it scuds, wrings, tumbles and hammers, irons, hangs me out on a single thread, some lifeline that connects birthpointa and pointbeyond.