cours, camarade

Highrises and clouds of smoke, I'm trying to run into walls, run into walls, running into walls walls walls I'm bricking up
doorways and this was my last way out. Amanda is a regular at my best friend's cafe, yes, my best friend I mean it this
time, there's only one person who asks how my day is these days, these days I'm just still fucking running into walls.
There are one people, there are two persons, two persons, three people who ask how my day is and actually expect an
answer, they expect me to pin my knees up on the corner of the desk and rock back on my spinal cord, bruising my
disks and 45s and record, records breaking, record breakings, they expect me to push my sleeves up to snag on my elbows
and to rub the back of my neck up when I'm trying to cool myself down, talking about my life makes me all hot and hateful,
I start sweating when I miss things. When I miss oxygen I fall down and when I miss I miss miss jawbreakers and
fezziwigs and the crystal ships, crystal meth, (everything I learned about love I learned from) heart problems, the beach is
beneath the cobblestones. Aren't we all just leaning up against walls, masturbating to the pictures in family
photo albums, christmas trees and sandboxes, I miss miss french fucking and Bizet, who IS Godot, are you searching
for home, yes, you leave me lines of Beckett in my inbox and is that you saying that the trek across the appalachians is
coming home to the trees and the granite or home to me, home to the fireplace in my living room, home to the thighs that
wrap your hips, hip hops, hop hop, come clean. Come clean. Clean your nose before this pipe goes up there these
railroad tracks, I wrote the lyrics and then I write the words, these tracks are above the city and when you walk under the El I
can scream as loud as my lungs let me and nothing is audible above the racket and the rumble tumble in this loft,
there's a chocolate factory outside and there is ecstasy upstairs (actually downstairs, right next to where I threw my
coat and you tossed our leftovers in) a styrofoam package, why would a vegan diner use styrofoam, maybe you could
pack wine glasses away in it, maybe you could cover it in milk and cheese and eat it like cereal and snacks, the
ecstasy is being thrown into pink vodka punch, punches bloody nose and some girl is wearing a tube top and sitting
on chair arms, but you are handing me drinks and he is sitting on that keg and they are rolling and amazed that I live
in Cambridge, they are licking paper and I keep switching hands, I'm conscious that people are standing behind me
and muttering 'comrade' as they read my shoulder, I am conscious that the delivery boy at my work rushes past me in
a wind of pizza and balsamic and he always yells VIVE LA REVOLUTION in a botched accent and I'm going to miss this,
miss this miss little miss jones, honey, kissing upland upstairs updown I fall off of flat shoes and run up flights in
standings bleachers flights in and out, this is departures this is the saxaphone man this is the time that I use to do nothing.
This is the time that I use to do nothing. This is the time that I use to do nothing. This is the time that I use to do nothing. I
want to take naked pictures of myself and hang them all over the walls of the internet, I'm planning on plastering obscenity
and tits all over your unobtrusive killings, sidewalk walkers and knitters and kickers. My knees are knocked and locking,
My curtain is stuck in the door, these walls are washed of all love letters each night, the onion cellar, the onion salaries,
the onions on the yacht are all put to bed, drunk and tipping the bartender washing the walls on the bar with a rag and a
polished clean polished ice in the bottom of the bottle of bourbon and burma shave, there are signs by the side of the
highway, there are picture postcards and old shoes, there are christmas cards from hookers in Minneapolis living with
parents in Omaha and talking to truckers on all night telephones that you slip dimes in the side to, claws coming
from the ceiling to pick out the animals who have limbs pointing heavenwards, maybe we're wrong and heaven is
really to the left, heaven is really just out west, I'm not sure which way my face is facing but at least it's worth a try to say
that the west is left and the left is in my living room alongside these howard zinn books and my art theory volumes that I
buy off of the walls, the walls are building them-fucking-selves with mortar and construction workers joining labor unions
for a reason not because they're bored and young and angry,
But Don't We All Do Things Just Because We Are Bored and Young and Angry?
But don't we all do things just because we are bored and young and angry?
But don't we all do things just because we are bored and young and angry?
But don't we all do things just because we are bored and young and angry?
But don't we all do things just because we are bored and young and angry?