Drunk texts, hard times, hold the minute hand please

She told me she loved me
and that she doesnt want things to change.
So she will continue to sleep
in the bed with her ex.

Nothing goes on
except late night texts to me
"Il be right overs"
or
"See you soons"
a constant and a plenty
next to her old partner
that doesnt want to be woken up
with such things from her.

So nothings going to change
that world would be nice.
But right when that comment is said
I buckle down for the future.
Pull that strap to the furthest hole.
"This is going to hurt a lot"
but she didnt here me
cause for her
nothing is going to change.

No body I know has the "Fuck"

Two bottles, one in each pocket
Its a little excessive, but so is this party

Three sets of eyes, independently fixated
on me, or who I appear to be
who they want to be, who id rather be

Four hours, one bottle gone
Ive talked to each pair of eyes, they listened
they fallow me, too each other pair
and have a goal for the night, fixation is their fix

Five rooms, and the whiskeys all gone
whispers in ears, sending chills threw the kitchen
tungs dance around, a show to be seen in the den
half dressed sex, doors being knocked on in the bathroom
what to do, with the other two rooms

Six beers, that arnt mine but i drank
becoming the theme, for this night at-least
the crowd swells, my blood is flushed
standing still, it feels like i am dancing
the eyes come in and out, hoping for more
drunk and defeated in victory, I swoon away

One disappeared romantic, from the party of realist

Silent bombs and ashtrays

Ive been working on a frankness
that teeters from my tung
But these days are loud
and I have no song to be sung
So I tuck it in, bite it as it were
my mouth bleeds, sure
but there is nothing to be done
if i cant sing, ill gargle and swallow
putting back that blood into my lung
And you will see me smile
see me shake your hand and wink
tell all my truths, rejoice and have a ball
being frank as i can, who isn't me at all

Have you seen plymouth?

A view from cemetery hill. Bored in the winter by michael lovely

The Englishs

Ive wanted to write a story about my mums family for a while. Theres so much to be done. A perfect example of Irish catholic, there are thirteen kids. Her mother died when my mum was 9. A tragic death as well. Alcoholism and other issues galore. People leaving and coming back, being thrown out and saving their expellers later. Nuns, poets, musicians, mad men, army men, and three homosexuals. The house (that ilive in) burnt down and they rebuilt it. The only thing remaining was the chimney a priest built in the late 1800s out of stones from around the world. The ocean and right down the street, down a bluff, down the stairs they built. The neighbors always have been the same. Their last name is English for goodness sake. And my mums father, some what of a tirentical (god i cant spell that) figure, was deemed "Bumpa" The eldest is a giant (6'5) with a laugh that shakes the house. The youngest, my mum, a meek creature who rebelled, secretly, and payed for it by having me. Poverty was a constant. And most everyone in the family fears money. Theres a story for every generation, and they all can interweave with each other. Each sybling wout have their motif, or two. Mum would definitely have angels some how. She loves angels.

But i probably wont ever write it. Like ive mentioned here before and to some people in life, Im not a strong enough writer for long form narrative. I can do the story justice. And it makes me so sad because i see it perfectly. Maybe ill begin working on it.. maybe.

Anyway, Im pretty sure I know how to end the book.
The day before Bumpa (lester is his real name) died my Mum sat with him. They watched all my children together, something that her mother got her and all the other kids into. Bumpa never cared for it, but lying, sick on his chair in his old age, he found himself watching it with his youngest daughter. The one he was most distant from and had made the most resentful of him. There was no conversation. They just sat, and watched. When it was over my mum got up to leave. Walking out the front door, which is in the tv room, she turned to Bumpa, his eyes were already closed.
"Bye. I love you dad"
"Yes dear"

Hypothetical

Thats all it seems I am good for. I get praised for a lot. Girls tell me how, perfect I am, what it be like to be with me, how I am better then everyone else they have ever considered.

I cant count how many how said "You can just live in bed" and half of those who have said promised money to ensure I was able to stay. You know, pay my bills at least.

But it never comes to fruition. I am a pipe dream. I am a ghost of a handsome gentleman. Being haunted by me is attractive at first. But the idea of spirit lying next to you is frightening after a while.

So they leave. The get to escape with the thoughts of what would of been. Awake from a beautiful dream, feeling better for it in the morning. But I am what happens to that beautiful dream after you leave. Since it was your dream, it revolved around you. Being gone it crumbles and I am left wondering around the desolate remains.

I have been loved by many. But a shallow love, in the sense of a tide pool. They only get their feet wet. If people take a piece of you when they love you, and that piece is measured by the depth of that love, then i am being picked apart. Now its not fatal. Love is re-genitive and infinite. But I am getting close to the bone for now.

Look at me, someone who has gone into so many Nihilistic rants, now expressing the infiniteness of love. The jading of women who tell those lies that no one can be blamed for. The hypothetical promises that raise such hope. I guess I am a hypocrite for giving Nietzsche (that near nihilist that made me realize Im not a nihilist, cause i am such a nihilist) giving him shit for being a sexist and that being his weakness in writing.

Rant Rant. Also this song came on random when i was writing this. It felt kind of fitting. And ive always loved it.

On my way

Ive never been to her place,
laid in her bed, and teased her about talking tough.
Figure out which side i was aloud to have, and stumble
searching for a bathroom in a unfamiliar hall

Ive never been to her place, cause
well, cause she still sleeps with her past
He lays heavy next to her at night
allowing her to look, and even sleep next to the future
Stumble down my dark hallways,
put her feet on my walls to press
well enough against me, that my arms sling over
like a latch

But talking to your past at night,
its dark and you have to feel for his features
to make sure the familiarity doesn't leave
I know, ive lived it too

So ive never been to her place
I dont know the route, the one she's on now
heading over at three am
Probably waited till her past fell asleep

Ive never been to her place
and I probably never will
But the past, he's a good man
and i was a little over zelouse calling myself future
Im present, bearing no weight in my bed
Lightest of all times to consider
Enjoyable at the time, when at the time is all
you can want or handle
Easily forgotten, and handled with out concepts of consequences

Ive never been to her place
She's been over to mine, many times
But will always go back to hers
to greet her past in the morning
and tuck him in at night
Tell him stories of the present,
how he'll never be anything like the past

Ive never been to her place
and thats how it should be
thats how it is
the present will be fine, remember
I am with out concepts of consequence
lightest of all times to consider
how could that ever get hurt?

Another desolate palms

Dressed up, desert it pretty
there has been a knee drop for every door open.
Blushed cheeks, when bright eyes adverted
the flu tries to spread from mouth to mouth
considering time allotted, immunities stand no chance
one hot, one cold
its always the fever leaving careless lovers
Settle down, claim it ugly
its both knees down and hands clenched together now
speak frank, turn truths agoraphobic
familiarity distorting old concepts of handsome
Proposal to prayer
One knee to both
Love of the sick
you will martyr their fever