A Spill.

Blast
The sound of sirens block
each note a tendril on my monocle
Fierce laden extractions of doubt and fire
enveloping the delusional delicacy.
False
eaten hope abandons even the
sweetest of fallacies
As fear trembles at the sound
of itself
An echoing note on my clavicle.
The belt of life around my neck
choking itself out
as eyes roll back
and strike the pins
of hellfire and cascade
light through my jaws.
Minstrels will never know
the sound of my soul
or the shape of my brow
(furrowed as it is)
Nor the ache I feel
when "it's" not there.
I'm calling you out.
Your not the one you
said you were.
But who is?
Living the lie of the sky lit
parks and jaded mercenaries
of old.
Trigger pulled.
You're gone.
As the cell phone signals
disrupt the radio
time and time again.
Prying inside the canals
Anvil and Stirrup sway.
The love everyone writes of
is merely a reaction and disruption
of normal functionality
and deserves its place
among criminals and thieves
Romanesque style, upside down.
As its body collapses on itself.
The Bloody End.

This is where I'd normally put a creative title...

Creativity in writing comes in spurts these days... Usually because I'm too busy constructing visual items or completely exhausted from creating the aforementioned visuals. Thus is the life of an "artist" or whatever you would reference graphic design as. And yes, I DID end a sentence with a preposition. Take that, conventionality! Bahaha.

I'm sure if I had a therapist, he or she would say I should do this more often. Ya know... get my feelings out in the open so I don't bottle them up to the point of explosion and turn into a serial killer or some business like that. On a side note, I hope that they wouldn't be an analyst as well, because "Analrapist" looks weird on a business card... But I digress.

After nearly 9 years, I'm finally starting to make money doing what I love, thank the Lord. I drove to Iowa just to play a show... then I drove back and played another show here. Two shows in three days. I personally wouldn't mind getting to the point where my drums never leave my car. In fact, that's the goal. Commercial "Art" is a nice fallback, but it's not my passion by any means.

This stupid aromatherapy soap they have at highlands is starting to get to me...

I'm finally starting to truly love life again... even when my foot ends up down my throat or when giant piles of horse poo are lobbed my way. I'm taking more things in stride and trying not to stress about things. It's a shame it takes the passing of someone your age to realize that life is short and that you only have one chance to do what your heart is set on. Therefore, I'm taking more chances. QED.

I've met a lot of interesting people in my short few weeks of retail work at Dollar Mart... It's been quite the experience. Like the 86yr old guy who's had more surgeries than you cant count and talks with a voice box... or the U-Haul employee that tells me her life story every time she enters... or the crazy woman who haggles me over the price of $1.75 mylar balloons... or the 8yr old girls that buy makeup and apologize for having "no cents." It makes for really good social commentary and stereotyping lol.

The feeling returns to unused hands
the touch of soothing laughter.
The heart, it sparks with signs of life
That have long departed me.
What am I to do?
Cut and run or stay it true?
That long-forgotten feeling.

I just don't know anymore... It's so confusing... and there's no reason I should feel that way.

Anywho, time to go to bed before I start rambling and typing gobbledygook that only makes sense to me and the Thom Yorke inside of me.

Adieu, un chien Andalou.