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published on metazen

it's called crazy horse, this leather, and i show you my clogs. they are brand new, but appear old and worn in; the more you beat them up, the better they look. more things should be made of crazy horse.


i tell you this and you tell me to stop going through life with my head down and maybe my neck and shoulders wouldn't hurt all the time. i don't complain anymore. you could not care less about shoes.

the bacon is crackling and a grease missive catapults into my eye, searing tears. i don't think i am what you are looking for. the griddle is hot, volatile and kinetic. you are substance fueled adventure. you are an addict and you are a drug. i am only a catalyst, a spatula. you are the addict, drug and high, heat and pop.

you love yourself but sometimes you forget. i reminded you. we should eat breakfast, it is here and real, it is a thing to do. you are the star of my evaporating fantasy construct.

you are alone in your flat with no curtains where you barely sleep. with your computer, with your tv, with your work, with your thoughts, you are lonely. you are alone. you love yourself more than anyone could, but you are lonely.

you don't want to be.

you miss drugs a lot. you miss drink maybe more and say nyquil doesn't count. you have to think about you now, about self preservation, which is logical and the opposite of passion and abandon. you can't do that anymore because you are dying.

i am surrounded by people. i am miserable; it is obvious. nothing is wrong. nothing, nothing. i watch a movie in the dark early morning alone. it is amazing, the movie and being alone, the dark, the screen. it is absolutely beautiful. i like living here.

you wake to the sun. you are a vampire and it burns. you are the best and everyone knows, everyone loves, always. a kite string of hearts follows you patiently waiting, bruised but not hurt, not really.



photo by nardell