Oh, how I wish I would let myself drift, through the navy blue covers into navy blue waters.
My thoughts are fairy floss wrapped in a Childs dream.
Restless I lay between the sheets, the only way to see is through self destruction or at least the contemplation of it.
It’s the possibility that my electric, power thirsty blanket might turn.
Wrapping me up like an Oscar speech running over schedule.
Oh how I wish I would let myself drift, through the navy blue covers into navy blue waters.
though I’m fresh out of change,
so call off the sympathy parade.
Same old night.
Same old night.
These walls are thin.
These walls are sick and love to gossip.
Enough with the whispers,
My ears don’t deserve stitches.
Chicks who like Bioshock,
Get at me.
Let’s get spliced up and harvest some Adam, catch a Sandra Cohen performance, you know, the usual.
The stale stench of “fresh air” this morning.
Every morning, inflating my winded lungs, as if I had forgot how to whilst I slept.
Running on reserve, my mental petrol meter is at an all time low.
A $20 buck breakfast with a side of Tomorrow will do wonders.
Yet there’s no time for that now, lunch is the new breakfast, haven’t you heard?
Not all of the ambient music could sooth me, nor could it throw me back.
So why do I listen to it?
I am a docile nation.
I am my minimum wage on a fortnightly pay.
It’s only after half an hour that I realise I must have broken a string, a record or something.
Breath. Wait. Repeat.
It’s as if my windows have been lined with lead, dragging me down deeper and deeper and deeper into the sand.
Out the door, down the line I run for the midnight train.
“follow my voice” she said.
“into the sea” she said.
“where masses recall what it’s like to be free again.”
All of these things we did, all of this seemed legit, yet I’m too lost in myself to dream instead.
Spun like a widows web who’s fucked up on wealth.
Every kid’s cashing in on the trust fund of health.
Good luck with the years and god speed to us all.
Rest assured that we’re dreaming ‘cause lord knows us so well.
Follow my new writing blog.
I LOVE DA O.J.
It’s an illusion. Behind his facade he is a lethargic 45yr old internet perve. The kind who pays $3000 for a computer chair that he can sit in for 12hrs at a time, surviving on corn chips & coke & surfing the interwebs for his specific taste in hentai.
I drink O.J. not coke.
It would be rad if you checked out my new Tumblr.
I post the majority of my written work.
Please & thank you :)
Download our new stuff @ www.Fistmouth.bandcamp.com
About to go for a ride with Turner, Jcamp and Archibald to the Hard Rock Cafe for some delicious food! (Taken with instagram)