the sick mind, fun at work, and failed poetry
its something like laying pennies on the railroad tracks behind your high school. just before you follow the older kids down and smoke your first cigarette [well not really your just kind of puffing] but the smoke if fragrant and they laugh deep within the aqauducts at your efforts. feet wet. wlls painted. calling you in. its something like that when the memory is buried but not covered. accesible at all times. in the roledex of your mind. a random flip will always bring you back to the dank smell and breath on your back. you always forget that theres not much holding that little slip in. holes. but youll never pull it out anyway. so just go on. sit alone at the restaurant shine your eyes at the bar. your roledex is flipping again and the hair of the woman in front of you is moving ever so slightly. shes licking her glass and making eyes- and all you see is grafitti behind her. the cold chill of vodka and a trigger. some days you wake up and feel the covers, tangled at your legs, see the outline of your body on your bed and wonder why the strange position. rest is only for the delusional after all. you just cant forget. here and now your only wires. what is this. a world of mouths and her begging you to stop. hide it well. the roledex keeps flipping.