Electric Youth

  Well, here it is, and here we are. The last blades of summer are sewn across a sky of scarlet. And now, begins the reaping of our sins; let the kids run naked and sewer miscreants run free. These last few months of our lives, at least deserve a proper burial. We've ridden into the dark, torches in hands, and with the embers, scar the skin with the glow of the sun. As it dies, in our eyes; burn down all that is left. Carved notches into the bark of the willows, and into the flesh of the skin we're about to shed. The blistering days, and sweltering nights; alter the little of what we know. This summer, boys, will go down in the books. With flower crowns and dandelions we thread our fingers into the loom to stop the bleeding, to stop the turning of the days.
Well here it is, and here we are, and here we will be. Let's skip and stones, and watch the water rise. Or, we could just stick our tongues in the electrical sockets and hope for the best. I've seen the stars melt away, Oh, I've seen ships sail unto the horizons and never come back. These days have been numbered, and I'm counting down the seconds. God damn the lucky ones, the birds that sing free. Caged and beaten we are to be. Unto ashen days the light reverts to mold. Rest in peace, we're growing old.

The number that comes after one

Today my friends, is quite the occasion. I have decided to come up for air from the abyssal planes, just momentarily. Today, a few rays of light will be shone upon a lighter topic; lingering.
Concentrated of the past, lots can happen given two months time. Yet for this band of two I happen to know of, those months have only been of the illusion I dare to make out as happiness, or at least what has become of it. In a way, it's almost repairing to know that appreciation and adoration still come around every so often, and isn't just the sickly sweet, expired honey we use to bait the miser lures that still sway in the isolation of the deep. When glances are shared, the moment itself is enclosed in its own tone of hushed voices in rosy cheeks. Because the world is ugly, yet the light I see behind these two's eyes, is enough to power up the next door metropolis for weeks. And just being a spectator, just a mere member in the audience in their theatre is enough so smooth over even the most calloused of hearts.
And so, to these two I wish happiness to the best of my disabled ability, and a very dear two month anniversary. And may their glass always be half full.

A steady oxygen flow to the brain

As I begin to regress

The Big, Bad Wolf

A simple breeze of a moment has caused me to come to grips with a cruel realization today. Lingering within the midst of just a blip on the screen, a small black cat managed to idly escape past a pair of two screen doors. Quietly during the day, followed by thundering hoof beats down the stairs to retrieve the wandering feline. But what I'm left here to wonder is why one would feel such an inclination to face the big, bad world. We are cornered, and left to drown among whatever has happened to wash up on shore. Many a brave soul conjure up the stupidity to brave the outside world, and end up with mouthfuls of deception, and a shuddering dose of reality. We are bred to die, and the most eventful thing to happen to most of us is the inching forward in the line to the slaughterhouse. Why leave the comfort of the blanketed dark, when all that's left outwards is a horizon of pain and misery? Much like the faded days of blessed ignorance of childhood, lock your doors because here comes the big, bad wolf to huff, and to puff, and to blow us all down.
The winds are high, and hungrily; will tear about your withered and pathetic carcass, or for us blissfully insane; whatever just so happens to be left.

False Pretenses

And we're back.



When I'm not too busy pretending I don't hear, or that I can't see, I like to suppose that this is all a game; that maybe, the only thing that's keeping me from falling, is this noose that keeps me suspended above; perpetually hovering. Such childish play things, I could very well imagine myself to attain the lifelike juxtapose of the witless doll. With lips painted crimson and cheeks dusted rose, I would be granted the gift of sanity under silence. A tantalizing mix of poisons, often not blended very well. I can't say I'm much of a being to begin with. Yes I exist, but by the frail threads that bind me to lace. With glazed over eyes, I take in what I can, and fail to filter the toxins. The residue, it sticks. Layered upon the blank canvas on the back wall of the mind, with even cloudier thoughts. Caked in the cracked drying; dying of a once such brightly pigmented pastel I revel in the ashen colours of this sedentary establishment I have cocooned myself into, gasping for the aged air upon the window sill. Ah, as pretty as a doll they would say. But what the audience fails to remember my friends; Porcelain, made of only a fragile clay, is first to crack.