this is not my fault.
Sure, my anger always gets the better of me.
But, I love my anger,
I don't want it to have the worst of me.
And its all very ironic and strangely timed
Tied in tune with the step of a mere ten days before the linens are rolled out and pressed into
Plastic marbles and bubbly stem cells, staircases, lashes, really great lashes.
At the end of the night you always meet the back of the toilette and kick as hard as you can.
Just like they tell you in therapy,
Don't speak out, you have no proof and you're not strong enough.
So it all manifests into small voices and acne, Paul Simon and tall buildings.
And non linear monologues with very clear endings.
And isn't it funny when the bald headed polar bear retreats slowly away,
Completely and utterly free as a Scott.
And we're the ones left.
Doing the work.
Barely even the tightly wound Lebanese tortilla that got me here in the first place.
Here I am drinking whisky with my friends till its all the way out.
Into the minutes.
The parking space.
The next day phone talks.
The early bird cinemas with pops.
The long houses close to the ground,
Spiraling back at you,
Winking at the blades of grass on the corners of your eyes.
Chanting into the tin cans around your heart,
You can have one some day promise.
Promise all that you are and all that you have.
And the women. Women. Women.
Skin and Toast