Parked.
In a car.
In a car with rust spots.
In the backseat of a car with rust spots.
Three people in the backseat of a car with rust spots.
Three people passing a blunt and listening to the radio talk about dead people in different parts of the world in the backseat of a maroon car with rust spots, which is parked next to a splintered telephone pole; two in the front, and two outside.
Seven people laughing.
Three out of seven throwing up behind an beat up white work van from the 80's.
Hoods up.
Smiling.
Showing our bloody gumlines off to the world.
Listening to the cups exhale as the syrup swirls through the soda under the streetlight.
A fleeting catharsis hot-wiring two heady hemispheres for comfort.
Floating.
Spent my last five on a piece of pizza (chicken wing.)
My magic trick is making a minimum wage pay check disappear in a day.
My other trick is the ability to maintain until next Friday.
And tonight, the moon is showing off a pompadour.
And tonight I pretended to pee in a urinal in a casino bathroom while someone handed me pills.
Hoods up.
So Reckless.
And, yes, we are currently taking donations and kind-hearted words spoken softly into a cell phone.
Getting dome.
Perserving blood from a nose bleed.
Passing time.
Nothing else to do.
Nothing else to do.
Nothing else to do.
Photo Source: (polaroidlens)
You want to pose with celebrities.
You want to ruin their hair with a hand grenade.
You want to smear their make-up with a knife.
You want to dickride.
You want to get an autograph.
You want a purpose in life, and this is it.
You want a sink, some sandpaper and a bar of soap to smooth your skeleton clean.
You want a rehearsal.
You want proof.
You want people to like you.
You want to be expatriated from your body into a First World nation.
You want to be one of them.
You want to mix their blood into a cocktail, and drink it in hopes of a transformation—ice cubes cracking in harmony like bullets penetrating glass.
You want to smile without faking it.
You want to bring this up in any conversation you have over the next six to seven months.
You want to make an impression like an atomic bomb, quick and long-lasting.
You want to commemorate this, one of the best moments you've had in your life, with a statue, plaque, photos, and a status update.
You want to pay attention.
You want to cry, and scream, "WAIT! DON'T GO! Please...I just need a little more time."
You want to kidnap them—million-dollar wrists writhe and chafe against the scales of venomous snakes.
You want to suck the precum off the tip of a gun barrel of a tank.
You want someone to fire an artillery shell into your head, sending pieces of skull and brain through the layers of atmosphere, straight into orbit. Straight into fucking orbit.
After the climax, clean yourself with some toilet paper, light up a cig, and pray for validation.
It doesn't make me happy when people shake my one hand and put piece of paper in the other, especially on stage. What would make me happy is if I could load my roscoe with my college tuition, cock it, pull the trigger, and pop the stacks of bills through the proud eyes of my parents/guardians. Through the sanguine mouths of my class. Through the clapping the hands of the audience, who is properly dressed for the occasion. Through the empty briefcases of job recruiters. And through the elaborately decorated robes of the faculty.
Doing this, swallowing k-pins and smoking a Camel.
The body count is high.
It ruins the pageantry of the ceremony.
And no one outside this room gives a fuck.
A handshake and a piece of paper that has letters, printed in a fancy font, and signed by a person who is the president of a college, doesn't mean shit.
