April Showers bring May flash floods

I think its still good to carry a little teenage angst with you into the rest of your life journey. Your brain is the most plastic in your teenage years and is prone to creativity and fresh ways of wiring itself. I think these are good things, because concrete sets and then it cracks. Nirvana should be gradual; there is still much to do.


I’m sick of party politics, of parties for politicians dripping with free booze and stinking of burnt earth.

Big whigs in broad suits one upping each other in displays of polishing cutlery and lying to their wives.

They squawk at us, run to school dig loans binge drink graduate, then the postman brings their bill while their steel wires rip off value sized portions of our stubby pay checks, all in the name of democracy. All for our voice.

And we’re supposed to vote, supposed to care what these assholes do, supposed to give up even more of our time that we’re already forced to waste so we can keep the pie in the oven?

You’re kidding yourself.

We aren’t like you.

We charge souls, not electronics.

Capital doesn’t translate into smiles.

Your voice is not ours.

We decide the bottom line at the end of the night when the amp is still scratching and you can taste your neighbor’s beer sweat on your upper lip.

Career public servants survive on untaxed underthetable deals, I get it. Necessary evils et al ad finitum. But when it’s at our expense?

That’s personal.

When you want me stuck and fucked and depressed, popping dopamine analogs and buying condoms to use on women afraid of turkey sandwiches made without surgical gloves so I can finally get some rest in front of the television…

That’s an attack.

On my freedom, on my parties, on my tomorrow, on my comrades who haven’t leased ecofriendlycars or highceilingedcondos, circled together in some basement spinning vinyl and burning earth, waiting out the depth charges from above the table, wondering why the fuck our parents let things get the way they did?

Wondering why the fuck our generation keeps letting the same nonsense and jetsam and flotsam pass unnoticed, screenstuck and stupid and caught in the tidepool?

Wondering why the fuck everyone is social networking without saying a word?

Wondering why the fuck you’d want to go back to a for profit education market so you can for profit another man for your services?

Wondering why the fuck you’re twenty two and married and haven’t seen a goddamn thing other than the prom queen’s slit and the bathroom wall at whatever pub you call home?

Wondering why the fuck a piece of cadmium and selenium and alloy and sparkle and sound can reflect your personality?

Wondering why the fuck people listen to other people just because they’re ON AIR?

I’m losing air. Losing hope losing space losing momentum losing focus. I’m losing and wondering.

But still I move my feet.

Because soon we’ll all be old and even more fucked, having switched from Zoloft to Viagara on the cruise ship of our golden years, and we’ll forget about this piss stinging fire ant scab on our necks and arms and heart RIGHT NOW that makes us clench up when we forget about how we’re really wired to interact in this world.

To open a door for an old widow and look her in the eyes and smile and say have a nice day and mean it.

To wait for the girl to get into her house before you pull away, humming unknowingly.

To ask the kids smoking a joint in the park for a hit.

To sit alone under a bus stop overhang in a thick summer thunderstorm smoking a cigarette and smiling about that joke you told years ago.

To play football with our brothers on Sundays and drink beer with them and their wives and enjoy the conviviality of a moment in time further than we could have ever imagined reaching.

To breath it in and hold it and put the incoherence aside for a moment and feel the center of our soul sticking to everyone else’s in permanent omega.

So I put the pills back and vow to you and to me to remember the pain and rage and hate and I know to stay patient, stay huddled past the midnight because their fires are out there somewhere.

And we will snuff them out.


My mind’s loaded, six chambers

double barrelled, a broken

Christmas toy, some

flashed up streetwalker,

just happenin’ by. My mind’s

stuck to itself, like the insides

of some busted Metra Card dispenser,

at 2AM, just fucked up. Don’t

look anywhere

for anymore order. My

mind don’t do that. Because it’s a twisted

sort of fucker, gnarly skinscab, poison spirit

barb. An unamenable

criminal. Parole denied.

I’ll be here



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