neon lights don't go out.

Migration is grand
moving out from the makers hand
tredding wrist and forearm desert sand
moving steadily from the fatherland
growing closer to shoulder, the mountains of man

An orchestra of popping joints and bones ( Read more... )

all your dreams are over now.

My hands smell like steel; my hair smells like perfume
From the holding the guitar too tight; from the girl I can’t hold on to.

Tell me that it’s sound and I’ll believe you
In a second. Forrest wanderings with coupland books
As my only mental weapon. Pink on blue in the middle of the night
Grass well above my knees. River wine runs the thin line
Where my smoke and fingers meet.

"Your feet are steaming up my windows."
"Yeah they are, cuz they're so hot!"

David is lying to me.

“When that epidemic comes, two parts of the human race will survive: the children, and the paranoid reclusive poets/artists.”

sometimes I sing the blues when I know I should be praying.