Tuesday, December 15, 2009
New State of Mind
You're tired, and I'm restless. You're a tomato and I'm a tomato pronounced the other way. When thrown: we'll hit the wall, or we'll hit the floor, we'll roll, we'll splatter, and what we won't do is turn sun-dried. We were made to last long, but we won't because it is better to smash a new vessel with a full and unopened bottle than an empty one. We'll become the fade to black that romantics fancy over sideburns and bitter bastards. Call a road, home, I'll fit the stick with all I'll need in a tied bandana (red and white checkers). Smoke, drink, fight, and lose everything we made only to learn once we lost it all we have each other. Blow smoke in my face and you'll get slapped, pour beer on your pants and I'll get punched, break your heart and you'll break the bottle in half, and fit me with the rest.
We have made our terms, we're blind-sighted, and marching. To an endless step, and in the high noon. Pistol wiped, pussy wiped, crazy and alone, each other, and desperatos, eat the dirt, and I'll drink the worm. Crazed; the smell of your breath in my mouth; the quicksands of your eyes, and how is it you're suppose to survive again? To give up, my body to your science, my cause for your affect, and the rest we can forget until we meet again. We're on a fifth time going, and I'm all for sequels, Sidekick.