Punk kids with street style they stole or sold for, hanging outside the mall smoking whatever makes them look cool; it’s all clear. They’ve got snapbacks, three iPods, lighters but no guns. They’re not the fighters, but the lost ones.
It’s all skateparks and second base. She’s a pretty acid trip in the staircase behind the movie theater; she imagines that the endings turn out all right. They’re not alleys and broken windows, but trimmed lawns and milk delivery boxes and unlocked doors and those sitting rooms in the fronts of houses that no one is allowed to sit in. No peace in her protest, she’s a burning portrait over the coffee table, not so easily seen as the burning cross on the lawn but she longs. She longs.
It is a tragedy, in the dramatic sense. There’s no happy ending sold with the white picket fence; there’s no security in the million dollars of insurance; he’d give a million heartbeats back to benefit once from reassurance.
It’s all bandaids and bottles of pills, the floor in the bathroom, psychiatrist bills. The shingles are new, the garage door’s been replaced; if only we could get out all the rot behind her face, maybe all our demons might finally leave this place. You thought they left, but demons don’t leave, they displace. This home is not a home, is not a home, is not a home, is not a home.
Every shy tooth he shows is to deface the way it feels to be unknown. He doesn’t smile from the lungs but from the gut, eyebrows pinned back and sewn, you’d never know, you’d never know, you’d never know he’s so alone.
Punk kids with skate shoes broken in already ‘cause they never got to wear them new. Mom’s that only buy dress shoes. It’s all for show, it’s all for show, it’s all just a fucking show – show me purpose in your fingers pointed arbitrary, show me the boy behind the man behind the fear.
Killing is quiet when it needs to be.
Money is pretty
A pretty, pretty distraction. It’s all aimless, ambling, misguided mazes, it’s all just flattery.
September 3rd, 2014