I have a problem with getting out…
Of town, I mean.
But his queen makes me cream
And I don’t want to leave this four-post
Never quite understood.
Pretending we’re friends
And making up love songs.
We are just passing in time.
I ask, why not?
-love lorn, starvation torn, the B D Starling tweeted
The cigarette was good,
But it didn’t last long enough
For me to clearly envelop myself
In the unfolding splay of the universe.
Fire is wasting your intrigue.
Fire is wasting you away.
Fire is pain,
Or so I thought.
But fire wouldn’t do that to me again.
-Bones, withered and raw
California is a bed of industry,
A reflection of purge.
Trains whistle in the night,
But quietly we listen.
It’s 50 dollars for the suck and fuck.
She was cute in a boyish way,
Maybe I wanted her.
But is it because I wanted myself?
Hot, sensual bodies
I like that.
- Bonesy, the rawest dawg.
My apartment faces the back of an adjacent building.
That’s not a problem except a crying baby lives there.
What do you want?
Sitting in idling cars,
Waiting for return.
Like endless munkey business,
Girls hang from the rafters.
I loved it.
I’ve found that people can be
great and awesome,
Yet terrible and miserable
All at the same time.
Why the fuck would you ever want to be someone else when it’s so difficult to be yourself?
There isn’t enough room for people inside a person.
Riddle me that.
When he showed up to the party,
He was wet, cold and out of sorts.
The nurturing warmth of the liquid spirits cut the pneumonic tension for the time being.
Waiting for a moment,
Then it’s back again.
Shedding a tear isn’t worth it at this point.
He just took it.
Trying to keep the whiskey down.
Trying to holding on to a cherished thought.
Trying and dying at the same time.
-BD Starling, 1923 at the helm of death reaches, Oregon.
There’s a certain feeling I get when
I look at a photograph and know
All the people pictured are probably