Wycoff at Starr

Home sick as hell I have coffee and croissants for breakfast, European style.
Sitting out on a terrace, but these streets are so American...
I just feel like running away, always running
whenever the air gets to thick and my brain starts getting all crazy and one sided.
I become obsessed, my heart shrunken and pounding away, my stomach all knotted up.
I bleed into the pure whiteness of a random toilet I call my own.
The pain is still soft, but something is definitely rotten.
I don't know how long I can cheat on myself playing this stale game
and drinking coffee and cigarettes to try and waken my blown up brains.
I might try cutting out my heart, its seams only to give me weight and chain me to the ground.

How many places can you run away to...
How many "start a new" can a person pursue without losing it's soul
Ah, the good old values...
I wish I still had some of that left in me, or something to chase instead of something that chases me.

Reckless nights of randomness and booze, spilling money all over the table and making holes in my intestines.
Maybe I'm insane, but no one here knows me enough to tell the difference.
So I roam the street, loose, a nut, a tricked crazed teenage lunatic, Board out of its senses
numb and lost in this gigantic meaningless city

I don’t remember what trees look like, or what soil feels like under your bear feet.
The smell of marshmallows and Italian piss sausages cooked on a real fire.

CLEAN

I use a yellow pencil to write banana thoughts,
and linger under hot summer afternoons
debating myself between cold beer and frozen vanilla milkshakes.
Nothing seems very full, or clear or meaningful.
But my subconscious boils with random projects and excuses.
I feel stopped, but something in me keeps slowly progressing,
crawling steadily towards an unknown destination.
Stubborn fleas and pants full of holes fill my nights with empty dreams
of stars and clouds nobody seams to remember existed.
Once in a while an echoed voice through a distant telephone line throws me back
into a loveless limbo, dressed with someone’s else’s underwear.
I live in this misty dream a noisy life.
I don't listen to myself speak any more,
just a current of automated words rumble throw the refurbished
half priced streets of this city.
Nothing is left of the zest and zeal of the past.
All uniqueness has been transferred to cheap sweatshops in china
where yellow faceless men handcraft hipsters and graffiti art walls.
While the cleaning brigade secretly sprays the sidewalks with fake spit and
dirty wax wrappers.

My cheeks are plump and soft.
I look at my self in the mirror,
make funny faces
and wonder what will happen when the heat wave finally hits New York.

Amateur or the art of nothing

I have found that words are like paintings you create in the others mind,
when I say "flower" you draw in your head a picture of a flower.
I engage you in my/your painting by making use of these words.
The quality of the painting resides in my ability to suggest beautiful paintings and your ability to paint them.

clothes

backyards

5% ALC. BY VOL

swimming in a hypnotic fluid, slanted and exhausted
I blink my eyes in slow motion
blue eyes, icy, no spark, just a buzz and a couple of º.
No more conversations
just neon lights and concrete walls covered with démodé graffitist
Society puzzles me in a paralyzing fashion
Dollars run down a wet coble stone street
Chinese pop music
New York, the city of the $200 shirt
of the polished, smiling, skinny people with goldfish poring out of their ears
Cocaine plastered bathrooms, junky cardigans and hydrogenated bicycles.

I guess after all drinking with people is not much better than drinking alone.

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