Thursday, November 12, 2009
thoughts like broken cycles and reused mouth drips.
making cowards out of myself, and being wishfully wanton for the impossible and intangible.
like maybe this is a false sense of sensibillity, and i should just do all the things i am too selfish to ever care about.
maybe there is no bravery in sincerity.
i am so sick of these skin and bones
so fat on blood and muddy organs. and yet we raise this handfuls to bruised lips and open mouth again and again and again.
there is at least a sort of sensibleness in consistancy
even if it is poured from glass or spat to spare the rest of us the trouble