Farewells, Hellos, and Morning Struts

It's been about a year since I have created this blog.

I probably have no followers.

http://www.theflamingtoaster.tumblr.com

That is where I will be.
Alas, I bid you adieu.

My Five Minute Shadow Ate Farrah Fawcett

I am not a metaphor for a summer song. I am no flowering plant, or seed-producing nightmare. This is the summertime, but behind my cloudy eyes I see no sun. This is the year of my life, but through the looking glass I cannot see another one to come. One day, comes the next, and am I suddenly missing out?
I despise being tied down, the same as one despises the death of an icon. We have fallen into a state of collective shock.

My condolences to the family. May he rest in peace.
May his body remain undisturbed, yet let his infamy live on through the hearts around the world.

Good Morning

The soft-serve ice cream tastes like Toledo dreams and spell-check mistakes; I've counted the stars too many nights to mistake them with the neon signs that line the roadsides. The sun is setting behind a cloud of dust, but it's only ten thirty... ten thirty in the goddamn morning and all I see is lichens and moss; other overgrown shrubbery.

So for a victim who only could sing the words of another, pray with hands together, legs apart. Pray, for a whore, a martyr, a godforsaken rant on bananas and apple juice.

We're here to count heartbeats, to electrocute the scuba diver and implement a bad idea. We've got a plan, we can't get caught -- we've got a plan, we're moving on and letting go.

The New Cities, illegal activities and foreign disaster all taste like Toledo too.

We Are The Ocean

I wish to stand the voice of a million, but I remain silenced in the face of humanity. I cringe at the idea that a façade so strong should eventually fall, yet know deep in my heart there lies nothing but rotting floorboards and silly string.

I can pantomime a collection of old school records being cranked out of my grandfather's radio reminiscent of the '59 sound and more radio hit references, or I could read Stephen King novels and go on hour long spiels about nothing. Yet here I am. Still alive. Still breathing.

This night, it tastes like the early morning. I'll be feeding the sunrise come sixx:AM. I'm at the corner of the world and the music; they're on two different planes of existence. Sometimes, I wonder on which I belong, or should I remain forever trapped in between.

I am naught but another faithless warrior, looking for a lover (or some resemblance of) and his counterpart so he does not befall his hopelessness upon myself.

Is It My Body?

I suppose I've fallen for your solidarity. I owe so much to these words that leave my tongue; I steal from men and women around the world. This is my fault, this is my wrongs and dimes and gutter face-planted Sheffield local music scene reference.

This is Bring Me The Horizon on crack, and Vegan Holocaust on fame. This is the local music and the local noise. This is local, in the sense that we're here, and you're over there. Over there, but I don't know for how long.

I've felt divided before, but I've never given so much for a foolish bad decision.

Hey, maybe Slayer is worth $80.

Bat Cave Remedies and Civics Class

The need was greater than the want; the ice that slicked the pavement on summer days or the cold that airbrushed the magazines. That cold mirrored our attitudes, and that attitude mirrored my life. It was a four-way intersection of seven-lane traffic, a bad reference to b-list celebrities and Vin Diesel. Like the scent of florescent road paint, and the memories that never were -- this forlorn reality interspersed with momentary fantasy barely qualified as life (or something like it).

There's the cliché happily ever after drowned in empty shells and fast retreat, then there's the real world (or what remains of it these days). I lead my life by the hint of sunshine behind the horizon, and the mess of insecurities -- a crumbling building that destroyed me from the inside out as I stand up tall. Here I am; almost a month worth of disaster and self-deprecation only got me so far in life.

Worst comes to worst

this coincidence could cost me my life.

I hate myself sometimes.

and those times, those times look like my life does now.

THE LOCAL MUSIC SCENE

and my friends.

this is why I am still alive.

Gabe Saporta

Is sexy.

Fuck my fucking life up the fucking ass with a fucking box of fucking KRAFT DINNER.

This movie needs a remake, and this song needs to be taken off repeat.
I just can't seem to hit the right buttons to make it work.

Old School Disco Moves

I'm lying because there's nothing better to do; taste the sin of broken skin and wretched bone to pavement screams. Shredded clothing creates a void in which we all must collide, collapse, combine and create combustion.

It was a communist dream to corrupt the coronary code in concise creativity caked with criticism. The alliteration allegory is back with a breaking baffle of busted bodies; born to the king of Thames and those who inhabit it. What were we to worry, but wonder that the wise would win our wages of war and waste?

We revel in the idea that one night, we shall be free. Revel, and loath in the light that calls itself satisfactory; safe... something like that. Don't lie, they said. We promise we'll make you out to be a rock star, a shock star, a break up and a porn star.

But tonight, well, it's better to tell a lie of nothing, than to build a life on lies themselves.

A Moniker for the Unbelievers and the Sergeant

I'm on the sidewalk; I'm bleeding out my lungs. The trees, they taste like honey and vinegar and French fries, the lice, they stomp and crawl and take over the earth. I feel them on my skin, hey; can you feel me on your skin too? I ask myself, hey, what am I doing here? I try to move, but something hurts so I stop. I try to talk, to yell, to tell you something above the surface of the ocean, but something else hurts and I take a deep breath of water -- lungful of blood.

I'm starting to miss the consistency that was the latency, miss the scene aesthetic, the magic and the monkeys. I told him to take me home; I didn't want to be alone. I couldn't stand, nonetheless fall. To prop myself up, it hurt, something hurt, yeah.

I closed my eyes, and felt my heartbeat. I felt the blood -- the blood had always been there, but not external. Never external. Here I am; tonight I'm inside out.