On Broadway, Of Mice and Mirage

Hey, eat crack.

It's hallow's eve, kids.

Come All Saints day be it sun and stars and sky -- bloke broken, broke and battered bats in a batting cage baking cake. Said cake, cupcakes, cake crayons... yeah, eat crayons too.

No, eat crack.
It tastes better -- at least...

Damn, get the fucking high.

Jack up.
Just the high.

The False, The Fate, The Fact, Fiction, and Fallacy -- Finding Faith In Regret

The night came and passed with the stomach acid on rewind, the tune singing 'Smother Me' repeating endlessly – words on a car ride, a few Coronas, maybe a Mexican. I called myself lucky; said there'd be a thousand kids around the world who'd love to be in my shoes.

I held his hand and said a prayer; stole the cross from around my best friend's neck. I'd like to find some faith in sanity one day, to hold and to love and to trust in the name of, if not God, something else Holy and Devine as a heresy.

Hungry for food that was never meant to be consumed, thirsty for water that was never meant to have been drank. Licking our fingers to taste the whimsical music of lust, of life, and everything in between – hold your breath and sink into the otherside.

It made sense at the time; pull myself closer to those at an arms length – find love where you'd least expect it. I realize my mistake now, not that I left my comfort zone, or that of which was safe, but more than I gave up the good times for mediocre jokes and a few beers that ended up on the pavement anyway. 

I should've stayed where I knew that I belonged.

Bucking Trend for Sucking Fiend

I'd like to know you better; to know you inside out.
To rape and rapture your flesh and blood -- and feel your skin from the inside out.
To crawl like spiders beneath the soul, through the mesh of veins and organs.
Internal, external, interior, exterior, best friend, ex-friend, meager belongings make the friend.
Pokémon yellow, purple tights and sweatshops.
Rape me.
Fuckin' rape me, and I don't mean by Nirvana.

I'd Totally Do An Indie Kid If They Weren't All So Goddamn Scene

The kids are all fucked up these days. When the small things turn into everything we're breathing for, we turn the insignificant into the world before us; twist the unnecessary into daily life.

Welcome to paradise, to RIOTown, to the centre of the goddamn universe. Welcome to the jungle, the fiery pits in the depths of hell, to the land of ice and Canada.

Hang up the phone, darling.

There isn't anyone on the other line.

This Superman Cooked Me With Tomato Sauce And Onstage Antics; ♥ Love Jesse

Up against that wooden stage, they tried to drag me underground. I felt their hands on my back, against my skin, next to my neck. Felt the clammy, cold shivers slide up and down my spine; the shaking vibrations of the music covering whatever else may be exposed. It got harder to breathe, harder to stand, harder to stay afloat in the mass of bodies and extras, the sea of zombies and non-conformists. The crowd of the odd, the collection of the deviant.

Then he pulls me up front, and for a minute, I see over their heads. Past the drums, backstage, over the mosh pit.

I can see, if only for a minute, before he throws me out there.

And I wished my feet would never touch the floor again.

I Decided Against Satanism And Settled For Pop Rocks And A New Gasping Breath Of Air Freshener

And confused is the state of nostalgia, the longing in a breath of fresh air. I miss my best friend, my family, kinsfolk and foe. I miss my dollar bills and McDonald's days, my whore-ass acquaintance, and nights spent on the telephone into early hours of the morning. I miss the smell of coconut shampoo when I welcome the scent of sunscreen; miss the feeling of fingers over my eyes ready to shout out 'Surprise'. Most of all I miss the city lights, the night I sat and stared off the balcony, wondering if lost in the clouds and dust I'd feel at home.

More than this bedroom, more than this laptop, more than this sideways lamp and the glisten of plastic possessions. Miss the feeling of normality, of security, of somewhere familiar. When the former becomes the present, and the latter becomes the stairway to heaven, I turn my head the other way. The green, green, green -- fluorescent green of that sweatshirt and eyes so blue they could drown a ship or two. Long, lengthy lashes, and sex hair. Wear that damn sex hair like you've never wondered whether I was a virgin or not.

To clarify, even if it is none of your business, not only am I highly disinterested in relationships, I am also highly disinterested in iterating a full-out discussion of my sex life, or lack thereof. So here's the real question, "Are you fucking high?"

Did you just run off and snort a line off the slut's stomach because your father died, or did you shoot up in the back alley behind Safeway to relax a bit, because your girlfriend was feeling a little social tonight?

And here we are, confused, is this state of nostalgia.