There's a Dead Man on the Bus

"There's a dead man on the bus!", the pseudo hood rat proclaimed.
I could see the bus driver look through his review mirror. His eyes drew a straight line to the back. His eyes were open but he wasn't breathing. Not breathing but drooling. It jerked. The bus not the corpse but I guess it jerked to a halt. We filed frantically off the bus as if the man were to give us a disease. I mean its not like he could've got up and chased us but i find it strange that unless one knows the body, a dead body is like a dead squirrel, gross. His headphones were blaring and Bruce Springsteen was the soundtrack to his death. He lay cold and expressionless. His eyes wide open. Even though he didn't make a sound in death he didn't look anything close to peaceful. Nobody tried for his pulse. No one called the ambulance right away. Just the sound of the complaining bus driver stating he didn't have time for this...strange. What a way to go

They're breaking it off she says. After 3 years of confusion and cocaine they're finally breaking it off. She said shit happens. Is it really shit or the inevitable? Either way I feel like somewhat of a home wrecker.
"I liked him at first but then the love and affection disappeared," she stated.
I hated how it made me feel. I come back from tour and she's taken. I wonder if she'll leave with me when I go out again. I'm too young to think about it.

Naptown and New Years

I brought it all home again. It started during the season that Kris Kringle made his way from house to house and seem to end on the New Year. How many times can I get lost inside my own house party? I counted five. Fading in and out of consciousness kept me jaded. My friends say she's really hot. I find myself repulsive only because of my height. Broad Ripple at first seemed like a breath of fresh air and then in one fowl swoop of the night bird it's reputation is ruined by pretentious fucks who don't realize I'm the real reason they're getting paid and I'm getting laid. A bittersweet sarsaparilla that could be a whole lot easier to swallow with some blue or red pills. Break it down how you want. She only looks at me in that way when she's been drinking so I'm not the man. More of a drunken arm reduced to a finger begging for penetration. Desperate I know. Half of the Sugar Gliders woke me to find myself laying next to 12 beer cans and some assorted flavors of chocolate. The ride was bland and so was the candy.

Yours Truely Miss Cain

She takes her vices in the morning with a glass of rum instead
and she shuns away your cretin food cause she says it clears her head
some say it seems unhealthy but i find it quite fine
and all my friends they want her lover's love but I'll just take her line

She compliments my work attire and I find it all so strange
that she's stuck inside this kitchen but hell I guess it pays
and she's passing propaganda and teaching all her ways
some just don't see past that she's still inside this place

I know it seems that I am a walking contradiction
reality may lie when it comes to fact or fiction
so she takes a hefty dose
all my friends they all don't know
her hair is black as night
but her nose is white as snow

its coming

the self-loathing pig.

they've not said it. they've not said it.
they disatisfy.
they've not done it. they've not done it.
the question is asked but given no reply.

they've must find it difficult.
take your greed and money and claim it as truth.
take your tender. take your tender.
who's the number one contender?

blind the population with a mass jumbles of hate.
on a tangent of the who's who in sextapes.
rape the public of the truths they hold.
you're sold. you're sold.

eradication of liberty.
separate the masses for the cause of one entity.
separate the masses for the cause of one ethnicity.
separate the masses for the cause of one entity.

you own a name. no you own a number.

Swallow Follow One Shot with Another

I was drunk. I was walking listening to my roommates talk about Chompski and other things that i really try to understand but just end up thinking that pre-cogs are cool. We end up at the party that was supposed to be "a hell of a time" and the first thing that happens is that i get checked. "Who are you? Who do you know?" i was just trying to pee. We are all asked to leave and i see Bryan. I know Bryan as the punk rock kid who puked on my carpet. broke ass mother fucker. We got naked at some punk fest in the middle of the country and some lady took pictures of our drunk asses. I'm getting old. At least I feel old.I need a change. Change of pace. Change of job. Change of scenery, but most of all i need to change the ice in my rum.

Art is a Verb

Art - Noun

1.	the quality, production, expression, or realm, according to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance.

2.	the class of objects subject to aesthetic criteria; works of art collectively, as paintings, sculptures, or drawings: a museum of art; an art collection.

3.	a field, genre, or category of art: Dance is an art.

I look up the word to perhaps find a true meaning to it. But alas i fail. That seems to happen quite often. I cross these words in my head trying to convince myself its not true but find that undeniable passion to fail. I find it strange that people find art in failure. I fail to be all i can be. I strive for excellence but everyone else is expecting me to fail. Wanting me to fail. Not as an artist but as a person. I was told last night by someone that my failure is art. A bittersweet anthem of what it is to be a true human being. To be a devil's deviant, not his advocate. A true sin. Kasher harsh words blaring in my head that "art is hard." Kasher you lie! Failure is the easiest part of life. Art is a verb.