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[pencildriver]

Gin Lane

Part I

Losing a Japanese island, The fish and crabs are all dead, Yellow kisses affright me; They void me, and leave; Just like you. And all my time is spent waiting and withering. Walking. Stop turning everything into dark alleys in my mind; Come lie with me. Let’s flip a coin; Tails, you kiss me again.

Just as I dive in, the water recedes; I wait there for a tsunami, Do we go find a boat? or a tunnel? Or run to the hills? Do you really want to go today? Come burn some roses with gin, Joust the night and let’s, idk, Alchemy alternative earrings? -        I feel sick of it all, Don’t pour me another night, Like from one john to another. Look at me hesitate, Dripping sickness, Babe, you’re such a pain in the chest. Just push the button already. Dismantle me.

Part III

I wish I was like you, Nascent. I’m sorry my rage over this is not lukewarm. I want you bad. I repeat, I want you, bad. -        I’m sitting here, wondering, For the sake of good science, If length is measured in meters, And time is measured in seconds, How do we measure how I feel about you?

There’s no play -        let’s just look at your windy hair soaked fully in candy sweet reveries and dreams. Why don’t you give your loving to me? You look good in red; Harm me.

Part II

I love the credits screen. Forewarns me the movie has ended. That it it is time to go.

Listen, What is true only for a short while outlives all sacred truths. Go where you’re not mild, lukewarm love.

Part IV

Is it so wrong to miss you?

[This is an experimental piece stemming out of my obsession with The Arctic Monkeys’ Do I wanna know, over the last week. I think there’s probably a space for counter lyrics to a song - verses/imagery that you speak/think of in conjunction with a song. This is to say that a song is not wrong, but cannot be tailored by anyone else, and thus, in a sense, merely incomplete. The beauty of this particular song is the movement of the bass and the lyrics; At first the they repeat with the main riff, but since the rhythm guitar turns differently in different parts, the lyrics and the same riff take you to different parts of the same story, before ultimately looping the last bit to create a trippy effect, where you suddenly find that there’s no more hand holding by the rest of the song, there’s just a mobius kind of a loop that takes you through all the thoughts you’ve had throughout the song. Therefore, another way to structure such music could be in such parts, where the traditional notation of Verse-Chorus-Bridge seems a little inadequate.]

[pencildriver]

Rainwalks

There is an aching, probably skyward,

I was walking down the road; Little things toasting my blood. Toasting. - Stop following me! You baptise it perfect, yet there's none in it. Then what is it? Another one of those glittering plastic containers I hate? That're good for the show, and bad for my health?

I was walking down the road; - This was your doing. You did nothing. Minds were still captive of wars long lost, Speeches long past, Longings long stoned, First loves in cheap graves, On an open roads that calls.

I was walking down the road; Dodging hurled mix-tapes, That vastly pollute bundled amorous nerves. - No. I don't need it. Please step away. I have feelings to go to. Feelings that cannot be; If no two things are alike, How can anything make those potholes go away; - Wait. What time is your perfect train again?

I was walking down the road; - Does it take insane courage to lie or the insane lack of it? If you're looking for other roads, Keep looking. Because deep inside of you, You know the same thing I do. This is bad company. Cancerous. You need to get off this one. This is isn't yours. And no amount of sleep will make it.

There is an aching. probably skyward. Which is probably my habit of sympathy. The sum cannot exist without the parts, And yet my nostalgia ignores me. Skyward. Skyward.

[pencildriver]

War

So what? Let them try, Let them try, And kindle us enemies to eternity. But that won't change that wreck of a glimpse that held open a passage to another world, And threw our chains to the wind.

What is love but two people, Who do the same thing, For the same reason; No tyrants can build a wall that can stop making me smile when I think of you; These empty pages that reek of promise, are proof.

So let me smuggle this notebook, Lest we forget and fail one another, And come unscathed the other side; What a waste of life that would be.

[pencildriver]

Comfort

A song sung in glimpses, that burns down the forest where all could be lost, to take away all hope of freedom in this iteration.

Such is the debt. A transaction unapproved by the bank, A request turned down by the Godmen, for lack of bits of paper, and unpointed stars. For the want of comfort, An escapade chased by ghosts from the loud nights in ancient free worlds, that bring fear into the murdered.

Can we just slow dance tonight, unrecorded into leisure? Can it rain without dissemble that we could just drink and not distill? The callow selling away the blood into a prison, exchanged for something as hapless as a glimpse; What help are these space probes, For stars already floated away, Waiting to be discovered again, On an ordinary daybreak; Decreeing, That there's no end, That comfort is a carrot, Coincidentally red.

[pencildriver]

Color

The burden of horns, This side of the inked line, What was left to concede, Was never mine.

The majesty of the skies, Lest they not turn to smoke, Look away oh yesterday, I am doing just fine.

Alas, the crown will grow, And will be bigger tomorrow, Freedom gave me the jumble, Freedom shall give me spine.

[pencildriver]

How do you come up with such ideas?

I guess feelings rarely come to us in isolation. The funny thing is, once on that train, if you try to trace it back, you’ll always take a new path. I try to empty my mind. Without regard of whether it makes sense to other people, of course :)

[pencildriver]

Box

Wwwwwhere? Where is the insect repellant that will finally free us from my own prying dreams that are most unreliable in narration and most foul mouthed, if I may.

Is there a law against this genocide that gave the joker his scars, Shoved a tv with bad reception in his mouth, traded for all his pens? And tethered history notes for a tail, rustling like those cola cans tied to bumpers, Or perhaps like nails trying to hold on; Inertia?

I spoke to a witchdoctor once; "Eating one's self is Cannibalism. Most patients, just last week a boy ran away, cut open, from the operation table, Confused if it was over."

"Was it?" "How would I know?" "Well how does he?" "He doesn't. He's just a cannibal."

[pencildriver]

My ra

Among the worship of men, A poverty looms large; In this silent wasteland, Fooled by colors, painted by arrogant rich kids helping us celebrate our mediocrity. -Riven, By the very laws that brought us here, The ignorance brought upon, By the ignorance of the Gods. -Where the definitions of justice, Were built to let men sleep at night; -Where, the magic generals of the skies, Bet on blood-sport in the arena, Hinting of their own chained feet, We kill on a piece of land, And call it our own.

And when the pendulum swings, On a map of morals, duties, truths and other kinds of lies we've told ourselves, The asphyxia only settles in the little space of a foreign language that perhaps only the eyes can speak.

In such silent raging waters, Where these little isles of fire are sparse but most necessary, Befriending a klutz toddler, Made perfect sense. The only thing devoid of dismal. The only thing devoid of wigs and convicts. A defibrillator, that fit in an arm, beeping, darkness is proof that light exists.

I’m not a linguist, But ra definitely means friend.

[pencildriver]

You still write?

Do I have a choice?

[pencildriver]

Sad Affleck

A smile is many things, -A circumstantial disguise; When in the midst of a second, The laughter turned to growl, The tree to my right started walking into the room, And from the frosted lake, Came your ominous voices of horror that crept up like tiny little numbers on my skin.                I had lead us to the dark countryside lane, When I decided to take a detour, And saw hanging from a tree, The murdered intrepid of the sea; The stuttering of the benzin reeking crime scene we had long left, -I hoped, had languished, Was still there the moment I entered the door. -I heard the cracking ice, and the infinite tiles of space that lay in between; Me thought of the secret lake, -Where I hid the bodies, A place we'd been, in the midst of a second, At the same Oulipo before.

How will I know, What slips away, when there is nothing I hold but a pencil, In the riveted sky that lies unclaimed, waiting. -A lot had passed at the beach since I left, The gloomy second in its midst.

[pencildriver]

Screech, Fuzz, Audrey

I let the last one ring out- For we have a need to screech, to rage out powerfully; That's what those high volume songs with swiveling high notes and Wheezing spaces with flickering lights are for- So that we can scream out loud, all the smiles of ire, And let the lunatic in our heads Laugh out in the cover fire; Casually spilling, into the wit, Eyes kept cool in the fridge.        Until the moon turns to sun, And there is no more chalk- Such a scribble cannot be wrong; The longing meadows riven with feelings about the nibbling rats, And hats by the river; And thoughts about floating wrists beside unkempt nails, And frigid red glow in the dark chandeliers gone missing; A feeling interrupted only by our silence to the high notes. Houses with no gates, are difficult to tame.

[pencildriver]

Keratin

Long gone, today will be further perished history; The pigeons return to the window sill we continue to bury, And like lines from an old diary, That prohibit the passage of time, Where there are masquerades of today's freedom, there, The mutiny of tomorrow shall be. Between silhouettes and fires, Exists the tension waiting to exist, A feeling once laced with poison, Drawing the limbic ire of the mind, even when it isn't. Rules unto yesterday, we're but tomorrow; Oh! What a rut, if we aren't.

[pencildriver]

Möbius Strips

“Is there no cape?”, she asks, The long of logic finally unfurled; And the dweller of trains, Insecure, exclaims with a hic, “Aha! You finally found me! But I wish you were a poet. Alas! Two blinds amongst us, I really wanted to see the world.”

[pencildriver]

i remember

“And just what happens after tomorrow?” “Even if in haste, take off from the base, Nucleosynthesis does not kill a star, Just like a wound isn't a scar; Today will be another story to borrow; To save the human race, From unfilled pages of sorrow.”

[pencildriver]

Overheard

All of a sudden, Pillaged, the monotony of the sunshine, Like a smoke signal from Andromeda, The penance of counting the days to dusk. Tiptoeing storms bare you the most, Sometimes revealing, That you too, were running in circles; An anchor in the tide be too much to ask, Something that joys when we see tomorrow, The basking rose on the street, That promises sunshine one day?

[pencildriver]

Laws of Physics

Liquid inside a tinted glass, That yearns to spill over, Talks of the truth of our kiss. I waited for you all this time, and you've been, but a priss. But this feeling of unafraidness of the consequence, is perhaps what is the abyss; If I could rationalize it, I would. You can be sure of that. But then, these two more minutes I’d forever miss.

But right now, I don't feel this need, of having to explain myself to you, or even me; False hopes, accidental spills most rife! Go away if you want to; As it is, I was already alone. But, one asks the universe out, all their life.

‘Perhaps then’, said I ‘Tomorrow’s sun, is due to the two, and seminal truths, are but spills.’ And the veined glass, That remained together still, Was not so different afterall.

[pencildriver]

Drifting

I imagine it’s quite scary on a raft, Drifting across the ocean in the darkness, alone; What kind of dreams, one might see, among the stars that do not talk? Evolved to feel, but learned to nod; He must’ve drowned in order to live.

Sometimes, perhaps, he’d go into the night, Hoping to see those dreams of voice, -It’s sad you can’t dream the same dream again. But then, holding onto anything afloat, Is waiting for someone to lie to you. If only. I doubt the truth will make any sense either.

His hair grew long on the boat; On the shore, no one recognized him. Not even the time machines.