shes got a face like old holly wood.
like vincent prices wife in house on haunted hill.
the kind of face thats got laugh lines and dimples and wrinkles and character.
and tonight’s a matter of trying to find the right words. all things considered it ought be tomorrow night or the next or any other.
but these mindless thought spasms only find me at the worst times.
being a life long resident of nh
i dont know anything about “old hollywood”
thats why people romanticize it.
people ask how we could have things like mass shootings and home grown terrorists , the answer lies west, not in a physical sense.
sometimes i think i should ‘ave gone to california and took a swing at it.
it just never made sense. every pine encumbered teenager dreams about palms and phalanges and how easily they could run them across a beautiful women if only they were given a change of scenery.
the obvious happens, these kids disappear or wind back of at square one.
the cross brothers would call me a coward, if tried to venture out, they’d name me oogle.
a pampered would be leather neck tramp.
those two were all punk scene i needed to know i wasn’t into it.
sorry bastards, they could have been anything, there both brilliant.
but it seems for fear of status quo they the lower roads through basements, fields, forest and crack dens.
the older one just got back and dealt some probation, later this week i plan to drink him, maybe learn how leather necks live.
old school hollywood face and i don’t talk anymore, she let me down for the last time, and i her. timing, common sense, and cadence were never on our side.
i think if she’d overcome her fear and made it out there she’d be riding a trail of poorly written movies upwards .
but, thats the thing, if you think about something in a certain light for long enough it’ll be an entirely different creature once you see it.
people wonder why artists are nocturnal.
imagination unfurls best in dark places.
thinking of her in the sun untainted by my gaudy cock powered lense i fear she’d have wound up addicted to heroin.
her rotting legs poking out of a dumpster behind c.v.s
a paragraph under an advertisement for a fraudulent psychic.
im 24 and ugly as sin, if i go west ill probably experience the same thing.
but ive already made over 8 hours of music, if i’m dumpster bound the only thing that matters now is my death is entertaining.
im not a hippy, im not a punk, im not religious.
conservative values piss me off and im sick of whiney democratic faggots.
and i think everybody deserves love, and to be taken out back and shot.
the only brand of misery in which we all find purchase is arguing over whose brand is correct. so, really, its the forum, and i think.
to sit up high and watch us squirm, sitting there watching us all wallow in intellectual shit.
wouldn’t you get curious.?
you know, like, lets change there feed.
how about give them silly little outfits.
fuckings boreing lets givem them romance.
what about language?