Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Freed Style -14/04/2009


I wouldn't lie to you.

But I used to find the time in lines well spent, used to balance books with new leafs turned, used to keep the lights up excusing mysterious bruises on the ego you woke up with.

Staring at your toes made the time go red in the face once you lost pens and papers and had to going get tough chicken wing it, wrestle time down to this desk so I could freestyle for you for the first time in a long while.

That being said I gotta back logged-out cowboy who rode off almost literally into sunsets carrying the weight of Annie's load the fuck away before I'd even learned the words to my own songs.

Let me break down the break down for your broke arse, down here I gotta bad day or two in black rocks trying to get the joke that is still on me, not young Annaleise, I gotta get over it before it gets understated and laughed off in a hellova story, I gotta make it a double back and front up to the monkeys eating bad dates in Cairo on my back. I gotta give a shit but fuck knows where I get it from.

I gotta say, let it be said, I gotta shrug and do it like you can dance to it, forty five over the limit, times limitations like another set of clothes the emperor bites his lips in mirrors for thinking this'll make his gut stick out. You should have stuck with that, stick shift, shit man, you should have trusted your last suicide Tuesday and had something better to say back to the three ay-em ceiling that studied you. I didn't hear ... nuthin'.

But you did, and I won't tell them where you were when it happened but don't expect me to lie for you no more, or anymore than this omission. I need a mission... like extreme prejudice. In Exodus, tigers on or off the fucking boat, and in the tank. Sense in the sense that I'm not making it, just using up all five of them, just so I could feel anything for you, anything at all.

This is what happened, in my own words.


So to speak. So, to speak, them, I had to ogle at your idle days behind shades of hidden double meanings wrapped in obfuscation and re-relevancy. Looking squarely at the dark, I had to shadow box with the best of them. I had to have you over the shoulder to stand in for the subconscious that I simply do-not-have, no more.

No more being down with the king or even close, down with homework, up with miniskirts and up in smoke. So that cigarette smoke looks as good as I feel, tastes like I look, but it looks as if, if I was to drop this fart I'm holding onto, I would be the one to catch the queer looks from the straight guy sitting next to me, trying to play human chimney and kill me softly which each breath he passively aggressively puffs out at me. You suck, fag. You stink too. I do. Not. But my clothes just might. Though you'll be dead by then or so the packet says. How many atheists are there left in the emphysema ward these days anywayz? Ah never mind, my clothes would probably as soon anyway smell all the same, and I'm just white washing those facts with my own dirty laundry.

Truth is, my own midnight will come ticking over like some lop sided poll rigged election re-count charity drive marathon crossing red lips for the kids back home last Easter.

That's the drift of the service I'm trying to draft you into, and dodging that I'm saying Yeah, I know where Vietnam is, it's on TV. 'cause that's what the greatest said, like no Vietcong ever called me a poet, and so I had no reason to return in kind. My injuries are my insult. I'm off the deep end diving into developing this picture of the deeply wounded trying for nobilities never known and missspelled if it wasn't for this push-button I can check. Check it out. I'll spell it out, like, I was there for that too, but where the fuck where you?

Where are getting off, what is your stop? What'the ticket cost you and who you gonna call? Ghost writing a wrong with another wrong, a favorite old song of mine, lost in blotches of seventeen year old ink and canvasses.

Itch you can't quite scratch, like, I'll be back. I'll be front and centre too, I'll be right, before I get left again, before I get to cry foul and slip into something even more comfortable. Desperation is supposed to be quiet and stay there, desolation is supposed to be magnificent and hang above a cloudy sky I can't share with the sun. But it's not, it's made of cheese, hollow as a bright side of an eggshell I'm supposed to walk on, for you. Reminding me I'm under the wrong set of skies.

Shelling out, walking on egged on by you, as if I knew kung fu. I do. Not. Not a hacker nor a martial artist, not a chance just a cliche slumped who said leave the bottle to the bartender in the mahogany setting seated right beside himself trying not to laugh at his on joke... and succeeding, easily.

Hey man you gotta make this look hard, but that's the easy part. The hard part is picking up the tab and taking the hints. The hard part is the figure you get that comes with a lot of zeroes attached, and a detached disenchantment with straight talk and her curving trajectories.

I've seen the future, from the point of view of yesterday, I've seen the past, it has all the storage space you and your mates need to stow all your cynicisms and criticisms, but its full of holes and we are taking on water. So I got my eye on the future in a rising tide, and that is what it looked like to me.

In the future in the end in the long run in the way it was told to me , the screams and moans are still muffled enough, the glass here thick and frosted sufficiently, the lighting bad and dim enough, the hour late enough and the outside streets empty enough, that the janitors will be able to take care of everything that's gone and went wrong, and you, trust me, don't need to worry about anything now.


...not tonight.




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