07.Apr.2003

there's always a siren singing you to shipwreck

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this is still "there there"

There is something almost deliciously sacred about dropping your inebriated head against misaligned tiles in a public restroom of a club called Husslers, your throat burned and quieted by cigarettes and singing, your mind launched immediately into the drunk-spin-cycle, and images of multi-colored liberation rise through your esophagus.

I'm not sure what this says about me as a person.

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My skin itches for music and release again. It is always Friday night in my teeth.

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I have this feeling April is going to be a bit more verbose than months previous.

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When I fell asleep the other night in a separate bed I, at one point, stupidly and assiduously worshipped, I sung-murmured Skinny Puppy against the stab-scars on Dustin's chest.

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The most musically attractive, fair-weatherly mental lovers of mine have copious knife-wounds of some-sort. The best is not fair-weather.

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I have my sexual frustration glittering on the end of my tongue; I should have suggested something extremely hot to you while you benignly fought insomnia. It's a bit of a shame you missed tonight's release. Do catch up as the hours progress.

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Thank you for calling.

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time & machine