Memory hands down the sentence
And acquittal is only in sleep.
Memory shows me the gallows
And the rope breaks only in dreams.
No savior in spectators gawking.
All the drunkards are raising a din.
Just send me an arm full of morphine,
While the whores are all howling my sins.
You are so very kind to send letters
With sympathy, kisses and tears
But a blow to the head would do better,
For it seems I’ve been conscious for years.
So send me an arm full of morphine,
Or send opium, absinthe or wine
My memories have me on death row
And each minute is such a long time.
[video]
MY SPEAKTOIT ASSISTANT ASKED IF I WAS SICK AND THEN THIS HAPPENED YOU GUYS.
Paint palette. I wish I could convey to you how thick and ridiculous this is. It used to be just a regular plastic plate. Now it’s heavy and rock solid from collecting a year’s worth of paint. You could kill a man with this thing.
There’s nothing else worth watching.
(Source: adamonroe, via christclub)
(via christclub)
He called to me to come outside. Waiting on my lawn with a canoe painted green and two pairs of oars. Get in, he said, and I did. But there’s no water here! I said. Oh, well I’ll take care of that. And out he climbed, pulling a long roll of cellophane from his pocket as though it was magicked to be bottomless. With a flourish and a cheeky grin, he placed the loose end at the bow of the boat and pushed the rest away, a carpet of cellophane unrolling before us. Well that’s not water either, but he clicked his tongue and told me to just trust. Take up the oars, he said, and he took up his. Ready? One, two, three, pull! And I expected to feel the wood connect with solid ground, but instead it sliced neatly through… well, something. A peek over the side and there it was, clear blue water where there was none before. I picked my oar up out of it and thin strips of cellophane clung to the top and dripped over the sides. See? he said. I told you to trust me. And there we went in our little green boat rowing down our cellophane river into infinity.
[video]
(Source: 1-0-2-8, via magnifiquementtragique)
(via thestarrymessengerr)
[video]
In the act of unsentimental poetry is a trifecta born of necessity.
Coffee. Amphetamine. Cigarettes. Brand name. Even though I’m a socialist.
Because my hands shake too much to roll…
I often can’t hold a pen.
I type naked to stay safe from vanity while perched on a nest of
shredded love notes that keeps my pride at bay.
When I’ve not eaten for days the joints of my fingers lock. When I’ve not slept
blocks of words form faces that speak in tongues which I transcribe
into haunted doodles that hang above my bed
and keep me company during withdrawal as I curse
with breath whiskeysour the lack of friendly cornerstore markets that cater
retail phenobarbital.
[video]