Dripping (day 1544)

I am the elegant sign you’ve been off the deep end for.
Hanging on a railing, dipping into clear lakes,
Walking with the scent of sun-kissed-yellow tulips.

Trouble is a memory; blind leading, a road and I have faith.
Can you get a wild feeling on bad betting machine?
Sing songs with a quite tongue and I will listen for.

And it is here and I am evermore.
A spell of clear reflections of which I did implore.
And I stand here, just as morning, dripping for you.

Ava Lure - Ned Tobin
model: Ava Lure

Sentence to Thy Name (day 1229)

Allowing punishment to crush ritual
Berating better senses of civility
Harshly, against cold stone under foot
Upon a wet and soggy day of death
Smeared between dark moist earth
And trampled, unkept grassy shag
This is not the end of an era
Nor end to a life spent well
It is the beginning of torture
Souls repentance; realization
Destruction on the darkest day of life
Standing, dripping, begging at the gates
Hallowed be thy name as birthright
Non-linear thus be thy path towards thee gallows
Distrust be cruelly written across thy brow
Hastily, uneven, unsymmetric, unceremoniously
Where shaggy be thy mane
Dies the sentence to thy name

Lofty Wedding Plans (day 1050)

Could you Amaretto my incomprehensible stiletto? Deep soaked truths brushing up against the blue moon life story that shared Tom Waits and Miles Davis equally between the two top sheet stuffed mattress in a good lord rented room.

The walls were left bare; freedom and shit. Fucking expressionists and their lofty ideals pulsing rapidly amongst soiled novellas and empty chopstick promises. How did I get here. How did I find this spot from outside in? I left little spit smears on my way here to keep me from wanting to know the way back, to keep me from guessing at a way back, and to keep the collectors hot at my rented room door.

The walls never left me wondering for too long, they’d start dripping some smear mold juice as the clock told me late. This was after I’d fucked the last resort out of my head and told my mistress to make herself at home, to which she calmly replied she was at home. I was the guest. I was the visitor in this white washed world trying to jam my heart out in broad brush strokes and feverish memories. Not ones that were lucid, the ones that came and convulsed and controlled and regurgitated out my heart like lofty wedding plans standing alone with a big bill and an empty passenger seat.

Cause fuck brothers and sisters. Fuck their abuse and consumption and interruptions and impressions. I’ve got Miles Davis really laying me low when I need the time off. You’re not the legend I thought you could be, but I’ve sure left out a piece of the past like left over cum spots in a 17$ too good too remember night.

Daddy left me here. He was two dollars short on the rent cheque, he was two days late coming home when I held mommas starving and overdosed fingers, left the biggest hole in his smallest of hearts where I put an industry of lifelines and bagged political statements I had prepared for a two minutes long deposition. I wasn’t ruthless as I counted on my fingers the number of deadbeats I had written letters for, I wasn’t ruthless as I blew elitist smoke up the child-like innocent faces of the wide eyed yuppies.

Now dare tell me why my maidens eyes weren’t bloodshot. Why hadn’t the tears soaked through her indiscriminate and perked speedbags that kept me looking like wild Jack, wild Dad, searching for the red room. Red Rum. Fuck. Red room. What kind of luck should I bring down on such an innocent vixen? Such a loudly laughing white swan budding in my autumn garden. I’m not a troubadour. I’m a fucking junkie.

Grandma’s House (day 596)

It’s those times as the sun is going down
When the blinds have been pulled for the night
And the water stops dripping off the roof
That we remember, and enjoy
Sitting next to Grandma, teaching her computer
And sipping on a new cup of tea
It’s these moments in life that we find peace
We sit down in a chair that is older than I am
And relax to the audible buzz from the furnace
The same furnace that blows cold air

Grandma is getting old these days
Though she still lives alone
Boiling her soups with lots of garlic
And a toaster that pops up four at a time
I remember when she first got that toaster
That sits next to the old high chair
I remembered as I reclined on the ol’ daybed earlier
I also noticed the intricate detail of the eavesdropping
A classical pattern, woven with a jigsaw
Clearly a tasteful choice by grandma

The sun is almost down now
I’ll be leaving soon enough
I can only hope for peace then
As I make the trek northward home