1. |
deer flat
25:54
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The weather was so cold.
You were there.
A contribution, if that’s what we should call it.
Hallow. A voice unsure of direction.
I asked for a cigarette. Or I thought I did. Or I was in the middle of the question when your eyes started to wander away to return moments later and split the sound of my voice with something you thought was more important.
Potent, the gutting, a drawing of you with lips stitched together. And I finish with that thought in my skull.
Potent, the gutting. The gutting
The idea of grey, how come you’ve become such an influence. Like a pitch, yr grandmother continues to speak. A conversation like a hand me down. You’ve seen it, worn and unready. She recites every moment of every life you’ve lost in failure to imagine, matter what. Matters not. Ask her about your life, and watch a response in wilted roses.
Shed a tear, and ask what matters less.
Now blue, but it continues to lighten. Numbers appear, ghosts walk outside and wave to neighbors. Sunburnt thighs, I’d ask if you remembered. But I’m not speaking to you right now.
The sun is coming up. I’m smoking still. Somewhere in nampa. A big parking lot. “I know it’s over”
the smiths.
Remember that threat. That shit lived with me until. The sun is coming up. I don’t think I’ve ever woken up to see the sun rise. I’ve just always stayed up through the night. The problem might sing renditions of a war cry. But I’ll hum along. Happy, stagnant, happy, stagnant, happy. Show me a liar, I’ll point to the other car in the parking lot, and ask what they are. A liar? I’ll play that game of chicken. I’ll stay longer. I have too. If I’m the the liar, your the moon. The sun is coming up.
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2. |
little drama
09:56
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