Life is a series of tragedies with… But what is good for those who suf… than what is good for those who do… —for Brian Salvador Curley
he lights one last flame home is where the burning is bed of devil’s rest
i watch her lips purse around the top end of a cock… sucking up the last drops of a Can… setting the glass arm’s length awa… she lets the bartender see we need…
his wife came in to the video store i work at today i knew who she was by the last name on her Oregon i.d…
love digs graves all around the world but i used to
he staples a sign to a telephone p… hoping that anyone can help him find it winter is coming and he dreads the thought of it
just for fuck’s sake don’t write it about her i know she loved this song but you loved it before her
black shirts worn at day they spoke mostly of music bonded by the odd
and death is spreading through the… violets are blue and the zombie in the mirror is me when the bones start
still he saws at the legs of his Steinway old habits only die hard so he tickles the ivory cigarette hanging from his lips
this shirt screams “i’m not still fucked up from last…
visceral were the nights we stood… each of us armed with an instrumen… and hearts that beat like tempos we put on a show but we weren’t put-ons
it is not just missing the good times slamdancing in a circle pit with your best buds at a rock show blacklit basement parties
if you alone hold me as i battle for last breat… if you alone bear the burden of the body left b… if there is no one else in the roo…
I keep coming back just when ya think “there is no
