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"Rome wasn't built in a day, but several Wet Shoelaces CDs were..."  - Confucius

 

dreams, etc.

Blinded.  Where are you?  I can't see.  Where are you?  Somebody help me.  Blind.  Stop.  Why are you here?  Why?  Why?  Too soon.  Nowhere.  It's you.  You.  So pretty.  Vietnam.  The war.  Somebody help!  Somebody.  Nowhere.  Lost in the east.  Do you believe?  Do you believe?  Are you here?  Go away.  I see you.  See.  See.  Lost.  I see.  Are we there yet?  Must be.  Tranquility.  Peace of mind.  Vodka.

 

exiled addictions of sorrow

Mark liked stepping off to nowhere.  His mind decomposes at high-zone toxic videos.  He loves Harlem's cyclone's porno children.  Went to communion ready to take Death's host.  Felt visually vacant.  Mark liked stepping off the train to nowhere.  His mind decomposes.  The jury, they said he was quilty beyond defense.  Said he was homicidal.  He never made bail.  He tried to remove exiled addictions of sorrow's submission.  Never got to the arraignment.  Shot himself dead to rights on suicide hill.  He tried to remove exiled addictions of sorrow.  The risk became nuclear scandal.

 

dying in the rain

Some things you just don't change.  Spoiled blood on the streets.  Naked bodies, crawling for desolation.  Stolen newspaper blowing wild through empty shooting galleries on 14th street.  The addicts are assumed dead, and there are always children playing with dead things.  Check your bag.  Make sure you didn't get ripped off.  Everyone's a thief with white fangs in the city.  Everyone's ready to do you in if you travel by Greyhound, Amtrak, or some other freak way.  To believe in echoes, memories, drifting in shallow gutters.  What remains strange is now essential.  The delusion tastes so high.  You can get out before a dream takes you back down through the dismal stairwells of black and white sorrow.  Transforms you into everyone's euphoric seed.  The alien culture, living the dirty third world path, sleeping half naked, awake, listening to stairwells.  And yes, I am a junkie within the stoned, torn'd up tattoos of my arms.  Renegade dreaming.  Walking away from lost thought.  Screaming for war.  Victimized by violent death.  And I keep seeing you over and over again.  And I wonder why.  Why time has treated me this bad.  It sometimes becomes apparent that there is no way out.  My soul with its dead eyes, are hungry.  It reads my nightmares.  There is no peace in the city of my eyes.  And I watch, I watch me dying in dark corners of my reflections in the rain, dying in the rain.