He could be cool and cruel to you and me. I'm a roman candle. I'm hallucinating your cheap, wet, hot, red swollen cheeks. Fall asleep.
She took the Oldsmobile out past 6th and Powell and she locked the car and slipped past into rhythmic quietude. I threw the screen door like a bastard, back and forth.
The chimes fell over each other, a sick shouting like you hear at the fairground.
Church bells and now I'm awake and I guess it must be some kind of holiday. I can't seem to join in the celebration but I'll go to the service and I'll go to pray and I'll sing the praises of my maker's name, like I was as good as she made me. And I wanted her to tell me that she would never wake me. God don't make no junk, so bottle up and explode!
The sound of the car driving off made me feel diseased. I don't know what to do with your clothes or your letters. A drunk man sits by the gate she's driving through. (At a party he was waiting looking kind of spooky and withdrawn like he could be underwater.) The car was cold and it smelled like old cigarettes and pine. The radio was playing "Crimson and Clover."
I never get uptight when a moth gets crushed unless a light bulb really loved him very much.
I'm lying down blowing smoke from my cigarette little whisper smoke signs that you'll never get. I hate to walk behind other people's ambition. You don't belong here. You remind me of someoneís daughter in these two dollar color pictures from a photo booth. You know one day it'll come to haunt you. You're a crisis, an icicle. You're a tongueless talker. You can switch me off safely while I'm lying here waiting for sleep to overtake me. So sick and tired of all these pictures. I'm absent and numb from shock so, kick me, cane me, I'm going out sleepwalking.
You've seen me interrupt a good old fashioned fight, so leave me alone.
I live in a southern town, herein where stupid shit collides with dying shooting stars. The city's been bled white. All we got to show I'm a junkyard full of false starts is a sickle cell alphabet city. Haunted Constantina feels right at home. There's a name you keep repeating, you got nothing better to do. When I walk around here drunk every night with an open container from 7-11 in St. Ides heaven, high on amphetamines, the moon is a lightbulb- breaking a low riding, junkie girl.
I know what this is. I'm waiting for the train. I'm tired of dancing on a pot of gold flake paint. Oh we're so very precious, you and I, and everything that you do makes me want to die and to march down the street with a wink and a wave from the cavalcade.
Drink up, baby, stay up all night. You start to drink, you just want to continue. It feels the best floating over a sea of vodka, alcoholic and very bitter.
I'm in love with the world through the eyes of a girl. She shows no emotion at all, stares into space like a dead china doll, water pouring from her eyes. I saw you in a perfect place. I may not seem quite right now, I never leave my zone. I dream.
I don't know what you mean? Fucking ought to stay the hell away from things I didn't understand?
Shiva opens her arms now, boring as a drug you take too regularly. Now I'm a policeman directing traffic. I'm the hitchhiker you'll recognize passing. I'manother drunk conquistador conquering the governor'sball. The gentleman's in the lane spinning his hat on a cane. He held his breath to hold your hand. He played himself.
You'll take advantage 'til you think you're being used. I better be quiet now, I'm tired of wasting my breath. I have become a silent movie. Something's happening, don't speak too soon. The monologue means nothing. I don't want the lead in your play.
(No, it doesn't look like you, but you did wear cowboy boots. Can't you tell me what's happening?)
[Donnie Boman does this]
[Forever after at http://eyeshot.net/elliotsmith.html]
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