There are at least two ways to make music. The negative one and the positive one. We can screech as long as we like on the strings of a violin and still not succeed in making what comes out music. But a whole portfolio of scores of the great composers still does not make a musician. It follows that one should not pay attention to how things are said as much as to what is being said.
They say true understanding only comes when you're alone. Well here you'll find me standing lacerated to the bone. I'm lacerated to the bone. I never learn from my mistakes. I should have kept my distance, should have left well enough alone, now I watch you feed me the last remnants of my soul. From your mouth I watch your words escape, from the ground I watch you walk away. I'm lacerated to the bone. I crawl across this concrete floor. I hear me say, I should have known I've seen this all before. I'm breathing in this vacant hole where no one comes & no one knows. I should have seen the weeping walls & closed my ears to desperate thoughts & now I'm breathing in this hole, a strange corner far from hope. A headcrush man with hopeless fears. I should have known to leave this place, this bitter air this vacant space. I should have left without a trace. I should have run when you touched me, a perfect touch laced with defeat. A single touch to make me weak. You're listening to a dead man speak. I never learned from my mistakes. I should have fuckin known.
In, out, another clock to punch. And now I can't take it.
To me, this game has to cease.
Now hiring smiling faces and I'm only wearing a frown.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle.
But the totality of prison is not simply a place, it is also a condition the antithesis of which is freedom. By the same token, the absence of freedom is prison, and only when the latter is perceived as one's own condition does it become possible to enter the destructive dimension, without measure. The viscid altruism that dams up the free flowing energy of revolt disappears when disgust for the prison institution and its putrid essence reaches the invisible shackles that bind us all, turning empathy into projectuality. Prison is not a domain reserved for 'specialists' such as those who have done time or have a particular rapport with individual prisoners, it is the underlying reality of everyday life, each and every discourse of capital taken to its logical conclusion.
Nothing could change. Prison is a sore that society tries in vain to conceal. Like the doctors in the seventeenth century who treated the plague by putting ointment on sores but left rats running around among the rubbish, today, at every level of the prison hierarchy technicians are trying to cover up this or that horrible aspect of prison, not realizing that the only way to face the latter is to destroy it. We must destroy all prisons and leave not one stone standing, not keep a few around in order to remember them in the way that humanity has done with other constructions that testify to the most atrocious infamy.
delete urban hell add crust war
Catching up on sleep anywhere (everywhere). Trudging through today, trudging through tomorrow. My silence went noticed, thank you. Spill my guts. You all look so good, we're all going big places (you are going further, thank you for letting me come along). Maybe not that big, but big enough so that where ever i am it always seems so small. Biking up a hill, I don't know this neighborhood. A rock in a suburb, I can see for miles. The lights from downtown (I wont apologize, not this time), the ocean (I'm choking on words i'll never say). Too trusting, that's what she said. Your right. Thank you (and "i'm sorry", the only phrases i know), I'm taking it too heart. Because this time it's different (and i say that every time), this time it's in stone. We're losing everything, maybe it was worth it, maybe it wasn't, but you betrayed my trust. I'm weathering all the storms that are thrown my way.
No motivation, defeat. No time left for passion, dictation. Pictures in magazines, dissection. Pictures in magazines, defeat. Lives remain incomplete, Defeat.
If it makes you less sad, I will die by your hand. I hope you find out what you want. I already know what I am. And if it makes you less sad, we'll start talking again. And you can tell me how vile I already know that I am. I'll grow old and start acting my age. I'll be a brand new day in a life that you hate. A crown of gold. A heart that's harder than stone. And it hurts a whole lot, but it's missed when it's gone. Call me a safe bet. I'm betting I'm not. I'm glad that you can forgive. I'm only hoping as time goes, you can forget. If it makes you less sad, I'll move out of the state. You can keep to yourself. I'll keep out of your way. And if it makes you less sad, I'll take your pictures all down. Every picture you paint, I will paint myself out. It's cold as a tomb, and it's dark in your room, when I sneak to your bed to pour salt in your wounds. So call it quits or get a grip. Say you wanted a solution. You just wanted to be missed. Call me a safe bet. I'm betting I'm not. I'm glad that you can forgive. I'm only hoping as time goes, you can forget... You are calm and reposed. Let your beauty unfold. Pale white, like the skin stretched over your bones. Spring keeps you ever close. You are second hand smoke. You are so fragile and thin. Standing trial for your sins. Holding onto yourself the best you can. You are the smell before rain. You are the blood in my veins. Call me a safe bet. I'm betting I'm not. I'm glad that you can forgive. I'm only hoping as time goes, you can forget.
Saturday night and the bar-room is howling with young weekend cowboys all strutting and prowling, drinking straight bourbon and trying not to shiver as it, burns down their throat and plays hell with their liver. On a small stage in the bar's farthest corner sits Henry Holloway playing his guitar, under the spotlight, sweat on his face glistening, singing his heart out and nobody's listening.Fire in the belly, fire in the soul; ambition's a fire that's hard to control. Burning with bright dreams of money & fame, young Henry Holloway's lost in the flame. Evylin sits by the stage, she's the only one clapping with eyes brightly shining, feet in time tapping, face full of love as she watches her man in his shirt of blue rhinestones she sewed on by hand. Sweet red lips moving as she sings along joining with Henry in his every song, although she's heard them about one million times love is tone-deaf as well as stone blind. Fire in the belly, fire in the soul; ambition's a fire that's hard to control. Burning with bright dreams of money & fame, young Henry Holloway's lost in the flame. Now the noise in the bar's like a volcano exploding but up on the stage young Henry's is floating, eyes closed and drifting through his favourite dream, he sings of places he's never seen, like Nashville and Memphis, New York & L.A. You can bet even money he'll get there some day. But if he don't, he just might not care 'cause when he sings his songs, he's already there. Fire in the belly, fire in the soul; ambition's a fire that's hard to control. Burning with bright dreams of money & fame, young Henry Holloway's lost in the flame. Saturday night's turned into Sunday morning, the bar-room is empty, the bartender's yawning. Home go the cowboys with their jeans and high boots; come Monday they'll put on their ties and dark suits. Back to the motel go Henry and Evylin she falls asleep with her arms wrapped around him and dreams of motel rooms & cheap crowded bars Henry lies wide awake and dreams of the stars. Fire in the belly, fire in the soul; ambition's a fire that's hard to control. Burning with bright dreams of money & fame, young Henry Holloway's lost in the flame.
Postmortem done zip you up and throw you down into a hole. Dark and cold fill you with the ashes of all those you've burned. Let loose the maggots to feed on the sickness that you installed. To feed on your flesh, the only way you'll be absolved. By a process of degradation. We'll laugh while you slowly dissolve. The red robes of rome reigned over us all. Cloaked us in fear of the unseen and unknown. The echoes of empty ones fell upon a thousand deaf ears and the bruises and broken limbs fell upon the eyes of blind dogs. They were buried unnamed, unquestioned and unheard. A cross in one hand and a cock in the other.The state sat on your lap while you barked out the orders through smiling pursed lips hiding the teeth of the sickest of all. A shut mouth is a guilty mouth as guilty as the rest, as guilty as the rapist, the murderer the state and the fist. So empty your pockets of all your fucking god's gold. And empty your pockets of all the souls you stole. And so I piss on your grave from the greatest of unholy heights. Each drop on the soil is the acid to wash you away. Your strength and your dictates are starting to crumble and fade as the worms of all truth feel free to eat you away. And so we piss on your grave from the greatest of unholy heights.
