To Marie, With Honesty and Accumulative Personal Nihilism

I'd like to preface the following blogpost by dedicating it to the following: Rock City Tobacco, 'Rock N Roll,' Dawson's Creek, a girl I met when I was sixteen, and also Stef.


As it burns like money,
the need, I mean,
I listen to talk radio
and become emotionally shattered
and teary-eyed
crazily moved
by the sharp longing
to hope for anything
hope for everyone
trust anyone
love people
but I don't think I can/will.

I wanna stand on the corner with a handful of pills
and just fucking scream
like I was young again
and I can't afford to keep giving these
fucking crackheads
my cigarettes.
More medecine.

(Marie with the cracked lips
asleep on a mattress
a rock in her right hand
condoms on the night stand,
and shriveled on the floor with diseases)

(Marie with the bright eyes
who won't let me inside
who looks straight at me and lies
looking for a sign,
her mother said, 'Marie, find Jesus.')

Faith in a pamphlet
Safe in a tablet.

(How'd it get worse? That's stupid.)

I don't care enough to not love Marie
either one or both or none
no one
more medecine
plateau.

'Marie, are you sleeping?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'Because it's the only way I can dream.'
'What do you aspire to be?'
'Loved.'
'I understand that, I think.'
'Not really, I don't think you do because if you did your love for me wouldn't hinge on fiction.'
'Yes it would. Besides, why are you so sad?'
'You would love me less if I was happy.'
'That's not true.'
'I think it is.'

and a loud roar
rises from the crowd like an iron fist
to the sky
and everyone screams their own name
because they don't know who they are
and with one final right-click and delete
we'll all be useless
sitting in the recycle bin
and then there's that awful
tearing screech of the wind
breaking through the opened window
and it's like
the windshield might as well crash in
like Sunday morning.

One more revision!

Revision!

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Better Than Snake Eyes

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'Mostly Wine and Candles'

'Don't Panic' is well underway and I'm beginning to understand it as a whole. Originally I wanted the concept to explore and express the development of an anxiety disorder, but fuck that, I'm gonna do what I know best instead. I'm gonna cover a standard, rip off an insanely poppy love song, evoke the nineties, act like I'm writing prose when I'm writing lyrics, explore what I think I can pull off and act like it isn't pretentious because it's ambitious, and explain my concept to as many people as possible in as elaborate a way as possible. I'd like this album to be a perfect follow-up to This Gun. I feel that I am conquering 90's and 50's pop on this album. I also feel that I am more and more abandoning rock for pop. I also find that I'm expirementing more with my limitations, and also percocets. This has been a wildly successful weekend. Also I'm doing this hilarious messaging about the production of my album with my producer (lol) Jamie F. Fun recordin tymes. (This is no discredit to Jamie F, I am pumped to work with him and I am insanely appreciative that he's taking it seriously as a project. It's awesome.)

editor's note: write while stoned less