tango for the junkies

Maybe that was all I needed we knew we prayed for. Maybe the confusion of the paradoxical pain was nothing more but the illusion of a lever. Never never never be similar to anything but home. In your words. And then shy away from saying it out loud. Lalalalala like its spring and it’s the beatles songwriting tripping on LSD, while logic commits suicide in the name of the allpowerful intuition, imagination, like the man with the wired hair. Who once swore. It was more important to imagine. More important than the time. I knew Id go stupidly. Run. Towards the emaciation of some red-rocked desert just for the touch of the scent of a laugh and a word. Retardedly conspicuous, trying to lift the lid from the bottle in the yard. And find dead worms and a time capsule. Swinging in the swing, wiping cum off the bars and wishing you knew it was syrup. Wishing, that everything could become almost too sweet and make your insides. Hurl themselves on the floor. Like tears burning thought and identity from within, chaos that is within, neverending black hole, traipsing loose under the memory of just another good fuck for the night. And falling, poured on the grass like its nothing but dirty water. Just for a new beginning. But what Is memory without. The impulse it once had. That eventually concisely it was the desecration of anything particularly holy. Skin turned boils turned scar tissue running away from my outstretched arms. Curling away, revealing nothing but paint. Scratch. Scratch away at the dried up colors and make them flow. The smell of flesh burning, desperate. Inherent to human nature, to want to the see the veins slit somehow, damaged tissue dancing a terribly perfect silhouette of a tango.