Mostly Abandoned Avenues

There was a time the light from the beacons above, the nullish ones spaced out seemingly just for me, made this simple. letting the scuffle of my shoes, over holy gravel, tell my story when my throat was this side of choked, and my fingers long since abandoned solidarity through numbness. 

40%

One of the aspects of the 1990's I miss the most was the idea that gender roles meant absolutely zero when a band you were into made music you loved. (Lest we forget that Alain Jourgensen looked more like Missing Persons when he started out.) 
Of course, everybody of an age to remember such, would say that Tanya Donelly was attractive, and they would be correct.
Yet, you would need to watch the video for "The Devil You Know", by JESUS JONES, to know that Mike Edwards was the most beautiful man from that era. You might argue that it was Michael Hutchence, or Jeff Buckley, but the latter 2 are dead, and Mike Edwards is still alive. But, why don't we talk about him?  I can count on less that one hand the amount of people I know who have followed JESUS JONES. Sad. 
And what about Shannon Hoon? Granted, he made that singular folly of the time, heroin on a fucking tour bus & shit, but he was soooo beautiful! 

Adagio In Red & Blue

You, this dark cloud of You, taking this all to the twitch and the abyss. Maybe it will all be proven wrong? But not before we write the ultimate adagio of sirens and misunderstanding. Not before the wind from the east blows into the open window and takes with it the only communion worth taking. So, the only true geometry is the digging of graves.

The Shade Beneath The Acacia

Everyone has that point. That limit. That fucking roadblock, where the faceless man in your head says, "You can't go any further. You're not allowed." And you want to scratch & scream! Claw that fucker's liver out through his ribcage and spread it around like stale crumbs to feed the motherfucking crows! Bathe in that shit; let that hot offal rain down upon you like....

....Then you realize that the faceless man was still in your head, and that you were staring into the bathroom mirror, the faucet running.

Somewhere, lost to some chasm of shivers and alcohol poisoning, there lies a secret. One that will never be found. Never to be unearthed, because it's just not fucking meant for the likes of us. Or, the likes of you. 

The Singular Graft of Sunlight

if we can't make this quick, could we at least make it count? needle-threaded maelstrom, and the hills around are so black, so neutered by the toenails perched in their grasping. jagged insect reactions of strategic chord progressions. itinerant in just the right corners between my shoulder blades and my center of fucking gravity. dirt holds different meanings, depending upon the angle of one's spittle drip.