It was 2001 and we didn’t give a fuck. Latin American kings intent on a dream. We were poor as shit, nothing to claim but the jizz in our dicks, the clothes on our back, and our motorcycles and road packs. We moved in a shadowy world of women, clubs, and filthy hotel rooms - we were like Iggy and David but minus the needles and spoons. Sometimes I tell people we should be dead, but instead you see me now here so fucked up in the head. Eyes made of lead with a heavy heart, falling apart, irony and bitterness a la carte. Life was simpler then, short days and long nights that seemed to never end and the scratchy record plays my memories again and again in my head as I stare into the elusive nothingness which I so used to dread. Nowadays I seem so dead.
I seem so dead.
I seem so dead.
I play the game and it's the same shit. I grow so bored and I'm too tired for it all. It is now 2008 and I'm no longer twenty-two and I'm also a dad. I sarge and I go out and I can still hang but given a choice I'd much rather sit alone in an empty room in a quiet house. I now find other ways to pass the time, no more games no more drugs no more playing the field. I am so incapable of love right now and I have erected walls and there's a moat with sharks equipped with lazer beams and trust me no-one is getting in.
No-one is getting in.
4 comments:
knock knock
go away. no one in here but us cucarachas.
i brought some of my secret-recipe-brownies!
You sure we weren't seperated at birth, "born behind a whorehouse during a rain of bullets" - that's how my biography is gonna start.
I, also am a Soft Machine - wires all crossed and fucked up, squeaky joints - danger! Danger!
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