I don’t know about that last one.  Lay off the rose water.  Good energy will only take you so far.  Eventually, you’ll have to pay that electric bill.  Everyone thinks there’s some nobility, some prestige in quelling anger.  The truth is, there’s a bit of a wildfire in my head.  I do my best to cut burn lines and I try to set up a perimeter, but I don’t pretend to have it contained.

The smoke and the danger and the discomfort, they’re good things.  They don’t always feel good.  They’ll fuck your allergies up, for sure.  They’ll give you bags under the eyes, but who are we kidding? A little ugly is good.  A little ugly is what makes perfection.  At least that’s how it works for me.

The stitches, the broken glass, the abandoned beauty — that’s what fuels me most.  Too much symmetry, too sterile, to exact and I get itchy.  I’m not signing up for the nihilists committee, but constant positivity doesn’t get me anywhere. It brings about confusion and delusion and complacency.

I wasn’t born out of complacency.  I was born at the end of a long line of chipped-tooth fighters.  I can’t tell about the piss or purpose of those people that preceded me.  I can’t tell you their motivation or their inclination toward mischief.  I can only tell you what I feel.  I can tell you that there’s only one way to get out of this game and it’s never picture-pretty.

Maybe I romanticize the outlaws and the marauders.  Maybe I’m asking for disaster.  But where there’s smoke, there’s fire — so why not fan those flames.  

grunt