intoxicated adventures
playing an old game
that was never meant to be won
i’m waiting for an explanation
waiting for the rapture
drinking to live
and living to die
it’s all a simple mess
as i struggle to embrace
and deconstruct
this fucked up simulation

so many strangers, mingling
with no chance for redemption
as this blood flows slower
with brown, spent beer
remembering dreams
that haven’t yet manifested

summer can’t wait
for midnight maidens
draped in specious garments
meant to tempt and bend shallow men
towards an untimely grave
(ohh how i love them)
gimme danger

they call me crazy
i call them npcs’
and i weep stale tears for them
remembering memories
they couldn’t possibly comprehend
it’s a natural insanity
wandering from one wounded experience
to the next
carelessly collecting souls
and trapped in this
glorious and vacated occupation
slowly but surely
i mend poor bodies
with rich minds
pretending that
our hollow spirits have meaning

truth recedes daily
but this hacked philosophy
waits quietly in the streets
striving to find meaning
beneath the sheets
of secular indifference

hug the earth
with a gesture
simple and incomplete
as i capture the light
and manipulate these elusive
pendulum frequencies
stretching slowly towards oblivion

and ohh how we laugh
at the absurdity of this
silky smooth rendition
and preconceived divinity
quietly we plant seeds
in the soil of ignorance
and break free
from these sedentary scriptures

13 cuts and a scarecrow sunset
searching for
passion and meaning
as hollow bodies
seek to fill
disparate souls
and dying gods embrace tired mortals
itching and scratching
towards something almost real
the sun is a beautiful illusion
and the moon is always lying in wait
as cycles shift and shape
morphing hollow flesh
towards luxurious rain

living life
to our fullest extent
as we race inflation
and laugh in the face of oppression
i smile and drop another hit of acid
channeling elusive moments
of delicious desire

zero damage to the brain
lonely i sit on a throne of
empty passion
as a righteous currents
of the artist’s deception
consumes me

the clock is ticking
but i can’t be bothered to care
and someday
all of this will mean something