as i get closer and closer to my day i hear songs that definitely express the way i'm feeling about when i get back over there, "SOWN UP INSIDE. SURPRISED! LIES. STAINS LIKE BLOOD ON YOUR TEETH! BITE! CHEW! FUCK! I WANNA BREAK IT UP! I WANNA SMASH IT UP! I WANNA FUCK IT UP! I WANNA WATCH YA COME DOWN! LET'S DISCREDIT IT LET'S PICK AWAY AT IT! I WANNA WATCH IT COME DOWN!"--nin
when the clock strikes again all the pavement is dark and wet. with the shimmering shadows from the street lights. everything's calmed down. only thing that breaks the silence is an el train clack-clacketing in the distance and some motors going home. what are their faces like? smiling to herself a bit tired but renergized feeling wanted, satisfied despite the remaining drunk and sweat that lingers all attached to the skin. is she thinking she can't wait to tell a friend so she can share in the good news that hours from now turns out to be a bad number. and all that once satisfied takes swift turns and hollow voices trailing conversation just behind her in the mirror or was that her mind. they say that a life lived enables you to look yourself in the mirror. i had a friend who'd end up cutting himself. slicing the skin so he could feel the blood. when he put his eyes on his reflection that's what'd end up happening. everything in chicago is dim until the summer and for those few months the sun shines . the sin shines in such away with its paintbrush that it transports you to some other city. skin starts poking out flesh becomes rampant. and still at night the darkness of the city reigns comes back. chicago is a city of pervasive darkness. the darkness becomes a part of you. sometime in september a thick wall of clouds comes over the city like some sliding door on a vehicle. you can here it scrape across and slam shut. the same colour of a tombstone. and it rarely if ever leavesits place until the next summer.
this is a good time to start putting the fragile on your headphones. "she shines in a world full of ugliness. she matters, when everything is meaningless. fragile. she doesn't see her beauty. she tries to get away. sometimes, it's just that nothing seems worth saving." and if you're listening to this on a bus or on the train people are transformed. a mixed-matched pastiche of characters from dostevsky in modern times. how i am not sure. but there is gogol's man with the overcoat. so threadbare you can see the path of the threads longways. even now he shivers holding onto the silver pole next to a seat barely able to steady himself against the flight of the train. the robotic voice of each station being called off muffled graciously by my tunes. i hear the words to the conversations i see in my mind. as the el becomes the subway on walks amongst all this cave wetness coldconcrete and peeling paint tagged ads and scratched up windows the grey on the clouds taken into the suits and coats most people where so that it becomes overwhelming a girl walks on. she;s got this green coat on and it burns into eyes hot. she's so small. her hands in my small hands would barely come up out of my palms. her eyes are the thing with the ringlets of hair that spill onto the coat here and there. a pink shade of lip balm that only slightly suggests she even where's any make-up. she's got this presence about her. the way she tilts her head to side and her hair, her hair mind you, seems to be the thing rocking back and frth to the music in her head phones. a pile of red tinted ringlets following only what gravity demands of it though some ringlets appear to revolt and push out the finger to the force pushing down upon it.
when the clock strikes again all the pavement is dark and wet. with the shimmering shadows from the street lights. everything's calmed down. only thing that breaks the silence is an el train clack-clacketing in the distance and some motors going home. what are their faces like? smiling to herself a bit tired but renergized feeling wanted, satisfied despite the remaining drunk and sweat that lingers all attached to the skin. is she thinking she can't wait to tell a friend so she can share in the good news that hours from now turns out to be a bad number. and all that once satisfied takes swift turns and hollow voices trailing conversation just behind her in the mirror or was that her mind. they say that a life lived enables you to look yourself in the mirror. i had a friend who'd end up cutting himself. slicing the skin so he could feel the blood. when he put his eyes on his reflection that's what'd end up happening. everything in chicago is dim until the summer and for those few months the sun shines . the sin shines in such away with its paintbrush that it transports you to some other city. skin starts poking out flesh becomes rampant. and still at night the darkness of the city reigns comes back. chicago is a city of pervasive darkness. the darkness becomes a part of you. sometime in september a thick wall of clouds comes over the city like some sliding door on a vehicle. you can here it scrape across and slam shut. the same colour of a tombstone. and it rarely if ever leavesits place until the next summer.
this is a good time to start putting the fragile on your headphones. "she shines in a world full of ugliness. she matters, when everything is meaningless. fragile. she doesn't see her beauty. she tries to get away. sometimes, it's just that nothing seems worth saving." and if you're listening to this on a bus or on the train people are transformed. a mixed-matched pastiche of characters from dostevsky in modern times. how i am not sure. but there is gogol's man with the overcoat. so threadbare you can see the path of the threads longways. even now he shivers holding onto the silver pole next to a seat barely able to steady himself against the flight of the train. the robotic voice of each station being called off muffled graciously by my tunes. i hear the words to the conversations i see in my mind. as the el becomes the subway on walks amongst all this cave wetness coldconcrete and peeling paint tagged ads and scratched up windows the grey on the clouds taken into the suits and coats most people where so that it becomes overwhelming a girl walks on. she;s got this green coat on and it burns into eyes hot. she's so small. her hands in my small hands would barely come up out of my palms. her eyes are the thing with the ringlets of hair that spill onto the coat here and there. a pink shade of lip balm that only slightly suggests she even where's any make-up. she's got this presence about her. the way she tilts her head to side and her hair, her hair mind you, seems to be the thing rocking back and frth to the music in her head phones. a pile of red tinted ringlets following only what gravity demands of it though some ringlets appear to revolt and push out the finger to the force pushing down upon it.
sonofapunk:
