<font face="Comic Sans MS"> ~*~ Me, a Typewriter & a Bad Mood ~*~

~~ Me, a Typewriter & a Bad Mood ~~

Petty brimstone apathy & grim 2 tone antique smiles. I left you to drown in yourself. Gangster mama’s boys with 3 piece suited silver tongues don’t impress me. I can ultrascan your barbarian mindscape with a razorblade soaked in alcohol. Your shrills would be like a symphony orchestrated by the corpses of decomposing promises. I solute you….. –C. ’93

~*~ Street Flower ~*~

I’ve seen roses bow at my feet as they turn into colorless, brittle death. All the while winking & depicting a dim sun. I’m the flower on Avenue A. Gazing wildly up at the skyscrapers beneath velvet blackness & a bloodshot moon. Their unreachable windows beam white-collar lights that seem to glow angel-purity as they suddenly become the stars. I’ve had plenty of shattered dreams resembling the broken glass of wine bottles in a gutter of cobblestones & trash. Every jagged piece, sharp & uncaring, reflecting the gashes in my soul. It exists, if only in fragments & yet forever grasping for the closest, willowy, white garment to cease its perfuse streams of scarlet; to avoid transfusion? Or to just leave the used remains for someone to discover, wonder than sweep away? No one cares, so why should I? You made me hate the world; you made me hate you; you made me hate myself; Well, perhaps. You can preach about the Boulevard of Broken Dreams, but how could you know that soaring lies would reveal such souring, cascading truths? These naked streets have my name etched deeply into them. The ink is fading & fermenting fast. I need to find myself again, to dedicate my next painting to you. The one of me as the wilting flower on Avenue A. Your rain can only keep me alive or drown me…… -C ’93

~*~ Gardenas & Whiskey ~*~

You never promised me a rose garden You never promised me you’d write You never promised anything so grave But gardenas & whiskey never fade… You never promised me the stars You never promised me the world You never promised anything so brave But gardenas & whiskey never fade… It was me, alone, along the road The road that led nowhere… It was me who chased the moon Because I once believed it cared… You never promised me tomorrow You never promised me the past You couldn’t promise anything that stained But gardenas & whiskey never fade… You never promised your attention You never promised me your time You never promised anything you gave But gardenas & whiskey never fade… It was you, alone, the sticks & stones And backwoods company It was you, beside the world outside Outside your world was me… You never promised me a rose garden I’d never ask anything so brave… –C. 4/7/93

~*~ Blue Suburban Insomnia ~*~

The silence & desolation of 4:17AM is a gift, though deafening & untrue. Its brief existence a farce only to be broken by the shattering dawn pouring, in forgotten cheer, through the characteristically chipped & cracked windows of tenements & condemned would-be palaces that stand shamed and seemingly wish darkness was infinite to maintain what little dignity they once had hundreds of years ago; and to forever keep their vacant, torrid shambles classic & secret. The boring glow of the TV spits nothing of worth & attempts to inform. The news contains much more gloss than greed, grief & gore; the truths nestled down deep in the 'caster’s' well dry cleaned trousers. The Troggs “Wild Thing”, perhaps being the most ‘dangerous’ manifestation these people know. The road’s brightly painted paths of endless, depicting the artificial sunshine of street lamps & traffic lights reflecting off the evening’s tearful greetings is much more fascinating. Insomnia can be inspiring….. –C ’93

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