japression

Time stops between Tokyo and New York but blood runs.

And depression worm-holes its way accross the ocean.

There is isolation and spikes of magical moments. But you are human and you can’t ditch molecules.
The present or inevitability. Meaninglessness is always there again.

A sidewalk comes accross time. To sleep on or die on or hate on.

The liquor gets there before you do.
How did you know that reality has positioned itself right around that corner?

And the worst of the west gets worse in the east.

And the assholes are down there winning again. Using users. At bars, and winning.
And if you go east some more you will be back in the womb.

The good go voiceless. The good drink on. I love to see them, but somehow they’re always too silent.




The ghosts of my brain cells


The ghosts of my brain cells
They come back to hate me
They come back from nights
neither of us can remember


They’re bitter with crashes
and then flew away happy
They’re dancing with wits
synapse spaghetti
jokes never made
and never laughed at


Killed by those drugs and
killed by the liquor
and killed when walked into
rooms full of vapor


The ghosts of my brain cells
have come back to hate me
They curse me and they cuss me
and wish they were home


The ghosts of my brain cells
are bitter with envy
of what we could
should have been