"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead."

carnival

Right, it's gone... I can deal with it, I had a good night.
There was candyfloss, popcorn, a cola flavoured drink-thing, we had some laughs, and we also had tears (on the real fast rides cause of watery eyes..mainly her and Aly though...mascara. everywhere). A distinct smell of puke wafted through the air like a breeze through your loosely fitted hoodies and skirts in late Spring, a reminder of our days past in the bar code... We did them all, the Superbowl, the ghost train, the waltzers.. we floated on the carousel like we were the stars in a Mary Poppins ballet... We sang and we danced, all to the beautiful sounds of "King of my Castle" and the hypnotising melodies of The Streets. She giggled in my ear and for the first time in a long time there's not an ounce of doubt in her shiny brown eyes... We truly were Kings among carnies. The walk to the car was reminiscent of a walk through Fairview park on a Swivens Day morn... holding hands and whispering plans to do it again next week, if the weather holds up.. We arrived at the car holding on to each other tightly as if still riding the ferris wheel, gloomily yet eager at the prospect of cheese fries lining the walls of our veins in twenty to twenty-five..To our horror we discovered this would be but a distant dream....

odyssey of destruction. part 1: reflection

She sat cross-legged on the pavement,

Surrounded by intoxicated mimes.

Her hair lay faint on her stubborn shoulders,

Frayed and pathetic.

Her eyes retreated;

the big brother of the mind.

I'm not sure if she smiled when she saw me.

Her muddied expression flickered in a confetti of innate wonder and distant familiarity,

She was like the tattered journal I hid for years under my mattress,

An epiphany that stabbed my mind

Until I bled dry.

She was cobblestones and cigarettes,

The Eiffel Tower and the Anna Livia,

She was Mona Lisa's smile and the shatterproof glass that encased it.

She left me exhausted and stimulated,

In desperate optimism.

Beautiful and free,

Grounded and high,

Once touched,

Once kissed,

Vainly regrettable,

Hopelessly missed.

~

*Edit

Bashed my knee on some corral and swallowed more sea water than is bodily acceptable when surfing at Point Loma this morning. Primary thought running through my head as I lay gasping for breath; bleeding and tattered on the beach : Nothing like getting the living hell beat ouf of you by nature to put things in perspective.

sun comes up and we start again..

Have you ever been frightened by the amount of alcohol you realized you consumed the day after, when you wake up surprisingly not hungover enough to compensate for the empty bottles that surround you on the floor?

You wake in your girlfriend's bed to find her in the same crinkled ball, hood up, hair in face, trying her best, like you, to keep the sun out of your eyes and your brain asleep. Your trembling hands ransack the apartment and then the car looking for spare Advil that will squelch the last remnants of the night before. You joke about the "best water ever" and say you're gonna bottle it from the bath tub and sell it as a hangover remedy to the old hipsters you blatantly made fun of the night before. You scan the apartment and relish that despite making love against anything and everything, NOTHING is broken and for the most part clean. You laugh because there is no other way to deal with it.

The two of you enter the kitchen to see the lineup of empty bottles... A bottle of 100 proof.. gone. A bottle of 70 proof.. gone. And the back of flasks of 70 proof from the week before... gone. We pick through the bottles and laugh at the fact we remember the entire night before, we weren't that teetery, loud, obnoxious or even noticeably drunk.

We laugh because we feel hardcore and deep down somewhat ashamed, although even as lovers, we will never admit that. Then the thought arises inside you...HOW? How did we do it? How will we do it again? That is a ton of alcohol and we just laugh. We laugh because we love each other, we love The Clash (This is Radio Clash calms my panic attack) because we cant think of any other way to live, and mostly because no matter what, it is fun... it is a happy we haven't felt in too long. Together we can conquer anything... even if it is only some liquor and shitty food now, someday, it will be so much more..

It's strange how suddenly you can look at someone you've known for a while and cant help but think how amazing they are. Can't help but want to know everything about them, everything they have to offer, everything they once were and everything they'll become. How emo and obsessive, but hey, I've been listening to The Cure alot. In fact, I even had a dream last night that Robert Smith came to one my classes and sang Pictures of You. It was strangely homo-erotic.

party is over

Scene: Joey sitting at a bar, waiter behind bar with back turned.

Three overturned candleholders line the bar in front of Joey. Wax spills over the edge.

"excuse me?" Joey coughs
"yes....?" the waiter turns
"will ye pass me that candle? These ones went out…"
"what, what's this? Did you turn these candles over?!" the waiter bellows
"no sir," Joey shakes his head with certainty
"it was a guy, I saw him, he came over and turned over the candles"
"but just the ones in front of you?"
"yes'um…." Joey's shifty eyes do that shifty thing
"did you turn these candles over?" the waiter stares
"no, I think it's terrible, it was the guy……
……..Mister?"
"what?" the waiter scores
"will ye pass me that candle?"

A bouncer turned up about fifteen minutes later and politely asked me to leave.

I never got the other candle.

~

Scene: Bus

Time: bout 2 bells in the day

State: Hung over (obviously), eyes closed, headin to snoozeville

Hobo boards bus, sits on front of me and turns round

Hobo: Hi

Me: Ehh...hi?

Hobo: Again...ha ha

Me: (to self) wtf?

Hobo: Rough night yea?

Me: Yea (cunt)

Hobo: Yea ye were goin' mad in temple bar last night

*silence*

Hobo gets off bus

Joey has word with self.

i am a pirate you are a princess

I think we could very well hear poets
filling their drinks and spilling some knowledge
tearing apart and scribbling down
about half more than supposed to.
In chic prada glasses and chloe ballet flats,
and dollface, my dear you never say can't,
so me, me i'm up in the air and my clothing seems bland.

You forget my dark darling, my coquette

my polite sex kitten

my night time demitasse of well-rehearsed eros,
you are not only the seducer but also the seduced

"let's dance in the streetlights!",

you said to me before the falling out and crawling out,
and singing began in seperate bars
and I still don't know how to hail a cab, cause darling
we always forget where they've parked

If I could blush I would till I bled or
spontaneously combusted and
if there is a God I'd take you with me

Then, as if to spurn me to my core, whispers
soft as down tell of urges and
I can taste your mouth just from your breath
and I fell partially in love
and then shudder and then never wanna call her again

You see, sex was our Vegas baby and
you were a one armed bandit gone cold and
lemons stopped paying out

oh dear, my dear, lets get some more beers

and we'll drink like college, poised and finished,
until the bar lights shine

and everybody starts to clear and sour.

and we'll swim through the city
styled pretty and then make our way back to 5th.
and i don't know if i'll ever see you around,
but, pretty darling, i always say arggghhhh
with a patch on my eye and a plank in my chest,
and many have walked it and plunged in a ditch,
so there isn't much hope in a heart
labeled a quest,
but you are a princess
who has not one pink dress, just a tiara for trading
and a pirate who's a mess

man whore

Noun
Singular -manwhore
Plural manwhores
A guy who loves girls and wants to get with every girl he sees. A sexually active, promiscuous, younger man who often wears alot of flashy jewelery, has greased down or spiked hair and keeps a 'chicktionary'. He is well known at most health clinics and may have an STD named after him in his honour. He knows many girls but will often mix it up or forget their names. He will commonly have one or more illegitimate children (though not always, especially in the amateur stage) and his relations with other men is often strained due to past encounters with girlfriends or wives.

Thanks, Wiktionary. One of the most misconstrued outside perspective of me is of being one such man whore. Although I can't deny that pretty girls make me weak (goddamn they smell good), I take great offense to being labeled. To me, a 'man whore', much like defined above, is a guy who's undying thirst for affection can only be quenched by "bumpin uglies". Not making love, such an act would require an emotional connection of some sort, but just straight up fucking without an ounce of intimacy or even a name. Maybe they weren't held enough as babies. Or they're just afraid to get hurt, thinking that all girls are manipulative bitches so they act on an "I'll fuck you before you fuck me" basis. This P.I.M.P attitude may all just be an act, they might really care about and respect girls, they just dont want to seem like they do, in fear that they might seem soft to their fellow man hoes. All these guys should just sit in a circle and have a group jerk-off if thats the case.
As for me, girls are the catalysts of some my broodiest moments, and my most sincere. The girl I recently dated, as heartbreakingly beautiful as she is, I loved most her ability to make me think and just sink into every word that came out of her perfect lips. Maybe its because I am a romantic, that I have all this figured out. But in no way do I imply that I'm less fucked up than the rest. But I do know that a wonderful girl, flaws and all, has the power to change your life. If you could just get your hand out of your pants for a minute.