You wear high-rise dresses from Lotus Vintage catalogs because
you were forged from starstuff to make heads feel blurry and to turn
guts into snakes.
I got sucked into that seedy Burroughs American underground
and traced the border of New Hampshire to a real estate agent from 1921.
I scooped cobblestones and rocks from the Sunday bloody Sunday massacre
into a jar.
We're both pack rats.
If my family would be cremated I'd fight surviving relatives for the rights to their
ashes and the urns would sit on a shelf next to my favorite records.
Blonde on Blonde for father.
Murmur for my mother.
Lonesome Mountain Home for my grandad.
Metal Machine Music for my brother.

Maybe if you would show enough of an initiative to take an interest these days
I could match you with a vinyl, but you give me shit and I have no
problem sticking you next to a find from a 50 cent bin.
There are many ways a man can force his love.
He can fill it in every piano refrain.
Or lace desserts with it.
Or wear it around his neck in a vile.
Just please - Don't let the last thing people see when you expire is that
beige strapless dress rise over your head and turn your throat upside down.
Don't make me coin a phrase for people like you.
Poor advice.
I consider this to be prose, if anything.

I'm working on too many projects - A novella, a screenplay, a book of poetry and an albums worth of songs. I'm a little workhorse.
Poor advice.
Well, best of luck to you. And if you ever need anything from a poor, stupid, freshman in college living in new york, don't be afraid to ask. I would be more than eager to help in any insignificant way I could.

this was good, but i didn't really get it.
It think you used too many cliches.

crit the song in my sig please.
I love white guitars!