sip, sip, sip, sip the never-ending, always repeating of the drinking and the wavering of conscious mind. type, type, type, type the clickitty clicking of keys and the burning eternal of the pixels in my eyelids. spending the remaining hours of a broken-headed machine factory, work-a-day, busy bee week, with naked mind attached to thoughts and clinging haunts of 3 more weeks. ugh. can somebody lend me a dime? i need just one more tin can mercury nightmare on the sweaty bleak night of early summer June. left too soon, apparently so, redemption in the chance of a Kerouac-esque adventure through mainlands. stop, and play, and stop. stop, play, stop-stop, work, stop. less of the work and more of the words of work long past and no more. Lilly looks at me in the work hours and chuckles his frizzy head into bright neon lights at my fool's disguise, easing the hourly deepening of sorrow. Hair flies from the top of a head controlled by rythms. deep, groovy, soaring rythms of all the bands we grew up liking. gets me through the day. gets me through. this week or two, to three, to me and you. to ruggedness, tough, surly, never-once-since-childhood sheading tears. having fears. screaming so loud, over machines, taking in the sounds and the chemical clouds. the sound breaks out and hurts your ears. will i even remember what this was like, in a couple of years?... -2007, james alexander
