The Distance to Here

I have the Pumpkin's Silverfuck on repeat.

I long for life before Zeitgeist, or even Machina, for that matter. Serial killer Friday nights lead to Saturday night wrist and endless cups of cold coffee, saved drafts and stalking of the social networking variety. Bile and vitriol in white porcelain espresso cups, I'll let you swallow a shot at a time. Now now, any more and you'll choke. Not that I like you or anything, you already stink of mental death. But necro is only fun while the body is still warm and the eyes freshly glazed - save the rigor mortis for marriage and the missionary position.

Constantly stuck between the last line of the first verse and the chorus, I'm still waiting for life to start. And life, life sucks young blood and Thom's lazy eye. Real life, what a laugh. Cynicism is a job hazard, killing from the inside out, like sex with strangers and cancer. I cushion pessimism with words and call myself a Realist. My mother believes in God, my father, in vino veritas.

Let us fall. Let us draw hearts in the sand, <3's in text, I'll join the dots between the beauty spots on your thigh and your romanticism of love. You'll call me "the one" and I'll enjoy fucking your mind for a little while.

Paint me red, paint me black.

Spin the girl at the tangent, the apex of contradiction, it's all me. We suck young blood, mental vampyres searching for more than a generation of apathy.

Kurt would be proud, so, so proud.