"Old Train"

We all are here
Just as the time
Moving,
Yet so unchanged

You left for
Big city life
But we,
Had little choice

Did you forget?
Our anthem,
If you did. . .

'Brightness of sun go home
Hope burrow through earth
The moon keeps rising
We meet in the moments there
Silence before war
Our backs hurt so
And will do
As life goes on'

Meet me at the house
Our place where things
Perked,
Simply devoured

Innocence we hold
Good for only so long
I'd rather,
Be dead than boring

---

"Matters of Spite"

Let's say God exists
Then how can you be sure
That they would love you?
Tell me that God exists,
And I'll tell you a story:
The story of a child who knew how to see themselves.

For what it's any worth
I love you like I love
The best of things in life.
Tell me that God exists,
Tell me about someone who cares that much;
I'll point your eyes to a mirror and back away slowly.

When you've been dying and then pass
Who is it that will come to your blank
Spirit and address you, say:
"You should never have left me alone."

Your years spent literally dying
Defeat will as fire
To swampland dream.
Extinguish trust in Faith
And give your all to faith:
No one else will ever have to face up to what you've done.

---

"Tremulous Track"

I was lying down, right there where she was on the couch. The entire day passed, the memory of it was incomprehensibly faint and the smell that came from her clothes and hair into the apartment with me made trying to recall anything at all more troublesome than it would have been otherwise. Out on the waterfront at night, we'd gone through the gates of the amusement park together, looking for a good time, I suppose. Nothing much else to do in this kind of city so late, other than get shit faced or fucked up, and we'd already done both of those the night before with her brother and his boyfriend.

Moreso than at high noon, the Summer's heat surrounded the metro with an unrelenting humidity, a tacky heaviness, but thankfully calmed and chided just enough for contentment by a slight, low wind. That feeling in your chest that the best have tried miserably to describe. They used words, words written in the confines of their homes and bedrooms, looking out their lonely little windows at all of the pretty girls and boys in the sunlight; sentences and dialogues, poetry that failed, fell flat. Romanticism looks more like depression.

The elation invaded me then, and I'd touched the underside of a railing that led you up to the egg scrambler by mistake, got someone else's gum stuck into the palm of my left hand. Disgusting stuff, sure, but she'd never broken stride or smile, just laughed and made fun of me. Sure, I tried to wipe it on her, and sure she'd yelled. We, neither one of us, stopped a second to frown or glare. And before the ride started, I picked it off and tossed it into her compartment.

I forgot to wash my hands after we'd come back to my place, and I stared at the shadows of my digits in front of the white light that the TV put into the firstroom. The noise of the machines, the grind of metal on metal and all of the sweating, it had happened and nearly less than two hours ago. Memories, though, the good ones. . .

Your chest sinks again, and I think for the second time, it's because you're so damned afraid of losing it to circumstance or even, possibly never being in a moment so haphazzard again.

To be continued. . .

--- ---

Morrissey was on Letterman with his new single, and it blew me away, as per usual. Such an emotional one, and above all, mature in nature. A revent favorite.

For those who haven't heard, look it up on Youtube.

"That's How People Grow Up"

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Feedback
	Genj - July 02, 2007 (10:09 AM) I thought you died/left to the site, so it's good to you see you back and in the TT, bro.
	carcinogen_crush - July 02, 2007 (01:43 PM) Haven't died yet :) And I'm gonna be trying pretty hard.