Another night without a song. I'm listening to everything and hearing parts of songs in everything, from my tires underneath me to my lighter on the cigarette pack, to the soft tic of this typing.
The parts won't sing together and the words won't come.
I want it to be in C but C's just too bright and won't let me mourn. D would be right-Jay sees it blue and I just feel it pulling me to it. I hate the incubation, the carrying the song around for weeks or worse waiting for the tune to meet the words and that part of me that won't talk to me uses my hands and throat for just a....
There's this sad exhibitionism. There's the deep fissure that this hints at. I hate typing, too. It's too easy to edit and I already have an editing problem. I guess it never stops the salmon swarm of words, the riot of that always becomes the extra 4th and 5th verse I leave at home. I never trust the person receiving the song to use both hands. At least never at first.
The better I get the more I take out, the better the hints, the softer the sale.
All the mechanical pencils are pointing at me and laughing with the pens over by the note book. There's no one to drunk dial; no drunk and not one thing to say if there was.
Ten years ago I'd try to finish a bottle of Bushmill's, lock the door, put out the lights and call Molly, but Molly's married and never liked those calls anyway. I always cried like some kitten. It sure ain't ten years ago. There's no one, after all this comfort, to call and promise silly things, like I'll be good or I won't forget or I love you. Bucket knows I do and what good is that?
There's little poetry in stark and obvious truth, it's why all those political songs suck. Spit truisms someplace else, our problem isn't our ability to imagine a great world, it's our inability to tell the sodium lit, bare-ass naked truth in some way that makes it sound like a good yarn.