speak in codes because i’m a mode of existence and i insist you resist the urge to be written
i digress and detest every ache of every page i filled books and mistook your happy endings as mistakes
but mistakes are not forevers
here’s the truth: i’m better
and i’ll never apologize because i’ve been kicking and alive and you’ve been killing so much time like time deserved to die and how many times have i used that refrain and how many times has it read the same and how many times have you been there reading over my shoulders waiting for me to spell your name
and you’ll get no satisfaction not from me not now and not ever
so, here’s to you i’m better
and i’m so much better without your letters making no sense what-so-fucking-ever
ugly certain somebody nobody stop me i’ve got wares and i’m not afraid to use them nuisance carpet comber so a loner make your money say something
it’s slow and it’s dull and it’s nothing that i paid for scary how we barely talk like we used to anymore we drift slowly cause we’re lonely somebody hold me closer don’t stay a stranger i’m slow to anger but it’s way worse when all of it’s doxy gimme moxie gimme something gimme sweet things gimme ring ring
fuck it all please you’re my lottery but you’re nothing if you don’t love me
nobody fucks me like me i’m Orion because i belt creeds i wear em like jewelry bandolier of fat trophies talking big game when you play small either win big or not at all
ultimatum said verbatim “either live big or be trampled on it’s been way too long since i’ve had some fun, kid”
i guess that counts for something but i wouldn’t be here if i was fronting
that’s what the pressure’s meant for a diamond dozen unaccustomed meant for divine consumption so here’s your chance to be a buzzkill
and if i had it my way we’d all be meant for something but if my will doesn’t count for squat then every hope we have is all we’ve got left
JD- it’s about how affection can turn to contempt if left unchecked
ban-do-lier noun an ammunition shoulder-belt with loops or pockets for cartridges.
numbskull millionaire nosferatu gets less sun than he ought to bumbling count extraordinaire casts spells and shit on public access chases clout like the backwoods, barbell-lifting son of a bitch that he is
wears beefy tees and hanes tells the same stories each time but with different names
who the fuck is this? where did he come from? and why does he keep jugs of piss in his bathroom? what’s the toilet’s for, if not…? the fucker lives in the doldrums, shits where he sleeps and scrapes mold from his frenum like it’s no big deal okay then explain this
no record no trace of existence before 2004 and he says he’s 23 bitch please
i don’t buy that claptrap for even half of a second so either clap back or don’t because i know who you are and i see right through you
no-reflection looking-glass motherfucker
if i catch your fang-y freak-show-looking friends around here i won’t hesitate to drive a stake through your brainstem or all your friend’s brainstems, for that matter
the next time your bad mojo creeps into a house show it’s quicksilver city but we’ve got you on the guest list regardless and for you we’ve requested garlic bread with extra garlic ‘cause we all know it’s your favorite
but if i’m being honest and i mean to i catch you stalking me at night again and i’ll kill you
JD Jurado – This poem is about vampires.
fre-num noun a small fold or ridge of tissue that supports or check the motion of the part to which it is attached, in particular a fold of skin beneath the tongue, or between the lip and the tongue
dreary, and through the listless haze
in smoky showrooms
where all things beam
in voluptuous spotlights,
the delayed boom of deafening speakers
bystanders and colleagues alike.
pounding between your eardrums,
towards another inviting smile:
medicine taken by mouth.
the world appears as you do,
worse for wear,
where your eyes meet hers;
you meet her.
she needs a lighter,
you have a lighter.
it was meant to be.
small talk between the cracks
of the permissive wall of noise
only the important things permit,
and then she asks you
what happens next.
you roam aimlessly
through gift shops and casinos
and dimly lit hallways,
empty and breathing,
when you find an oriental passage,
furnished and ornate,
mellow and melancholy.
you let yourself be wrapped
in this atmosphere.
the slowest song paced leisurely along.
the song had no genre.
each tap of the xylophone
was an evocative note,
each pluck of the bass string was
another strand of the story.
the air hums solemnly beside.
“your drink, sir.”
that headache is gone now
and you’re slipping into something
a bit more comfortable.
you’re falling into something.
your eyes meet hers again.
you don’t even know her name.
what happens next?