In the state of Denmark

In my bleary eyed sleeplessness, sounds of tribal drums out my window beating to a homeless heartbeat and the one pounding in my chest. While I'm worried for my elders, penchant and desperate for a little more time - for their health, for my wholeness. Cut me a fucking break? Just one. I won't promise. Can't promise. I will give you nothing even if you think I'll give you the world (next time.) I won't do it. Can't do it.

Not for anything. Not for RC or JL or AA or any other smoked out membranes fronting as musicians. I miss my youth, but relieved to be a woman. Nearly so.

I am an artist. But not a seller of art. Not now. Not without magic. Lame? Sure is. But I rather be lame together. Then lame alone. Lame for fun. Lame because Lo's the only one with numbed feelings. No she's not the only one. So is I. Grindcore. So has Ms. Thrash. They get it. I get it. We're all in on it. The big secret. Together we stand. Pledge allegiance to my biggest fan. The dead.

Guns. We own guns. And gun wracks. And cracker jacks. No crack pipes, but maybe pipe dreams - old dusty fuckers.

When all I really want is a harmonica. And something to love. And then write about.

Scratch out my eyes, go nine rounds with my heart and my soul. Sticks and stones, and all of my two-hundred and six or so of my never broken bones.

Marcellus can you hear me, do you hear me? Is that your tree-house? I'll burn your tree-house. And drink your beer. The cheap, American dirty kind.

What am I singing for? What am I saying?

I am sensing it means something. I am sensing it means something to me. But not to you.

'Cause I am still sleepless while you likely have a roladex. And your gorgeous best friend and triangle love squad and desperate she-wolves. Kosher ones. A ROLADEXXXXXX.... But never, my friend, a rolex.

(Not that I want to own a rolex).

What do I want most in this world? To rest. Let me rest after a beautiful day. Let me dream beautiful dreams after living my dreams. Let me sleep 6 straight. Let me have a night of easy z's.

And so I wax desperate with imagination of a night - such will never be for a long time coming.

And I am so happy with that because that is who I am.

CArrrrrrrrrrrrLLLLlllllllLLLLllllllllllll.

poetry past midnight.

by lola.

Existentially yours.

ps

This is a warning that boys do not think with their brain. (singular - one for the mass of them.)