In ‘94
we sang along to songs
that used to slither, sweating, from the sunlight-lit, dusty, car stereo.
Now we rip-off scratched CDs
from record shops; in the hopes of finding sample tracks
to loop behind our backing vocals.
Try to propel ourselves
into synth-memorandum.
Attempt at expressionistic, elastic, corporate think-tank, forms of view.
Keep volume at premium.
Lights down low.
Spend away long hours
in diners
hurry on tooth decay
by rinsing milkshake round our mouths.
My parents were the screaming truth of common sense.
“Damn” I say, “I guess we’ll never get a record deal.”
sigh.














Comments
--
don't grow up too fast
don't embrace the past
this life could be the last
but we're too young to care...
muse
--
I am a sub-admin of
~lucky8ballsociety
And a member of
--
don't grow up too fast
don't embrace the past
this life could be the last
but we're too young to care...
muse
thanks for taking a look at anything.
glad you liked it
--
I am a sub-admin of
~lucky8ballsociety
And a member of
--
Seeing is believing...
And I don't see you.
Parting is such sweet sorrow...
That it's almost sex flavored!
Member of ~Soul-Essence
i'm glad you like this one chica
--
I am a sub-admin of
~lucky8ballsociety
And a member of
your words are encouraging
--
I am a sub-admin of
~lucky8ballsociety
And a member of
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