no one ever talks about the morning after

no one ever mentions the crusty mascara, the powdery foundation that grows veins running infinite miles across the horizon that is ones cheek
no one talks about the blurred lines smudged lips that mark impressions but hold no boundaries
much like last night.
with no boundaries.

no one ever talks about the morning after

I guess its probably the mild amnesia that comes with a good nights sleep
because you always sleep well after nights like these

the bright lights and swatch of red have all been turned over and painted in countless metaphors and analogies, poems and prose
deja vu to those who don’t even know it-
but what about the morning after?

when you catch yourself staring back at your sunny side ups
when the air still rings in the distance from the screeching hum of last night
and you see double
an overlay of excitement on top of the foggy morning

the mornings after are always hazy
hazy with memory
hazy with excitement gone cold in the styrofoam take out container that has a gracious “Have a nice day!” stamped on top staring back at you with its blank white expression,
mocking you
imploring you
prodding you
to accept that fact that it is the next day
and that in fact
you had a nice night
but it is now the next day-

the morning after.


I have a feeling that silk scarves printed with NASA satellite and Hubble images are a thing that some of you might need, in a “shut up and take my money” way.

Check ‘em out at Slow Factory.

there is so much going through my mind right now

I hope to find time to write them all out

until then,

wish me luck.

a frosty glass
like her frosty words


like the ice cube in a of tumbler of single malt whiskey

but like the whiskey,
her eyes blazed,
burned and crackled with the intensity of passion 

(might continue)

today i watched my recorded episode of the premiere of the final season of mad men

i feel the end coming

its coming

and i need to prepare myself

(Source: sweetwonderbook)

the room spinning around me my bed feeling like a elevator bouncing between 30 floors dinging up and then maximum overload on the way down gold light bouncing off all the walls tiles and tiles and more grey tiles lush beige carpet marked with green flowers an undulating room a rumbling dragon with each breath a rise and a fall

the beatles playing eleanor rigby

silent and dry tears climbing down a cheek

my mind is spinning at a thousand miles per hour and my heart feels like its suspended in time
in a few years crammed to one and a half seconds i will explode into infinitesimal pieces back into energy and then zip my being back up 

but we’re all just tiny pieces of nothing

the process of transformation consists entirely of decay

so pathetic how 30% of the time at convention you were thinking of that,

like honestly,

would it ever do you any good?

a world of good and a then an invisible flood of harm

i could live with that,
because i would finally be alive

just to look up and know you’re sending yourself there too


or that this is complete and utter bullshit and reality is real and no imagery or imagination or embodiment of a perception daydream expectation would ever hold a candle to what goes on in the mind

what the fuck

nights like these i just want to get high

but then i remember - 

oh wait