||[Nov. 26th, 2010|05:55 am]
8 or so bees in my bonnet
|||||rem - can't get there from here||]|
wise old ghosts berate and advise
whisper suspicions and opinions in the ears,
young spirits tortuous
keep them still,
making solitude a living nightmare, but,
even in the pitch black
they keep on talking...
chatting away about this and that, and the other,
trying to work out
just exactly what the fuck is going on.
when they should be
planning a bank heist
or praying to the stars
or tending a campfire
or caring for the kids
or phoning a friend...
but they've known worse than this...
they've seen it all before...
and they haven't slept for days;
running on pure adrenalin and booze...
the eye, fascinated
by this unusual and inappropriate behaviour.
hums in their ears
like the high pitched whistle of an old television.
the sandman arrives merciful, but is banished
like a guillotine
they are dying to live
and living to die
and being way too cool
for their own good...