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Bullets In Our Spines

Time
That’s really all we have
Right?
So why waste it with games;
Trivial pursuits.
Why not chase
Down speed and listen
Hear it explode
Like the orgasm
You dream to have.
Trivial pursuits;
Women, money,
Sex, and fame.
Why spend all
Time searching
When you could
Listen to speed
Explode
Embrace
The void
Like children kissing
Stars
With bullets in their spines.

But we don’t.
We chase down
Dreams
Recited to us
By corporate America
And we buy
And sell
Abstract stock:
Like happiness,
Contentment,
Self realization,
And so much other shit
That is meaningless.

Then we kiss the sky
Then we kiss the sky
With bullets
In our
Spines.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.

And here is a rather muddled piece.


Killah

If looks cold kill the whole world would be a black hole: a void in space where nothing and everything exists. The last thing we would all remember would be me sitting in a back seat of a friends car staring into the sun as we belt along the 101. I used to hate the bleached out essence the world dons when your eyes are engulfed by floating flames, but now I am enthralled with it. So much has changed, but some things are the same: like how my mood changes faster than tracks can switch in the CD player up front. Or perhaps, how I still contemplate how I would experience brief pleasure while gently grazing the face of God - right before the freeway slams into me and my limbs scatter after diving out the backseat of the car at eighty miles per hour. What is the same is how I occasionally live life like I’ve lived it before and now I am bored. As if, in this one sun bleached 30 minutes I have played out every scene of my life – only to get out of a car at the very beginning. Other times, I walk like I just got legs and damn it feels good when these fresh legs bend. I move and jive down the street as every molecule around me dances to my footfalls at 120 bmp: and damn how this city loves to dance. Damn how this city loves to move. Occasionally, you may see me stopped with old legs. An oil leak on these rusty kneecaps: fucker at the store ripped me when he said “new legs” – more like new paint. I limp home in disrepair. I’ll have to go in and get serviced tomorrow before work – there is no way in hell I’ll be able to deliver boxes of lies with an oil leak. How did I get on this topic of rusty kneecaps and oil leaks? Ah, well. But if looks could kill the cheap greasy spoon cafeteria’s plates would be impaling prime ministers, presidents, the senate and senators, the house and congress, the IRS, presidentes, dignitaries, royalty, sluts, my boss, my various managers, movie stars, rock stars, porn stars, and anyone on a pedestal who praised themselves to the top and expects you to respect. I cannot respect a man who has not crawled on his belly cast down – and those listed above for the most part have never crawled; or even walked bent down. Their pride is foolish; a barbiturate they take daily to cover up their multiple failings. Failing makes us human – it’s how Adam and Eve designed us when they mistook apples for oranges; and fucked us all. I wonder if they will formally apologize for making my life shit when I die. Or am I being far too arrogant? huffed up on my own sense of pride for spending most of my life crawling on my belly and then gaining the strength to get on my hands and knees; and take it like a man. And let us all be men and do manly things: kill puppies with shot guns, beat sense into some and out of others, smoke, drink, jump across train tracks with bags of money in the back seat with the police in hot pursuit, fuck bitches, screw bitches, avoid marriage, end up dead. What’s the point then? And how did I get down here? I started off talking about how looks could kill!

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.