matters of blood and guts and sweat....

on the city station,
waiting for her tawdry trip,
middle suburbia,
why wont you?
dream while you're waiting,
another foreigner in a foreign land,
our lonliness compares not with theirs,
for they know something else.

many things should be better,
the echoes of urban isolation through dislocation,
ring rowdy in the ears,
those escaping what they have always known,
from babble to bar-room brawls,
the inner city stickers of information,

tell me how to live my life,
whether i want them to or what.

the barbaric blonde,
allures my seduction in just one click,
as the 370degree muzzle,
shifts my apple into overdrive,
before the echoes of others' pages paddles,
through the wall canals of my carriage.

the dancing rock beats of my bud ears,
remind me of the depraved dancefloors,
of my final few years,
filling me with yearning,
for simpler times,
of my mental emotional make-up.

moving part of the way,
down the confuddled path,
matters of  blood and guts and sweat,
paint the walls a more confusing colour of purple,
there is no way of knowing how.

attempting to know the knowledge,
just the tiniest titch,
fries the mind,
a tiny answer to a tiny question,
spawns a million more.

yearning for the dark,
only skin deep,
everytime a'yearning,
for know nothing naive darkness,
the phone dials a source of study light,
the need for knowledge of another,
superceeding and effectively eliminating,
the nature of the romantic luddite.

inside my somewhat childish mind,
it keeps drawing back to flimsy foppish fun,
searching for something that matters,
grand schemes for the skull's soul.