Slipping on the tongue. Numb. To icey toes. Who knows whose fault it is that auditions break hearts. That futures hold fate. That all things have weight. And some weigh more than others. There are no exceptions to those rules. And no receptions post our duels. We are stuck. Forced to marinate in our choices. As glory floats away on the raft we couldn't afford at the time. Bored with the rhyme. Stop on a nickel to say thankyou. To the passed. And then we start on credit. Pushing any cents under the rug. And I remember a day when the dogs dug just to dig. Because they used to have yards. We used to have barns. And the Bard. People used to use pencils. Then pens. Used to grieve for our sins on stage. Fight for honesty on screen. But we lost that. Somewhere in translation I suppose. To what God only knows as a friend. But what happened to 'the story'. I don't bend and I don't fake. Anymore. Who for. Smile at least once. Pig farm. I remember your charm. Where is it now. Gone somehow and we're left here with Dow. And his commercial industrials. And you can tell Mr. Jones that I've seen enough. Enough of the cattle. Enough of the table. Enough of the couch. Enough of this fable. There's too much blood and not enough heart. Too much type and not enough part. The noise is loud but there is no sound. In Tracy's words: "Give me one reason to stay here, and I'll turn right back around."
Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Dustin Whitehead.
No comments:
Post a Comment