No Tears in Sodom.

You awake to the armageddon outside your window.
You ignore it, like you ignore the neighbors barking dog.
Ten pennies, in Ten hands, you clintch your teeth getting out of bed.
You find the pipe.
And dig around for resin.
3 hits of oblivion resolves the self-arguement of what day it is today.
And why it's so important to give a damn.

You shower as though you're being crucified.
Every silver strand of water, a blasphemy of past betrayals and condemnations.
Your shower does not clense.
A bird screams in your ear, reciting or reminding you of an unhealthy recipy for breakfast.
You look at the clock and die a little bit, inside.

You turn on the news, and listen passively at the latest death toll.
You down the absinthe and scrambled eggs in a matter of moments, 6 fluid movements to be exact.
You hear the knocking in your mind, before hearing it in your ears.

You grab the tenth, and open the door.
She kneels, knowing the score.
You imagine yourself in deep space, falling forever.
Tossed baggie, scrapped up clean like a surgeon.

You walk a straight line to your destination.
Child lays dying as you light up a smoke.
You're reminded that you have to do your laundry today.
Street after exhausted street, you knock.

You tell the window: "Tracy, brunette, petite."
You open the door to what it once was.
You lay on her lap, and you cry like a child.
She strokes your hair, telling her what you told her to stay.
And you dream that you were 13 again.
Flying spaceships, and carvng roads.