Crazy Shit, Inc (original) (raw)
A Slow Migration
Dec. 2nd, 2005 | 07:54 pm
posted by: 
jordan_666_666 in 
crazy_shit_inc
What is this
Relentless outcry
Of wrong against the skin
Of my body
Forming bloodstains?
(I only know
That his name
Is inside me like
A needle waiting
To be tapped)
His blood is thick
Inside my spaces
And every face turns
To say I'm so sorry
But maybe it's just as well.
IT'S NOT THAT I DON'T
WANT TO BE THIS ANGRY
EVERYONE THINKS
THEY KNOW HOW TO HURT SOMEONE
BUT A CLEVER TURN OF PHRASE WORKS BETTER
THAN A POCKET KNIFE
THROUGH THE PALM OF MY HAND;
A SINGLE POINT OF LIGHT
UNDER THE DOOR;
AM I LEAVING HERE?
His eyes were flat black
In the dark
With our fingers mingling.
The light outside
Our window fading.
(I only know
That his name
Is inside me like
A needle waiting
To be tapped)
We're leaving again.
The car's ready.
My bags are packed.
IT'S NOT THAT I DON'T
WANT TO BE THIS ANGRY
His hand touches the sheetmetal car
BUT A CLEVER TURN OF PHRASE WORKS BETTER
THAN A POCKET KNIFE
My eyes watch the trees pass.
A SINGLE POINT OF LIGHT
UNDER THE DOOR;
We're leaving everything.
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Social Ansethisia
Nov. 22nd, 2005 | 01:11 am
posted by: jordan_666_666 in crazy_shit_inc
THERE ARE DAYS
WHEN I WOULD LOVE
TO SMASH IN THE HEAD
OF EVERYONE WHO BRINGS CHILDREN
INTO THIS WORLD.
There is no clear way
To define what makes this world
Such an unfit place.
Rednecks would be a good guess.
Social ansthesisia would be a good guess.
To break your back
Making a difference and
Somewhere some heroine redneck bitch
Is spitting out a sack of shit
And naming it refrigerator.
I AM NOT IMMUNE
TO THE IMPULSE
TO HIT ANIMALS
HEAD ON IN MY CAR
JUST TO SEE THEIR EYES
DYING IN MY WINDSHEILD WIPERS.
I am not an expert,
But I'm pretty sure that
Something is wrong when even a drunk driving death
Calls for a drinking party in the victim's honor
And the people involved are serious(ly considering
Career suicide.)
Why does it make so much sense?
Television would be a good guess.
Cerebral Hypothermia would be a good guess.
As to why the old man
Crossed the fucking road
To paint the asphalt on the other side red.
Or in the middle when he visits
And you can't say you want to die
Because that would start a chain reaction
Of chain smokers
Putting cigarettes out in the eyes
Of furry animals.
THERE ARE TIMES WHEN I'D LIKE TO
SPEAD MYSELF OUT ON THE ROAD
LIKE DEATH, FLAMING SHIT CRYING OUT TO GOD
ON THE TIRES OF A SEMI
AND MILES OF INSIDES DRAGGING BEHIND ME.
Without pain there is no art.
Without anger there is no progress.
But I have to wonder, if peace is so pleasant,
Why does war rewrite history in its own image?
Short term memory loss would be a good guess.
Endless finacial safety nets for everyone would be a good guess.
And still I wonder, still I plague
Coffee machines looking for god
In all the wrong places.
THAT FADING RESOURCE, THAT
TRANSPARENT IDEAL OF MANKIND
WE CLAIM TO LOVE AS OUR OWN CHILD.
SAID CHILD IS HIGH FROM A CONTACT BUZZ.
We want to find it
In the bulge of a stranger's crotch,
In the importance of being tan in a world
Where nobody ever smiles for real anymore.
You have to wonder why.
Social retardation would be a good guess.
Inability to comprehend failure would be a good guess.
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Viens Are The Death Roads Beneath Your Skin
Oct. 18th, 2005 | 01:08 am
posted by: jordan_666_666 in crazy_shit_inc
(And his name is an idle hand;
Cut it off to save yourself.)
From under the bridge I hear him calling
One of these days I'll finish stalling
I wonder why it's so appalling
To live life underground.
And be safe among my own kind.
It doesn't happen. They make me
A monster and a pauper and a fuck toy
And I'm more messed up for it.
And every day I feel it dropping
Morality low and never stopping
I can hide in the trash cans, too,
And fuck my way to the top.
(And his name is an idle hand;
Cut it off to save yourself.)
YOU WILL ALWAYS BE A FAGGOT.
YOUR NAME WILL NEVER CHANGE.
And in my room is a bed built for one.
*Copyright 2005 by Jordan Riley and stuff.