Rusty blades

The rust looks like blood; blood will corrode the blade.

Eighteen Lines on a Saturday Night

I want to put my arms around you
To smell your hair again
I should have kissed you
But I was too drunk
To overcome my fears
I spent the night watching your eyes
Your lips, and listening to your voice
Feeling your head on my shoulder
And introducing myself
We spent the night talking
Maybe that's better
Stupid jokes and self-revelation
I analyze each moment
And I'm afraid to call you
I suppose I'll see you again
But two months is a long time
For these memories to fill
And I'm afraid to call.

Disturbingly brilliant

I had to share.

From Henry Rollins's Art to Choke Hearts:

She points her finger. His porcelain mask falls to the ground and breaks into many jagged pieces. She looks at the face that she had never seen before. She walks away, leaving him alone with his undoing all around his feet.

****

A fly was crawling across my window. I crushed him with one of the blinds. I watched him crawl with his guts trailing behind him in a snotty little trail. No I didn't stick my face in and clean it up with my tongue. You don't know me as well as you think you do. I watched it crawl until it was too weak to haul its own guts. What a way to go. No complaining, no pleas for mercy. No cries for mamma. A while later I was looking out the window at the drug pushers across the street. I saw the fly again. It was still stuck to the glass by its guts. Another fly was eating him. I wish I could be like that. my girlfriend blows her brains out in the bathroom and I take her body downstairs and live on it for weeks. I couldn't do that you know. I wouldn't have the guts. I thought of that fly again with its buddy standing on top chowing down. That fly has more guts than I do.

****

So I'm hoping to fuck these heavy mothers get off the bus soon before they get any ideas about knocking me around. About two stops later they get up to leave. They filed past me and didn't give me even a second glance. You bet your ass I checked them out. I couldn't believe it. They were fat kooks, and they were wearing all these New Wave clothes that you could tell cost a lot of money. The last one to get off the bus is the one I can't forget. Thick glasses, big butt, with a denim jacket that said THE CURE written in marker on the back. What the fuck is wrong with these people? The Cure? I'll bet those kids raid their parents' liquor cabinet and get out the Lite beer. Whatever happened to juvenile delinquents? It's too late, I think. There should be a law: Anyone under the age of twenty-five will not be sold any weak alcohol products. It's going to be malt liquor, whiskey, or nothing. Anybody who wants to purchase Lite beer will have to be over forty and have the identification to prove it.

There's more to share, but I'm tired. Thanks, Hank, for letting me share your words.