I wanna be Faith’s strung-out junkie. My dreaming veins singing a better tomorrow. What I don’t want: to be dust, rust. Roadtripping with demons – Oblivion or bust. Don’t wanna be that one suicide bullet locked and loaded in the chamber of grief’s gun. Don’t wanna be your blood-lusting grave, your ghost-moan grave, your any kinda grave. What I want: to spend time in your joy’s city. I’ll sweep the streets, round up criminals, direct traffic – anything and everything to keep your bliss vibrant and alive. I wanna radioactivate, self-immolate. Burn away all poverty, fear, and sickness to fuel the fire of our well-being. Don’t wanna be an inert gas in the Idiotic Table of Elements. Wanna be a full-on kick in the balls to ignorance. Never wanna torture or kill any animals or insects in the making of these words, these beliefs, no matter how low I may get between thought, between breath, between life and death. But if anything must die, let it be the ego. Let it go. What I want: for you to write on my flesh everything you see and hear when you sleep.
