Sunday, December 06, 2015

“Hope is a terrible thing on the scaffold.” (For Scott)

Resist the temptation to tempt yourself.
I am thinking about eating some unfrosted strawberry Pop-Tarts.
It’s 2:53 AM do you know where your doctor is?
An even better question does your doctor give a crap where you are?

We sleep in our dreams because we’re too lazy to wake up and crush reality with our unnerving strength and redoubtable courage.
We trespass on another person’s virtual reality because we don’t have the good sense to know when to breathe our last breath and turn our backs on our next regeneration.
The first time I met you at 3160 I knew you were a Time Lord passing themselves off as a Cut-Out because as we both know resistance is futile when time is your little bitch.
Let’s get drunk on shots of Fireball Cinnamon Whisky and pretend we’re none the wiser when the cops are called and we’re arrested for public intoxication.

Checked out your band while The Exorcist played in the background. Closed captioning was on as I watched some idiot with a pig mask from the band before you make a real ass of himself.
When you hit the stage it was more than I could have hoped for. You had full command of everything transpiring around you as the paramount music whipped the audience into a lather and you pierced our inner-sanctum with your shovelhead intellect and alkaline wit.
It was like I was in a time machine watching a friend I knew from a lifetime ago nail himself to the railroad tracks, as the clouds covered us in marshmallow topping and the oncoming train did its best to avoid his white bloated carcass.  
Every time we meet I have the best time because you have this uncanny ability of making everyone feel at ease with your rogue manners and clownish way of revealing the truth with your unbribable smile and Livewire Obscuria mix.  

Charles Cicirella

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