Torpor: Hollywood Pizza Dreamtime Vacuity


Sunday, February 24, 2002 9:12 PM.

This is not the place you hoped it would be.
Was it ever that place? Did it really happen?
Is this even pizza?
What can we hope for when pizza is involved, really?
We seek comfort. We seek company.
We seek the closure of a pie, even a failed one. We fail.
This is not pizza. This is not home.
There are shadows here, burned in by a slow florescent fire.
There was an opening here, once, a passage through.
But this is not your dream architecture. This is not pizza.
You must trace your own maps. You must cut your own pie.
You look at me like I’m the weirdo. Like I’m the asshole.
Look. This is not my pizza. This is not even pizza.
Were you not listening to me?
This was a passage between.
And you are late.

Blood Ocean

blood ocean

The land’s coagulated
And my mind’s incarcerated
But my helmet’s ventilated
With the souls correlated
Though my father’s fascinated
With the premises negated
And the night will be berated
With the souls of the deflated
Bleed, bleed, bleed, bleed
Bleed, bleed, bleed, bleed
Blood Ocean
Bleed, bleed, bleed, bleed
Bleed, bleed, bleed, bleed
Blood Ocean