+ biography of the uncool +

i don't write when i can't bear to look at the truth anymore.
quiet, quiet...quiet as a cup.
broken in shards of white light -- it all looks so handsome in the darkness.

knowing a genius,
a legend?
it's daunting.
i call his mother, and she cradles me for the one i am without.

she meditates on how he ruins my purity.
she reminds me of how blood isn't always as thick as we want it to be.
she believes there's an answer when i've stopped asking all the questions.

i felt the coldness of the air here;
in Hollywood.
this dried up town - where he still remains a name of names.
a singer of songs.

this little angel in a dream.
she fights for things she never desired.
and watches the stray cats
battle over the rotting carcass,
as they lick their lips,
and relish in such mastery.

we
are
all
phantoms.

i couldn't be more gone from here than right now.