Post by klforest on Jan 16, 2016 16:05:25 GMT -5
Listen to this first!
Purple Spray-paint
There are three of us, & we wait for a moon swollen with cold light, so our flash light beams won’t catch a cop’s eye. We’re on our way to the last blank overpass left on 80 East: backpacks jammed with spray paint jacked from our step father’s workshops, extra nozzles, & five minis of Jack. Civic stereo blaring: “I don’t wanna live—to be fifty-seven!” Park beneath the overpass dressed in black, ladder in the back, & all quarter drunk: “I’m living in hell—is there a heaven?” Climb up the cold rungs with white knuckles – it’s late September & Jersey bitter— so high up, the tail lights below look like red Leo’s weaving between dotted lines.
The cans icy in our bare hands, winking in the moonlight, like jars of hearts & lungs suspended in formaldehyde: as if we’re spraying slivers of ourselves & death on the wall for everyone to see (talk about hearts on sleeves).
Purple splattered over our fingers, fluorescent, like our throbbing adolescence; we barely get the nozzle unclogged before red & blues flare on the 3 A.M. horizon. We ditch the ladder (it was a stepdad’s anyway), & all look up at the neon purple scrawl before climbing in the four-door: “Too fucked up to love, too soft to hate.” We take off towards the mall. Pack us a bowl & turn up the stereo: “Live fast die young, live fast die young!”
Quote credit goes to Beach slang
Purple Spray-paint
There are three of us, & we wait for a moon swollen with cold light, so our flash light beams won’t catch a cop’s eye. We’re on our way to the last blank overpass left on 80 East: backpacks jammed with spray paint jacked from our step father’s workshops, extra nozzles, & five minis of Jack. Civic stereo blaring: “I don’t wanna live—to be fifty-seven!” Park beneath the overpass dressed in black, ladder in the back, & all quarter drunk: “I’m living in hell—is there a heaven?” Climb up the cold rungs with white knuckles – it’s late September & Jersey bitter— so high up, the tail lights below look like red Leo’s weaving between dotted lines.
The cans icy in our bare hands, winking in the moonlight, like jars of hearts & lungs suspended in formaldehyde: as if we’re spraying slivers of ourselves & death on the wall for everyone to see (talk about hearts on sleeves).
Purple splattered over our fingers, fluorescent, like our throbbing adolescence; we barely get the nozzle unclogged before red & blues flare on the 3 A.M. horizon. We ditch the ladder (it was a stepdad’s anyway), & all look up at the neon purple scrawl before climbing in the four-door: “Too fucked up to love, too soft to hate.” We take off towards the mall. Pack us a bowl & turn up the stereo: “Live fast die young, live fast die young!”
Quote credit goes to Beach slang
