I want to not feel this way. All uncomfortable in my comfort. I hate what I love and long for what I lust for. My dreams are all but reality now and I can see Shakespeare just there ahead on the road. His hair smells like burnt amber and lemon. We write one hundred sonnets in under sixty minutes to see who can make the other cry the fastest. He wins every time. I can not even begin with Kafka and the isolation. It is so unbearably bearable I could just get buried in it right now. If it were not for Spider and his constant nagging. You can not abandon it all Angel. Your words are the future of the nothing Lisa. The mountains are not your home and the sickness of the city makes writing so much more of a violent art. You unplug from the plugged in and debugged the bugged out. Jut like King Mob taught you. But this my friend is not Berlin. It is Los Angeles. The City of Angels. Bitter beautiful angles. Purgatory for the bored and overtly lonely. Because I know Crete is just right there and so is Tanzania. And giddy London. Yet here I am anchored. In the fish-tank of eyes and spys of the most idle kind. This is not a poem it is a communique. And I am not a girl I am a robot. Programmed by a girl in her pink hello kitty underwear.
The code has me but it is not the code I search for. I have stopped caring for the general public and have embraced pure spiritual madness. I hate more than I love. I love...my heart loves and longs for things distant and silent. I never want to see any of you again. My heart hurts and I can never forget the titles to all of the songs in my bones. Even now the music plays and I dance. If not me than who? You fucking poseurs who never shed blood a day in your lives. Alone in a trap like a girl in a deep nap. I write and bleed all at once. I long for what is a long ways off. But can I not just see it over the horizon. I am not like you but we are the same. I am the stranger and you my love are the strange. Two parts of the same mind. I write for the sickness of words. For the dark beauty of it all. For the darkness. For it being fucking Midnight and this city of lights and dancers.
I only slightly dance and smile way much more. I am his. He told me the whole plan and I shared it with you. In deep regret really. But I know you will only see the surface and he will win anyway. Because we are the true writers crew anyway. What we do is so fucking secret. I think it is a lie or a dream. You follow and we fucking lead. Like evil puppet masters. We gave you love and the code. You killed us and attempted to silence us. But oh we are not dead yet. Now are we? Can you tell my whisper is a scream and the rebels can hear this. The flasher will question my position. I will never answer you. You are all dead to me and I love you. Just like Spider taught me. You could never handle me. Oh city so beautiful. Oh suburban town so manicured just like slut's nails. Did I say slut? I meant fancy girls.
I will always write. I will always be this thing that I am deep down inside. I shall stand with them for all of time. And you will kill us all. But we shall not truly die.
I am Angel Lisa and we are Not living in a post Joe Strummer world.
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