DARKNESS LINGERS LONGEST INSIDE
THE UNKEMPT SPACES IN YOUR HEAD

this sounds like that time of night (or after midnight)
when you find comfort on the uninviting walls of your
room, curtains carefully pulled so no one sees the
gloom hanging like a lobby chandelier except the
atmosphere isn’t cozy; nothing is in fact cozy
these days

not the cup of coffee by the headboard
not that hoodie lying on the floor
especially not the muffled television downstairs
left on by your mother thinking the
late night news could cheer up the house
somehow.

No Shows
Gerard Way 
Hesitant Alien

And so the whinings of the “original" MCR fans begin.

Well guess what, this is a good fucking song. MCR broke up thinking that their fans didn’t much like the latest album, Danger Days. It’s mostly true though, people kept complaining about how different MCR sounded on that album, how it’s completely diverged from the Black Parade atmosphere and all that dark, semi-suicidal tone but guess what. Danger Days was a good album. It had a fresh and interesting theme with good fucking songs. Planetary Go was ecstatic. Na na na, you just kinda lose shit in it. S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W was fucking sentimental, Summertime was amazing holy shit, Vampire Money was fucking raw, Save Yourself don’t even get me started with Save Yourself heck I could go on for hours dissecting each song so you whiny little bitches realize how fucking amazing Danger Days was.

Now here we go again, on the same fucking scenario, but this time the target is Gerard’s solo album, Hesitant Alien. “He sounds different I don’t like this new sound I miss Black Parade yadda yadda” well how about calmly shut your bigass whiny mouths and just accept the fact that MCR, particularly Gerard, has moved on from that dark death-themed sadcore genre, so maybe, just maybe you should too. He’s happy with this Britpop album, and if you can’t stand that, then please do leave him alone.

Cheers.

DEAR GOD THERE’S TEMPEST
IN MY WINEGLASS
here the smoke intensifies over the
sax solo version 1965. lime sticks on
teeth like a year-old graffiti mucked
by vodka that burns on the walls of
the throat. often the cigarettes aren’t
allowed inside but not this time.

not this time, of course so the ashtrays
are everywhere but the ashes are just
as every where. 

you don’t say grace before another shot;
you just think of the cause and the aftertaste
of guilt, like the few seconds
after a badly-timed orgasm.

"Suicide note: mom, dad, I’m gay."

six-word story

MMK: A SUMMARY

  • hAPPY FAMILY LAUGHS CHESY DIALOGUE
  • tROUBLE COMES OMG SO SAD
  • OMG SADDER DESPEARTE AW AW HARDSHIIP #LIFESUX
  • CRI
  • MORE CRI + ANGRY ANGRY
  • rANDOM PERSON TALK TO ANGRY PERSON OMG REALIZATION
  • ANGRY PERSON TALK TO PPL OMG OMG CRYING WHILE TALKING
  • MORE CRYING WHILE TALKING + IM SORRY MOMENT S
  • HAP PY ENDING HUGGY HUG SMILE SMILE THEN FADE TO CHARO

WHEN THE SMOKE MACHINE BEGINS
in the haze of darkness and the 
sharp smell of this dizzy room
the only hand that reaches the door 
is the hand that doesn’t grope
for the car key that coincides
with the french kiss kept alive
alongside the music and the liquor
and the smoke in the mirror
praying the chairs are too tilted
and the dancefloor, too wilted
and the night, too drunk to die.

CARS, THEY TELL YOU
STORIES

there are whispers in the parking lot that
is now too cramped for eager headlights
awaiting stories about writings on the
windshield dust

the engine revs to the gray avenue with
windows rolled down so the smell of smoke
and spilled booze at the backseat escape
but not so completely, no 

there’s always nobility in the stained sheets
and smoked rearview mirrors that stays like a
keepsake, like a heart half-left on the
worn-out vehicle’s backrest

and sticks like sweat drying on your cheek.

Drunken monologues, confused because it’s not like I’m falling in love, I just want you to do me no good

a
nd you look like you could.

ALONG THE LINES OF FALSE ENTHUSIASM
AND OBVIOUS DISINTEREST…
in this part of night where the quiet
eats the world, the leak on the faucet
is more poignant than within the
workings of your lips and tongue

there was alcohol breath
over the phone that was
almost believable 
but left almost so immediately
in this meeting room.

nothing but the smell of
stale cigarettes and lesser sense
nothing but a musty couch and a
dim light and room for more pretense.