Five O'Clock Shadows at the Edge of the Western World
“Go west. Die young,” she whispered soft through her Santa Ana lungs. She finds the faults, tan-lines the girls. Puts a five o’clock shadow at the edge of the western world. Her palms spring straight to heaven. Her love is a dog from hell. And the back seats that she’s shared with me, they ain’t going to well. Her cars are pooled, her earth is quaked, and her crips are drenched in bloods. And the giants swim by in blues and greys as we godbless the aqueducts. I’ve drawn a million breaths, and every single one was more asthmatic than the last. Go west. Die young. Sunburn my skin and un-requite my love. We were hand-in-hand, one last caress. We raise a toast to the valley of death. There’s a condom in her gutter, and babies in her trash. And the pigs once tried to kill a King near this westbound overpass. But I come here to watch the planes as they come and go. And she smogs my air and salts my sea and reminds me that I’m home. I’ve been cut. Trojan-horsed. Every cut cut deeper, deeper than the first. Thirsty and miserable. I guess I wasn’t made for these times. Songs to aging children come: teen creeps lost in another state of mind. And now we dance, and now we sink. When the music’s fucking over we all must bleed. Go west. Die young. Suburban homes and nausea. May grey. June gloom. Tequila sunset, I’ve been waiting for you. Fuck armageddon, ‘cause this is hell. And if you listen real close she’s got secrets to tell. Go west. Die young. Drive your five o’clock shadow straight into the western sun.
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