Shut Up
16 just held such better days
I don't know how this is done...
I don't know if I should spit out my name ,but I don't want to do it anyway...
I know you listen only because you're unfortunate enough to have gotten the title of my shitty priest,to whom I always confess like an idiot,
my crappy, crumpled notebook, to which I always talk as if I have a couple of screws loose,but,then, all geniuses have them loose.
I can't complain; maybe I'm mad because I've had a fucked up childhood, or because the nurse dropped me on my head after my mom shot me out through her legs...
-
I remember 16 years clearly. The rest is an entanglement of father's beet red face at my constant refusal to adapt to the silence, mom's dissapointed eyes that swam like a shark around my wounded heart, Phil's ignorance that I swallowed because it was not as bitter as everything else was and Lore...Lore's arms around me like the tentacles of an octopus, squeezing, chocking...killing.
Wanting to be me by ripping parts of me to glue over her shell.
I was born at 16 years old.
I died at....27? That number that took into the earth all that was great on this world, leaving it ugly and barren. And me.
And then I died again at 27 and three days, when the earth ate me whole, concealing from the world a body that wished to rot in silence.
Not a thing I'm fond of, seeing my black bones rot and vanish and be replaced by tons of fat, slumbering worms...
I was erased from existence for a period of 3 years, 29 days and 2 hours; and when I returned, the world rejected me, having thought I died and not took a vacation from existing.
And everyone thought I was a ghost, come back to haunt and destroy.
That's what my mother thought, too, shying underneath my glares and flinching at my touches, even though I needed her eyes and her skin to revive my soul...
Well...
what else?
Want to know who Lore was? Who Phil was?
Lore was...my bad luck. My broken condom. The buck that I found on the street that made me get punched for stealing. My withering project. My baby-sister...
She died when she was 13....all the bad luck of that ugly number came down on me like a fucking tornado, tore me to pieces and then tore me again, after my parents found out that I was the cause of the accident that killed her...
I survived...she didn't.
And then I reached the period I could remember- my sixteen moments of life that I didn't hate.
And at the Beginning, there was Uri: Shut Up's founder, guitarist and glue.
The blue eyes that haunted you because you couldn't understand why they seemed so...empty.
The blonde hair that haunted you because you thought you saw it black.
The guitar that haunted you because it sounded so...full. Even if you knew guitars were empty on the inside.
And then, on the seventh day, God decided there would be Emma.
The heart that I chased even though she didn't need my ribcage to beat. And she broke my twelve bones when I managed to pull her in, beating so wildly I had to let her go.
Then, I met Westwood, the coldest soul of America, and then Gray, our eccentric drummer...
It would seem my life was improving, right?
Phil died, mom died, I died and then everybody else died, because I couldn't see them from beneath the tons of tons of fat worms I was buried beneath...
I'll see what else I can remember to lie to you shamelessly...
I don't know if I should spit out my name ,but I don't want to do it anyway...
I know you listen only because you're unfortunate enough to have gotten the title of my shitty priest,to whom I always confess like an idiot,
my crappy, crumpled notebook, to which I always talk as if I have a couple of screws loose,but,then, all geniuses have them loose.
I can't complain; maybe I'm mad because I've had a fucked up childhood, or because the nurse dropped me on my head after my mom shot me out through her legs...
-
I remember 16 years clearly. The rest is an entanglement of father's beet red face at my constant refusal to adapt to the silence, mom's dissapointed eyes that swam like a shark around my wounded heart, Phil's ignorance that I swallowed because it was not as bitter as everything else was and Lore...Lore's arms around me like the tentacles of an octopus, squeezing, chocking...killing.
Wanting to be me by ripping parts of me to glue over her shell.
I was born at 16 years old.
I died at....27? That number that took into the earth all that was great on this world, leaving it ugly and barren. And me.
And then I died again at 27 and three days, when the earth ate me whole, concealing from the world a body that wished to rot in silence.
Not a thing I'm fond of, seeing my black bones rot and vanish and be replaced by tons of fat, slumbering worms...
I was erased from existence for a period of 3 years, 29 days and 2 hours; and when I returned, the world rejected me, having thought I died and not took a vacation from existing.
And everyone thought I was a ghost, come back to haunt and destroy.
That's what my mother thought, too, shying underneath my glares and flinching at my touches, even though I needed her eyes and her skin to revive my soul...
Well...
what else?
Want to know who Lore was? Who Phil was?
Lore was...my bad luck. My broken condom. The buck that I found on the street that made me get punched for stealing. My withering project. My baby-sister...
She died when she was 13....all the bad luck of that ugly number came down on me like a fucking tornado, tore me to pieces and then tore me again, after my parents found out that I was the cause of the accident that killed her...
I survived...she didn't.
And then I reached the period I could remember- my sixteen moments of life that I didn't hate.
And at the Beginning, there was Uri: Shut Up's founder, guitarist and glue.
The blue eyes that haunted you because you couldn't understand why they seemed so...empty.
The blonde hair that haunted you because you thought you saw it black.
The guitar that haunted you because it sounded so...full. Even if you knew guitars were empty on the inside.
And then, on the seventh day, God decided there would be Emma.
The heart that I chased even though she didn't need my ribcage to beat. And she broke my twelve bones when I managed to pull her in, beating so wildly I had to let her go.
Then, I met Westwood, the coldest soul of America, and then Gray, our eccentric drummer...
It would seem my life was improving, right?
Phil died, mom died, I died and then everybody else died, because I couldn't see them from beneath the tons of tons of fat worms I was buried beneath...
I'll see what else I can remember to lie to you shamelessly...