I’m a Hard Man to Kill is going to be screened (on the big screen) at the Tribeca Grand Hotel this Saturday, June 16th. Come one, come all. Details at the link below.
Sex Machine got bitten by a vampire and tried to hide it from the group.
To do: start writing a memoir called Morphine and Ice Cream.
If someone asks you to pen them a poem about a sunrise, punch them right in the fucking mouth and watch them bleed like it was a Pink Floyd laser show at the planetarium.
New York used to be sanctuary for the dispossessed. But the junk and drink and crime and waste and youthful ideology either killed them off or humbled them into venture capitalism. The remainder is a tenement across from a high rise. The remainder is all and null. The remainder is us caught in between, hoping for a classic city blackout.
… a guy, a girl, a hat, and some cigarettes…
Your bed was a ledger of mediocrity conquered and thus I became obsolete relatively quickly, but we still fit together well.
With all the miscellaneously sped up experiences that I’ve amassed (more drugs and unemployment than Charlie Sheen has ever seen) in my 25 years, what is left to look forward to: heart attacks, overdoses, lonely nights and further subterranean adventures in books and clinical depression?
Winona Ryder is in her early 40’s now and still seems like the most interesting, gorgeous woman in the world. Also, Jennifer Connelly – plagued to be an old school Brooklyn girl in her soul – is a former English Lit major who digs Nick Cave and Polly Jean Harvey (what’s weird is that I think my future ex-wife was the one that told me that particular tidbit).
If you ever find yourself literally running to a bar, I suggest you start collecting open container tickets instead.
If she asks you to “build a home” with her, build a sepulcher instead.
Love is simple. Simpler than we make it out to be. It is the only thing remotely holy or defiant in this entire deranged, fucking waltz.