Through the Glass: From the Archives of Jay Porks…..

Short skirt, boots, tons of make up and a random streak in her hair; she knows how to kill me softly. It’s the look that makes me feel that feeling, the way she stands there smoking. With every drag a little bit of hope is taken from me, stolen from me. The hope of one day being a foot closer to her, the hope that one day she might talk to me. Wonder what her voice sounds like, is it soft? Is it a calming sound or a wailing pitch? I wish I could find out, hell I see her everyday. Her smell from a distance if she were to pass near my direction. As I stare at her alluringness I get angry, but still want her so bad. Don’t keep walking away when you see me, hang up the phone. Always goes inside while I’m making my best effort at trying to get to know her a little better, get to know her at all. I wish she was here, though she may have never left or at least in my mind may have never showed her face at all. I miss the time we spent, she spent; ignoring me. Pretending I wasn’t even fit enough to be a cog in her machine of conversation, her hopeless opinions and sickening morals. The way her and her friends laugh at inside jokes. I try to piece the puzzle together in my head. Her noticeable insecurities that make her feel like less of a person. I could help her with that; I’m less of a person. Her ignorance may be on an outside looking in perspective; somewhat of a turn off I really don’t know her well. I don’t judge a book by its cover. Well, my libido does due to the obvious fact that these thoughts I conjure in my mind; the words I type the stiffie worsens.

 Through the Glass II

You may think you know, but you have no idea. Some conversations kill and some are misunderstood, this one is neither. This one is about you, minus the ringing in your ears: minus comprehension. Minus the math and what do you have? Boredom. Take away the boob tube, and your left tittie-less. Life without tits is not a life worth living in my mind, the mind that sits and wastes away. You know, a great man once wrote “I smoke pot every chance I get” and although endured years of scrutiny and criticism was eventually glorified for making note of that fact. I’m no Carl Solomon, but I’m in a bad place. I sit less then ten feet from the stench of overpriced beer, over-cologned wanna-be mobsters and over-assuming (sometimes under-attractive) females. I’m about 20 feet from the place that has replaced the cool, sandy dunes of the beach in this sick materialistic society we live in today. Probably about 30 feet from one false move to inhale deadly chemicals-sanding down the remaining brain cells. I can search far and wide around the clock and even with a pair of glasses on I couldn’t find a lawyer who could get me off. Someone needs to get me off, it’s been a while. I guess O.J. and I do have something in common: The last person who got us off was a long, long time ago and is dead to us now. Don’t read too far in between the lines, this one is not as complicated as you think. As always, it remains hotter on the inside.

These were written in 2008 and had been lost in the archives. Glad I found them. For concert reviews go to JayPorks.Com and get on the band wagon.