Things You Didn't Give A Tony Alva Damn About

  

Things You Didn't Give A Tony Alva Damn About

For those who scorn tap,

When insects do not feel pain,

In a garbage in garbage out pervasive Chevrolet hip heterogeneity,

With broadcasting murder music gambino lionizing against a Mafia's ceaseless aims to finally go legit,

Cigarette on her over decorated with shed for spikes arm,

And at centerless city that doesn't even have an Inspiration Point,

You are an indiscernible street bump I don't know how to pop,

Not necessarily strictly defined in relation to yourself, 

But also or rather in relation to some logical operations on a set of named and unnamed vicissitude of cultural terms,

And stop and go and stop and go ever so slowly will a beach house relationship coach so go, 

Like the cultivating of reedy English voice in ever so slight advancing increments, as to go un-bracingly unnoticed,

And when it's fully formed, accepted without mention.

And when the outsider's looking in de facto oh-snap!-take given unearned fair space and equal treatment and weight in measure, NOT A PROBLEM.

Grass snake resistant pentatonic, NOT A PROBLEM.

Held hostage or on perpetual stand by, 

Mindfucked by all the loose connotative speech of it all, 

Containing even all the more interpretive downside,

NOT A PROBLEM.

And there's never time or place to play acoustic guitar.

On the battered oil change ledger faithfully kept updated in the glove box for next owner,

Or on Lampshade mid day coming off like it's evening,

In the wintertime, in mordant down Lawrenceville splits,

Or in the sitting room in New London, overhearing your conversation casual, 

While I'm inhaling popcorned bags of lung,

And what your generalized doting on telephone right now and always says, 

Seems to all but just always ever so say,  

You ominous so casual, 

Prefacing there to whoever on other side of snaking line that is, 

While I feign unconcerned, though taking it in like sleeping on floor of a lake, 

When I hear you go, when I hear you go, I know, I know,

Yeah I'm with X comma a friend, 

Like I'm hugging cousin.

Then I'll skip my next oil change.

And if I could unwrangle somehow to fill into this register,

Look you in the eyes all the way to Penthouse Pet estate stairway, 

Or skirting up some real good decently working reverse psychology, 

Skipping all civil procedure, like cave-manning a handrail, 

Would it not only not be enough, 

Or too much and a bit much, too soon, too late, 

Or if enough, but then pretty much still inconsequential anyways.

Then I will for sure know you and Tony Alva go to Alanon in the pavillion

By the marina, near the rollerskater path.

.

You see,

I don't make a living riding around on a toy of wheels, but listen, because what I'm trying to get to be understood right here is how that's exactly worth saying here,

In a nobody give a fuck, sex so scarce secular,

Tracing fine gossamer lines of tangled Nazi youth garter chintz,

Just in spirit of better world well without you, 

When lover now described as body count kill, 

And long-game targets always all coming to naught,

And when you then witnessed getting missed by the whole of your own entire generation anyways, 

Followed to be, all but to be passed by next gen even too, lionizing MGMT, 

Fedora tanking Indy,

Then know I will drive and I will just drive around the block in Acura blue right back to spot started, 

Solely for the effort, if not but to just resolve any purposeful symbolic closure somewhere, site of reconciliation,

While others also remain yet so willing to seek such small unacknowledged accumulating gains for purpose indefinitely, but also really thinking hopefully soon,

Just more than willing to put in the leg work,

Or those outside of the jack o' box of Kitsch, in which otherwise in such should one surly seek solace.

And there's nothing that brave about Kitsch.

So when every night is Ladie's Night.

Left alone left to just sentimental-eyes Arto Saari reclaim street grid edit to Pinback,

Unable to assimilate with any free association of producers, or not in quite the way one would have wanted to or would have imagined,

And the unaware of itself Jeff Goldblum pedestrian intrigue normative eclecticism of it all—Jeff Goldblum in a fedora over a decade ago. 

And so let a crashing kooks choke out everyday without remit.

Then I'll just stay back with the rest of them, 

Ask me to stay back, battered and blighted, ruined and rundown, now as rightly such to be so skeptical of all aesthetic category, 

Feeling so mired in futility, to not even have enough will to organize written down future preemptive comebacks that surely will be needed if not later, 

Then soon, or eventually.

And with everyone and everything now all just so supplement, 

Dos pesos per network actor one hundred thou, 

And sheets of pastiche people that gatecrash boulder Dash and constantly undercut, 

I will say to you, just remember,

Just remember, the camera lense is just, if not more subjective than naked eye, actually,

Or how my nostrils would flare when I was first learning to play guitar anyways,

And remember I'm on equipment team, 

Have had double last part.