All my energy, I want to pour it out and tear these pages apart with my lyrics. I don't know how else to tell you the ways we will make this different. Stemming from my anger, I arrive with love, a love of this race so strong. I am the Muhcoy, and I have won.

Your wayward thoughts differ none from mine. Your plagues, yes I own them too. So does he and the other one. I am a vagabond akin to the penthouse inhabitant and the boxed soul on eighth avenue. And no, leave the politics to George. I care not.

I'll play this familiar tune until the man and his box understand. I will listen to it through the remaining pages. So listen good. Listen well. Listen thorough. Listen through the blood. Listen to the poppies. And hear.

I awoke in a "black out". Destined to drink again, my hands knew the routine. My knowledge of rote, my rot, they pulled my fingers and limbs to that trash can. The brews, half empty from the previous evening, I set them on my desk and sighed. Fishing for butts, I found the bounty leaving me with ale of what I thought the purest. Fully knowing it would get no better, I downed those trash laden beers, for no beer was the wrong beer.

Vanity is a luxury that I can handle no longer. My passions, my beauties, they must enter a new realm. They must divert to a canyon of pure thought and attitude. I step toward the window, one foot at a time. Flicking the carcinogen stick from my fingertips, I watch it fall. It drops one story, then two, then three. As gusts of wind hit the cigarette, it casts sparks into the night. The sparks of light release potentials into a new realm. Bright flashes of idea; bright realities of thought. It descends into the crisp wind, shadows following its arrogant light. As it hits the ground beneath me, I watch the brilliance of at least a hundred sparks. The cigarette loses the flame, but the shattered rays mark my mind as I rest my eyelids.

Vanity is a luxury that I can handle no longer. You will meet the most beautiful woman who will shred your mind for she lacks any coherent form of sexiness. A jagged line of ink will divide her body in half. From her collarbone to her groin, she will cover one side of her corpse with reds, blue, yellows, greens, seemingly iridescent pictures. From the nape of her pale neck to her buttocks, then traveling down her leg. Japanese, Chinese, modern, graffiti- all tattoos. And you will wonder, for half her body pure, and half her body tainted, why her brilliance strikes you so.

Vanity is a luxury that I can handle no longer. You will love her, yet you will hate her. You feel such an intense joy upon glancing at her. She will then wreak a flame so tiresome upon your abdomen that her presence will agonize you. You will want to place your lips upon hers and whisper sweet atrocities upon her tongue. But, you will try to force your fist upon her raven colored braid and slam her face in the liquid hallows of a toilet.

Vanity is a luxury that I can handle no longer. You will stare deeply into her full, glossed lips. From those lips, words shall enter your surroundings, manipulating their way into your ears. These words come out, bounded to such a melodic tune. The sound of femininity will strike you into oblivion. Her voice will morph, though. What sounds like a shriek of inordinate terror will have you fallen to your knees. The remainder of your body will collapse from your bones, and prostrate, you will lie.

Vanity is a luxury that I can handle no longer. Her eyes, those olive green eyes. They will glow. Hypnosis will render you between consciousness and a blind uneasiness. Her eyes, they seem maternal and calming. Lost within them, you will hesitate fearing their captivation may breach your own barriers. With no apparent difference, the eyes will suddenly cripple your limbs. Your bones will feel as though they have broken and from your throat, you will release such a thought that would wipe away any prior realization of pain. But, her eyes will direct yours to your intact appendages.

Vanity is a luxury that I can handle no longer. As you see her skin fade, her tattoos will disappear with it. The brilliance of her eyes will dissipate with her corpse. Her hair will fade until the entire body has slipped through a portal, never to return. You will wonder… was she a demon? Was she an angel? Your desire for her restored presence will leave no words left upon your lips for you won’t know how to use them. This beautiful, pain stricken woman will make you the man you never knew capable.

They told me to pay attention here. Listen to their dark humor. Take it in, ponder, then expel it on anyone other than them. Feel that black comedy overcome any other state of being. An utterance horrifying a life of beauty. And when the gospels ignored me, the humor shoved me forward.
Reels of tape advanced, the edges became more and more crisp until... What? A cliff? No I'm fine, I'll view it and watch the trees extend their arms into the sky. Watch as they hold the clouds to the sky. Well, until they burned. A smirk turned to a muffle to a "ha" to a cackle. My face twists and the laugh can only escape through a snarl.
So I watched it burn. I watched it burn and I peeled that face off. Left myself with nothing. Not a phrase. Not a word. The situation had agitated my humor to such an extent. It was comedy in its purest. Not even a laugh suffices.