Down Is the New Up by lukewarm

Going to listen and discuss and drink poetry tonight. Hope it's good. Hope I can still keep loving,
Or learn to
Again.
...
A funk beat blares from blown drivers, Despair lingers just beyond the pillows, The alarm means nothing over and over and the agony of that which we can’t express will only increase with that which we can.
I'm a perfectionist who believes that perfection doesn't exist,
or doesn't believe that it does. I realize transcendence is just an idea(l) but I believe in that too.
Because it's beautiful lie and it would make everything ok (if only anyone could ever truly believe).
It’s not something you just know. You can't feel it in your bones. You can't feel anything.
You closed yourself off from that a long time ago.
Make me a conduit. Make me a tiger, fur matted with blood.
Catch my faded basketball and alley-oop it up into the backboard. The steel swish of another goal saved, put up, put away. Break me. Break me wide open and bleeding, tear muscle tissue down to bone fragments and wipe my face off the face of this earth. Break me off a piece of that kit-kat bar. Make it a big one. Make me beg for it with shattered hands, make me sweat and bleed and cry and beat my broken skull against the concrete. Take me. Make me anew.

Cold sun. Here, we-shiver-in-the street,
Man, I can't get past that heart of yours and
Paying with change at the liquor store. Summer. The barometer’s falling fast.
Smells like dried blood in your nose, on your hands. A pocket knife held between teeth-schick!-a cut you'll keep tounge-tounge-tounging and rubbing up against your cheek long after you've stopped
remembering. Memory is connected to the sub-un-subconcious, Pontious Pilate knew what he was doing
and I can tell you what the answers are, but something tells me you're shooting for the fallen starlet glance
in a beer-soaked dive bar half past midnight when there's still a chance that someone might--
and I'm down
with that, too.
So what's your name girl, mine's--

CUT TO:

A roll of thunder. A sidewalk. A pair of sneakers blaze past, pounding the concrete. We tilt up, following the sneakers. A figure in a black hooded jacket is running along the sidewalk towards a crumbling brick building lined with lichens and moss. The sky is heavy and dark. Thunder.

CUT TO:

Inside the building. The boy climbs up a mossy wooden staircase that breaks off at right angles for two stories. The stairs end abruptly at the third story. Hanging from the second story entrance are several bells. He grabs one of the bells and gives it a ring, and then another one. A bell from above responds with a high note. He rings another bell in response. The building groans, and a rickety elevator descends and stops at the end of the second story hallway. The door opens. He moves towards it.