Rave till you crave. Gunfire.

You have been waiting half the morning for a phone call. No, you lost your mobile. Why? Because you always do. It hates you and you hate it for giving you a brain tumor when all you were trying to do was call your mother.

So it deliberately jumps ship at every opportunity and it’s usually when you need it most, because that’s how much your mobile likes to hurt you.

So standing in one of the last phone booths in, what is this place? New York? Jersey? Berlin?

Waiting for your best friend to call you back, to find you. Get you out of this yet again another gloomy morning wakeup call after a night of looking for Mr. Love.

Your teeth aren’t clean and your mouth taste like cheap Vodka and bad eggs.

Yet the wind chill can’t get past your Plastic Deity, Gun Fire T-shirt. The cheap windows rattle and the pay phone is quiet but your nipples are warm and safe under Gun Fire.

You remember the Tequila soaked words that started all the romantic trouble in the first place.

“Hey, Love your T-Shirt!” He said with a lemon twist grin.


Rave till you crave,, Gunfire.




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