We Can’t Stop (Literary Pop #1)

To those who have filed noise complaints against us, we have no apologies to make for our behavior based on our rights as human beings, as young people, and as Americans. To put it simply, we behave how we want to behave and we say what we want to say. Who we kiss and the songs we bellow from raw throats – the lives we live in the moonlight – are frankly none of your goddamn business.

Since you’ve expressed so much interest, we can only assume it’s out of some deeply buried jealousy rearing it’s treacherous head in our direction, secretly hoping to get a piece of the action.

Here’s how it goes down. We hope you’ll find that our parties are no more than innocent fun, and we invite you to stop by once your hate has dissipated.


What you know about fun is a myth until you’ve experience the type of good times we pride ourselves on cultivating. It’s not just about the red cups, or the top shelf gin we ironically sip from them. It’s about the beautiful people. Human beings in their idyllic forms, pressing neck to neck, beginning to blur and lose their autonomy; bodies, sweating and swinging, both one and part of the collective mass.

We came to have fun and it would be a crime to accomplish any less. The fun is in losing your inhibitions; it’s in the evening when the crackling voices that guide you finally hush, and you’ve loosened your grip on the world. That is the vertigo. With moral codes set aside in the dust, along with the bones of idols long gone, everything is primal.

Hands become a sea we’re dancing beneath, or a means to an end.  Someone might get some action, whether it’s guided by their heart or their gut, or the soft touch of a hand on a thigh. That someone could be fucking you.


Time was created by people who breathed in the fumes of nirvana just like us, and so it ceases to matter along with your left brain, your eardrums, and the imaginary friends you had as a kid.

There is no “ready” and there is no “home.”  We have enough to sustain you all night. If at some point you happen to open the curtains, you’ll see the sunrise and part of reality may drift back to you like a dream, a hazy and foreign ghost, still drunk off the jungle juice. Until then, there is nothing to indicate a place you came from or will crash into later, only the thumping of the bass and a buzzing in your skin.


It’s not so much that we do it because we like to; to say so would oversimplify the matter. It’s a need and a want that takes us away from the overbearing pressures of personal identity, public perception, and fiscal responsibility that suppress our souls on the regular, keeping our desires filed away like dirty love letters if not flogged to a bloody pulp by the media.

But the drugs aren’t secrets. Ecstasy is just as much a girl you take dancing as she is a pill; maybe more so.

In our house, the only rules are that there aren’t any. And if we were capable of stopping, even if a part of us wasn’t too far gone, or for a second we thought of the lines in our fathers scowling faces, or the inevitability of morning, I’m not sure that we would.


What we have against the morning is that it’s not our territory. When the lights are out, anyone can own the room. If you can’t see it, look harder; it’s life at it’s pinnacle, invisible by daylight like semen on sheets.  A reversal of the run, from being ran to running, barefoot on marble floors, hands toward the moon.

Concerning our friends, and our racial exploitation of their dancing, I guess we consider ourselves one in the same under the absence of fucks we give, not to mention the absence of a god to condemn us. And just as we’ve forgotten seconds afterwards an insult that might have gotten close to injuring someone, wrongs are righted by the booze and we remember that even if somebody does not love us, we can touch whoever we want.

Concerning the cocaine, and the line to the lines of crystal on porcelain sinks and tubs, bloody noses, the resulting high: that’s all it is. Gutter glitter like the stuff we think we’re made of, pure and white, amped with the volume of dub-step outside the bathroom, only dulled slightly by the door. The turning upwards or inside out, face first into strobe lighting. We glow.


This song is the story of us, a narrative scrawled by strangers on the backs of our wealthy parents and premature record deals, that we live out like a fairy tale with feigned innocence and scarlet lips, stripped to nothing. These words are tokens of a golden life: the privilege of straight teeth and the since-chopped locks of childhood fame.

It’s our song and our mouth, but only inasmuch as it could be yours, too. Do what you want, do it with us, or mind your goddamn business.

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