We’re getting there, it’s just, a matter of time, now. This story, will be told, story, or, no story. This is our last chance, to shit, in a flush toilet, we’re on our way, to freeway overpasses, at this rate. It should be easy, by this point. Recovery, is so, slow. We fall, so far behind, ourselves. I got sick of being, insane, too late. What need, have we, of these glossy, photographic, inserts (mess with me)? I went, and got gelatinous, sappy, fuscia. You, went, and got silly, didn’t you? Stomach acid, in my mouth, shit, running down my legs. Season, the bland, days of your life, with creamy, butter. After the dawns, smoothness, has scattered, outward, wonder why, you always, run out of gas, at inopportune, times. Jam, on the likes, of this, solitude. Re-write, the telegram, so, as not to, offend, forget it. Erase your head. Before the final, collapse, of the ecosystem, we will bellow out, some incomprehensible, nonsense. This is no bad trip, test. We will be convicted, should we call the police, on ourselves? The weekend, just flops down to the ground, like mashed potatoes. Just draw a line, down the center, fill in, both sides. The drum circle, caused headaches, blushing. Soft, yet, firm, the recipes, are closely guarded, secrets. What they call, a comedic sketch, is just, not funny, at all, at all. Corrupt the young, you’re about as far along, on this side, as you are, the other, one. You will pay me, what I want, one way, or the other. The kinky, perv, will make his move. Exploit the mysterious, foods. When painted into the corner, or, confronted, in a certain way, I get, all, “as if, religious.” We don’t care about anything, even, remotely, spiraled. Diddle the ass, off a drunken, hangover. We believe in, most of the lies, we’re told. Stop harassing, the head, that feeds, you. Swim! I’m positively, brilliant, at floating along, doing, very little, having no responsibilities. Elephants, standing on their heads, people, imitating them. Decades, of, “We don’t know what to say, or do, man.” Fire guns, at random, uh, I mean, be a hippie, waving peace signs, singing, happy songs. The amp, blew! Goofy, slingers, of good news, squeaking, like monkeys, through the trees. We’re left, alone, in the rain, on a slimy, dock. They flipped my mobile home. Do this [to show why it can’t (ever) be, done]. Worms, got into my shoes. Listening to the recorded sounds, of orgasms, over, and over, again. I couldn’t climb the stairs, how I needed, to, I can’t remember a word, they used to, say. Just, let the brutality, run its course. Close the door! This is as powerful, as fists, of fire. It isn’t thinking, that’s going to cure, your, ills. You do not get any food, now. Measure, what you say. Maybe, I should check the tires, on the car. To dilly dally, until, it’s an art form, the art, of being a, fuck-up. Fresh eggs, are not so, funny. Find some, semi-radical, solution. How can I call, my life, a life? Lustful eyes, follow, unknowing, objects, slowly. I’ll soon, be second, or third, string, behind people, six years, my, junior. Respect the rancouteur, from a distance. I want them, younger, and younger, I’m sick. The long pause, signals, some kind, of something. Let’s have a marathon, grid drawing, session! Compress the symphony, into a three inch, single. The truth, will make you, sick, I will never, impress you. Yes, I’m aware, that there is something, in my bonnet. They call me, el, Whacko! The incessant, showering, and bathing, won’t wash the stink, off. Beg, borrow, steal; in short, do anything, to get it. I am, only, a stupid, fucked up, crazy, idiot. Maybe, it wasn’t a hand print, at all. It would appear, as if, we cannot be, so easily swayed, by drug pushers. The live, radio simulcast, contained, expletives. We diss, what we won’t, ever, understand. All critical learning, we do, on our own. We need, things, we don’t, want. I’ve made a big enough, fool, of myself, already, in other areas, to go through that, again, with this. Everything, is too, far gone, to be fixed. Look for trouble, and, you probably, won’t, find it. The axe, we grind, it. Drugs, will not help, at all. What the hell, is it, that I was initially, trying to accomplish? What are those people, arguing about, there? Foul! Foul! This is the last page, as promised, and right on time. We are cooking, a frozen, ostrich. Here come, the shivers. The car crash, got my adrenaline, flowing, right, quick. Wisdom, won’t help you, either. It’s clichéd, nonsense, gleaned, from choreographed, sources. Give up, hide out, get away while you still, can. I am not successful, despite this, on, we go. Speed up the process (the slow, surreal, way, that nothing, ever happens). The city, is encroaching upon, the suburbs. To hell, with the dressed up, sexy, made-up, pretty, go-go, people. Let go of that dog, and stop, hitting him! As you could have, probably, guessed, by now, I don’t like myself, that much. Well, isn’t that, just, ducky? It’s never, enough. How are your breast exercises, going? The psalm, took on, a somber, tone. Oh, yeah, I’ve lost my edge. How can we connect, one thing, to the other? Eventually, it all, stops. Drive off, explain, later.
Rest assured, I know, what vertigo, is. There must have been an explosion, at the mall, people, running, oh, just a sale. Write a Declaration, of Declarations, write it in French, and English, beat around the bush, talk, in infinite, circles. I like the idea, of being, despised. Don’t wait, until the perfect time, I assure you, it will never, arrive! What was, particularly, smart, about the way you caught the chicken? I claimed, to be too perverted, to fuck, anyone, well, that’s not, exactly, true. Let the countdown, to whatever, begin. Great concentration, is hard to come, by. What was the deal, with the cookie, on the butcher block? The edge, is not a stable, place, to be. As a man, I am a complete, failure, I am a she-man, in the old fashioned, sense, of the term. She had to show her tits, on some, movie of the week. We’ve done our obligatory, year, we’re out for payback, now. I am now, the only person, in this world, alive, who believes, that, something, scratch, that, anything, at all, will, or could, possibly, come from, this, “writing, thing,” I’m doing. We had this meglomaniacal, thing, we used to, do. This, my friends, is, and will be, entitled, Diary of the Jellyfish. Someone, tore the shells, off of the turtles, chopped up, and consumed, their flesh, raw. This book, was started, in 1960, and, is still, not finished. No counterpoint, to point out, now. There is nothing wrong, with getting a head start, on the next day. Such a clean, clear, beautiful, discharge. Now, I am a Matador, a macho man, of the highest order. Tweak, the wooden nickel, get your hands, where I can see them, now. If I am not good enough, to make it, as a writer, I am saying, right now, that, for, all reasons, life, is not for me, and, I will be committing suicide, soon. Words, are nothing, but marks, on a page. A nice lake, with clear water, operable, floatation devices, maybe a nice, little, boat…beneath the canopy, of beautiful, green, trees. I know, I keep re-stating, this, but, it really, seems like…Amazing, what some people, will do, for a string, of dime store, beads. I don’t really, care, if I’m insane, any longer, or not. It isn’t quite, as easy, as, “just go out, and get it.” I felt like a hollow, chocolate. The screeching, will not stop, it’s not the, beads, it’s my head. We’re all, very close, to the end. Love, is best, avoided. A writer, is never, ever, finished. The DP, had a problem, or two, with the, “talent.” They’ll do it, to you, if you let them. I would do, more than anything, for a grant, this, write, two pages, and worry, about being unemployed, the rest of the day, is really, old. The, secret, is how do people, survive, life? It’s about time, for our big, solo. The cops, will always, be smarter, and one (or more), step(s), ahead, of you. That, oh, that’s just the sound, of a broken heart (nevermind, that). The details, of all this, simply, do not matter. After the big top, tent, is taken down, we’ll still, be in this town. The world, is nothing, but a long, series, of wishes, hopes, assumptions, etc. Look how far behind, I am, it will be absolutely, impossible, to get out of this mess, now. Hitting, feels, so good. This is like something, you’d sell, at a roadside stand. There isn’t one of us, who isn’t, completely, expendable. You may not like, what ends up, happening, to you. With, what they were yelling, to themselves, from the left, turn lane, hmmm. What is, the solution, to all, this? My ass, was torn off. We have to come to terms, with all of this, shit. I can’t wait, until this, is all, over. No one, in my mind, is doing, anything. Congested, condensed, extrapolated, emasculated, wake up! It’s a little bit, embarrassing, to admit, publicly, that you think, that you’re a superior, person. As a failure, I am a spectacular, success. You people, don’t know what it’s like, to really, want to do, something, and not be, at all, or, in any way, able, to (ever). Let’s all, just hope, I don’t do, what I said, I was going to, do. Our contingency, plans, are a joke, they can’t get us, half way, to the mailbox, and back. Ne’er do well’s, want, very much, to make a contribution, and succeed, in life. Spin out of the ashram, differently from the way, you spun, in. We need an entirely, new, life, not just some hot, new, band, or movie, to send tingles, down our spines. A crusty, kind, of layer, consumes, me, I wait out, the end, like you, do. Too may eggrolls, equates to, hostility. I spent a lot of money, I don’t have, I’ll regret it, even more, within a couple, days. Everything about me, is rank, and file. We’ve twanged, our asses, as long as we could, we’re flabby, now, swollen. Minorities, aren’t entitled, to shit, nobody, is. Live, less poisonously, fuck the referendum! It was time, to reintroduce, a life, into my world, or, so I, surmised. Gone, are thoughts, of vacation, much less, any, time away, from this horror. My attempts, to gain, love, have all been, pathetic. Messiah (he dead)?! Drinking alcohol, is other people’s, idea, of crazy, excitement. I will not let myself, enjoy, anything, apparently. The factory/lunchroom, is designed, for the worker, to easily, commit suicide, in. There is nothing left, to foul up, that I haven’t, screwed up, already. This is the grand, moment, or gesture, we’ve all been waiting, for, and that, is, that, there, aren’t, any. My nipples, become erect, for no reason, sometimes. The tight lipped, quote, was not a sex, reference.
