This is a petroleum based, natural, product. Eighteen pages, in three days, equates to blurry, double, vision, constipation. There are no girls, for the girl-less, they’ve all been, taken. Well, what do you know? Today, is the exact same, as yesterday. My eyes, aren’t awake, yet, I do not, sleep, I am always, tired, sick, cotton mouthed, nauseated. The best way, to get done, with, what we’ve got to get done, with, is to get on, with it. Slowly, we come to realize, that that shit, smell, is coming from somewhere, on our bodies. Terrorist attacks, assassinations, overthrows of governments, bombings, trials, tax reassessments, mortgages, cloudiness, with occasional, wet flurries…there are a lot of things, we might, as well, embrace, because, they’re not going to go away. To look inside my head, right now, would reveal a blankness, that can’t be compared, to any metaphorical… oh, fuck it. As I run my hand, over the marks, and small scars, that the razor blade, has made, I am just, not…record yourself, masturbating, you know, quietly, and all that. Fuck your fluent, mixed breed, ass, forget the weather patterns, that aren’t, your narcissistic, self-centered, puffings, and blowings. I have decided to re-copy, the whole sonata, and claim it, as my own. Refuse to tell, little, white, lies, to keep the lines of communication, open, they’re not, worth, keeping, open. Free yourselves, from bacteria, and mold. This foolishness, can’t continue…right, right, but, it will, so, sit down. The bachelor’s, whimsy, gushing, and gloating, leap up, into it. Protect me, from the incessant, demands, of the crowd, by throwing me, to it, and watching me be, torn, limb, from limb. Get out of the womb, cut the cord, get spanked, cut, clipped, branded, blinded, when it’s over, we sell, what’s left behind, and burn, all the rest. There is an emergency, in progress, we’re all preparing, for it, and worrying, about it, but, see, it’s, in progress, we should be, dealing, with it, not, knowing not, what it, is. Swallow the rhubarb. Exit, the unique. Serenade the sluts, get the girl with the legs. The revolving door, is stuck, the people, who are in the buildings, aren’t going to let, us, in, under any circumstances. The Poplar tree, has grown. This is only the beginning, this is, blah, blah, I’m drained, really damaged, in…trust prodigy, this is not going to be a really great, and fantastic, life, is it? At this point, just putting down, anything, so as, to be able, to do, anything else, but, this, is preferable, to sitting here, for hours, with absolutely, nothing, to show for it, except, half sketched, suicide notes. If it was just a matter of time, you know, but, it isn’t, I don’t have any invisible friends, to play ping-pong, with, I don’t have, nor, have I ever, had, anyone, at all. What is the nature of this project, that is taking up, all of your time? I don’t know, for me, to make any comment, for me to do, anything… I am, essentially, one of society’s, sick, and insane, castoffs! Not bad enough, for the loony bin, or, group home, but, not good enough, for my own apartment, and a job. This is going to be one of those songs, they play, every twenty minutes, for years. The revolving door, of ethics, doesn’t, revolve. Seeds, travel. It all depends on how well, this, sells. It’s kind of, like, how it, is. Henry, that’s my, shoe. Now, I see, why. It needs more, than I can, give.
It had to be, our, plane, that crashed. If you never learned, you’ll never, know. Logically, unsound, unclear, skips around, too much, makes no sense. I’d forgotten about, the colored, counting, bears. My abilities, haven’t just, faltered, they’re, gone, my livelihood, is threatened, if only, by the simple fact, that I have no, livelihood. If you don’t want to go through a divorce, don’t get, married. Fuck this world, everyone, and everything, in it, straight to oblivion, or, rather, your idea, of hell. Let’s celebrate, the refurbishment, of the (do you, have the guilt?) cathedral (oh, could we?). What the hell, am I doing up, at this time of the morning, anyway? The selling point, is that, if you don’t like the products, we’re selling, you can purchase them, elsewhere. Too much solid mass, not enough, anticipation, I guess. If only we, could…a lot of things. Empty, to full, we learn, too little, too late. These constant mistakes, the lack of reasons, for events, the errors, that are, and/or, aren’t, and a thousand other, grand, and trifling, things. This has turned out to be, way more, embarrassing, than I ever thought, it would. Just for one, night, I would like to sleep, well…one night. We’re looking, if not, living, watching life, pass us, by. I’m still, so…I don’t even care, about me, anymore. Ahem, pardon me. Maybe, if I looked at writing, as some kind of need, I’d be more, successful. This depression, when it manifests itself, completely, always comes, at the most inopportune, time. I am so, whacked out, that I still think, I hear people, calling out my name. Every so, often, the wind, will kick up its heels, and dance, with the leaves, in the yard. Examine the statues, and fountains, for signs, of wear. Go to that place, in your mind, where…interject, no bias, or, prejudice, die, with a clear conscience. Push through, like a tulip, up, through the ground. We happen, to have, problems, big ones, with, one another. This is an incredibly, sick environment, it always has, been. Things are no longer, amusing, things, are very disturbing, sickeningly, disgusting. Everyone is a …here, it is like, middle school, or finishing school, never ended. I am one of them, to listen to what, that, is, I’m not much, there is a dysfunctional, and pathetic…it’s not even worth, commenting, on. Who cares, what instigates, what, and who, thinks what, about me, fuck it all, and each, individual, person, alone (or, as a group). Who is he, huh? What, now, we’re supposed to, fight? Again, and again, and again, this isn’t any kind of slinky, sex talk, this is hate, taken out of the can. Basic trouble, can be viewed as end of the World, events, with…can you see, from where you’re standing, what a retard, I am? All I know, is that xylophones, were playing. Happiness, does not, really, matter, too much. I can’t fail, meaning, that, I just, can’t let, myself. I waltzed, on the leg, of the armchair. Fame, is given, and taken, by the very, fickle. They got me, I don’t know how, they did it. Try to wipe, the excess jealousy, off the front of your shirt, before, heading out, to perform, some other, meaningless, activity. It seems sour, false, I know, but, give me, just a little more, time. The weakness, my, weakness, is something, that indeed, needs to be, addressed, and, something done, about it. It was too much of a temptation, to resist. Find some other reason, to go on, living. Renounce (something). I must get your attention, now. If you only knew, how little, I was capable, of, how ill, I was, sure, I’m sick of writing, about it, but, it’s the/I’m the, filtering agent, of my experience, and if it’s, faulty…Is any kind of regret, going to carry us, up, and around, our own, auras? What the hell is wrong, with my goddamn, mouth? There are no, mystical keys. It’s a little bit, more, than, difficult. I want it, to all, be over, with. This is what it’s like, to get, tired/fired.
