054

We didn’t take fake ID’s, into account, it makes, much more sense, now. Don’t even act, surprised, by rock star, deaths, overdoses, and suicides, it’s the game, they, play. It takes so long, to do, worthwhile things, and there is little, if any, reward. Trying to write, at red lights, is not going to wind up, being such a great idea, with my propensity, for accidents. My beautification regimen, was an absolute flop. Talismans…talisman’s, oh, go tell Walter; the plants are wilting, right before our eyes. The car, was put through its paces, our attention, was dimmed, they used vocal tones, to not only, hypnotize, us, but, to subdue, us. I forgot to tell my new girlfriend, that I’m a psycho, well, she’ll find out, soon enough (by the way, there is no girlfriend, it’s all part, of my psychosis). It’s time to do something else, now. I have no idea, of how much competition, is out there, and, I do, but, still…it’s the extent, of the competition, that I just, can’t, fully conceive of, yet. My dirty socks, smell like motor oil, probably, due to the hole, in the bottom of the shoe. If I let out a loud squeal, who will be the first, to tell me, to shut up? Ah, more tooth pain, ain’t it grand? Please, keep in mind, what I was saying, about the opposite of everything, I’ve ever said, or, written, being as true, on an equal plane, as whatever the original, song, and dance, number, was. Life is very, very, very, period. I used to want to be, him, now, I am, myself, split open, the eggshell, of fear, that surrounds, you. I couldn’t possibly, need to urinate, again. Well, what do you know, some other, big series, of games, are taking place. Our goal is to survive, but, even that, may be too lofty, a goal, to set, in today’s, shit poor, piss-pool. Everything, has to be, just, so. I fly, when I’m, high. Use the vacuum cleaner, as a, sex aid. We all love fungus, some of us, just, don’t talk, or, think about it, too much. There is no, reason. Try clarity, purity, “crisp, freshness.” So, summer, is roughly, the opposite, of winter? Now, all I can do, is, nothing, at all. The noodles, are different. Step nine: pass the buck, go, anyway. I am never going to wind up, ever doing anything; oh, hi, how are you? The fear of death, is my prime, and sole, motivation, and, it’s not a very good one, so, I get in trouble, sometimes. The forays, out into the community, at large, in search of, “experience,” were abysmal, failures. If you’ve had, even the slightest, of indications, that, perhaps, you may, possibly, have a problem, with alcohol, never, ever, drink, again (this, is for, more than, your own, good). It wasn’t me, who tore all the jackets, out of the closet, and threw them on the floor. There are only a limited (number), amount of things, in which a person, can write about. I think, that a foghorn, could throw me up, out of bed, and perhaps, I would hit my head, on the lamp, which, is oddly, placed. My failure to crap, in the privy, was noted. If it’s, gone, it’s gone. The immortal country, beckons us all, to go, yahoo, yahoo, hip, hip, hooray! When it finally, arrives, it will come at you, at point blank, range. Make time, take time, but, do it! I can feel the freshness, in these foods, without eating them. This is all, that being alive, is. Don’t you dare, discuss my case. We shouldn’t be, all that, surprised, when nothing, happens. We’re going to rename, Willow street, in honor, of a dead, President. The do-nothing’s, miss out, and once, having, missed out, enough times, it’s hard to realize, you ever missed anything, thus, even, less, is done, attempted…and down, further, and farther, you go. As the subdivisions, continue to throw us, further, and further, away, from each other, ah, maybe, it’s for the best. It’s time, for a couple more beers, a couple more words, no time for cigarettes, now. Mr. Sheridan, is deceased, now, this could be interpreted, any number, of ways. I’m sorry, that I didn’t get involved, in activities, or, try harder, in the activities, that I did, deem, “worthy,” of my participation, I wasn’t ready, and there is only a slim window, of opportunity, and, of course, if you miss it, it’s shut, for good. Don’t go, and get too, blotto, about, anything. It will never, be, done. It’s a beret, Charlie. I’ve got, the beret.
They want an awful lot, per acre, nowadays. Dreaming about, what we can’t have, won’t help us, get it. A tie, is, a loss. We do not need to listen to record albums, or, cassettes, in order to establish, who we are. Well, I’m sitting here, trying to do, two things, at once, that one, should never attempt to do, at the same time. I just left a streak of cigarette, on the windowsill. The squiggly roads, all lead to another, secluded, lair, another, private subdivision, serviced, by yet another, Hunt Club, super plaza. The more alone, we learn to be, earlier, the better off, we’ll be, later. Drift apart. There is no news, thus, we are inundated, with slop, that sucks us into, its murky, murky, nucleus. We are going to contaminate you, there are contaminants, and, soon, you, will know them. This has never happened to me, before, I am truly, unable, to write anything, down. Well, you’ve brushed your hair, now, what? As bored, as I am, in saying this, all the time, I really am, a nobody, a future, lung cancer, sufferer, without a lot going, for him. If I am having this much trouble, just completing, the miniscule, assignments, that I set up, for myself, to complete, well, I don’t want to get into, what I, should do, because, I should’ve done it, long ago. I’m not going to make it, to forty, and none of you, are going to miss me, or, know I was even/ever, here, and that’s cool, I guess. I don’t know. There is always, the next thing, but, things, drag out, so long, and overlap, so much, that it’s impossible, to tell any of these projects, apart. In times, past, I would waste, this, and that, not apply myself, the whole nine yards, it didn’t matter, it doesn’t, matter. It’s an accident, that, any of us, are even here, at all, I’m not the only sad, sack, sucker. When we least expect it, or, do, really, I forgot what I…fuck it. Pork, a willing, recipient. All I am, is some kind of totem pole, some, thing, that’s always, there. The hot list, better not, ever, have my face/name, on/in, it… She hesitated, at the gate. Nice, fresh, ass. Well, all I’ve really, got to do, is wait, to die, but, perhaps, I should try to change my attitude, a tad. She had nice (big, tits), eyebrows (now, she is dead). If I dropped some of my anger, rage, and hate, I’d possibly, get laid, more often (tee-hee-hee). You may, very well, be asking yourself, “doesn’t this guy, have anything better, to do?” The answer, in case, you’re really interested, is, no. We’ve got an oral presentation, next Tuesday, and, no, that’s not kiss, kiss, talk. Slap me, whoa, hey, not really. Stick your foot, into our brand new, suck off, machine, we all, as a race, benefit, from the brilliance, of this, the greatest invention, since the electric bulb, and, so on. Having decimated, one pair of shoes, I have moved on, to yet, another. The sheep skin, baggage, we carry, won’t slow us down, at customs, I don’t think. I can’t imagine, anybody, sleeping, on my living room, floor, who I don’t know, I don’t care, what, band, that they’re, in. Let’s go on, an outing. Binge, and purge, expose the drooling, magnificent, thing, that shouldn’t, slam the crush, into the curl. Playing the bass, is a noble pursuit, but, we’ve got to be honest, about where we’re going, and what we’re doing. Alright, there is a full-on, plan, for later, it will act, as a sort of, reward, to flip off the switch, that keeps us, flying through the eggshells, and corrupting, the winged ones. What does this pastiche, contain? The sadness, of another birthday, catches up to us, sometimes. Reach, then, and only, then, question why, it was, that you reached for, what you, did. It was blue sky, corn, and carved pumpkins, for awhile. I am, finally, learning, how to breathe, and use lights. Punch, or, hit, all the feet, in the picture book. Do some, silly, dances. Denial, towels, monsters, soar, sour, blowout, blowjob, stop. It’s pure, calamity! We used to, cut through, yards. We need a new list, of popular, baby names.
Don’t get too into, the free, and clear, it’s a lonely place, to be. My, “horny thing,” is all an act, I hope, in all honesty, that I haven’t offended, anyone. Grunt your way, through, your prostate exercises. I became a “scumbag,” late, in life. Well, sure, there’s trouble, now, but there always, has been, and probably, always, will be. You know, you think, and think, and think, and nothing happens, thinking, would not seem to be, that type, of activity, that leads to results, being achieved. No radios, and no antihistamine, please, keep your eyes off, the candy…the deal, don’t forget, the deal. I can’t go back to the drooling, and screaming, diapers, and… just, turn down, the job offer. What the hell are we doing to do, and where, are we going to be, when, Armageddon, comes? It’s only, a sheet, of paper. Go ahead, hate them (double-sneeze), with no, guilt. Bitch, you hurt, me. Slip your penis, into the vulcanized (out of range), rubber, tourniquet, again. There is a humming, sort of, a buzzing, in my head. You have to (ignore, everything, else) be able, to handle, it. The first, fifty, suck. This is some kind, of punk rock, walk, without the prosecutor’s office, involved. Boil the beans! There is too much, of a feeling of Jesus, around here, pink balloons, yard gnomes, snack mix, soft drinks. The classifieds, are what I should, be reading, in case, you guessed, I’m not. What is this super macho/nacho, “cunt hunt,” drivel? There is no pleasure, no real pleasure, in the world, at least, it’s not available, to most of us, or, it goes away, too quickly. What happens, to our lives, they get away from us, and don’t come, back? I am attempting to ball, myself, without success. The willow tree, doesn’t look as weepy, as it once, did, is this some metaphysical, sign of the times? Make, me. Is this pain, or, only, mild discomfort, that I’m feeling, right now? It’s just a matter of time, before these health problems, that I’m having, become something, worse. We’ve all got our problems, which, is what I’m, trying, to convey, I’m not doing a good job, but, I am, trying. The township, is contesting the fact, that I exist, I am not disputing, their claims. We should paint a pretty picture, of the front entrance, of the old, high school. Let’s fry our brains, ejaculate, from our nether regions. The feeling, of a tissue…the cheekiness, in our voices, as we try to describe, why they are, where we hide them, once, we’re finished. I want to hyperventilate, over her hips, but, just to be given a chance, to participate, in the events, down there, would be, enough. Goddamn, this stinking, couch. The fond memories, we hold onto, so dearly, in our wet noodles, are all, so, goofy, so, silly. Thank goodness, “the sweatshirt,” has been lost, or, destroyed. Swim, leg kicker, swim, and to hell, with the fear, of drowning. The cafeteria, is serving us poisonous (acidic), food! Blah, blah, your way, through, the hand job, breathe, through the, breath. I eat, too well, or, much, I’m not sure, which. What I want to relate to you, I don’t know, why, is the fact, that I’m retarded, you won’t be able to, “tell”… but, I am completely, and unequivocally, retarded. I don’t want sympathy, just a forum, and, this is it, and it’s short-lived, doesn’t really, matter, but, it’s a forum, and if you’re in the room, you’re in the recovery room. The important (avoid it) thing, it would appear, is to know, what is going on, to understand, these team concepts, that everyone, talks about, and figure out, where it is, if, at all, that you fit, into the team. All I can really say, in my own defense, is that I used to be way, more, imaginative, than I am, now. Listen, I’m sorry, I’m just, so sorry, I wanted to ask you, out, but there was nowhere, to go. Tuck the dog, in, with an old shirt. Sure, I blew it, but what else, was there, to do, but, count the years? Stitch it, up. I am Uruna, and, no, I’m not proud of this, fact, I don’t really know, what I am (confused, mostly), perhaps, wicked. These experiments, are only amounting to, self sabotage. Buy a smile, sell a smile, be amused. Goddamn, you all.
That’s quite a dish, jail bait, or, not. It’s a horrible dream, I’m about to wake up, from. See, Doc, I’m not enjoying, me! All the lawns, have been well, fertilized. I can just stare off, into space. Let us all, try on, the latest fashions! Doobie, “did up,” the can of tuna? Let’s put on hats, and blow, paper horns, lets get silly, now. I’m on auto-pilot, to fuck up, and waste, as much time, as possible. Put your foot, over there, not, over here. Empty pocket, blues. Worms, hibernating. Don’t try to avoid, the perpetual, night. She was not, a real, Indian? Since I have no idea, what is going to be happening, later, the goal, here, for now, is to grab, and then, disown, whatever the hell, is catchable. There are no train stations, anymore, except for, in the big cities. There is no sex, anymore, it is an act, that is no longer, performed, we, this generation, may, very well, be, the first, to make their own, sex. Once you get sick, of being forlorn, there’s always, despair. Sometimes, very rarely, but, sometimes, you want to just, grab some stranger, and scream, that you love them, but, the urge, passes, quickly, and, you soon, go back, to the way you were, before. There are too many, stray hairs, on the floor of the car, a wig, of some kind, could be constructed. Talk about, thrusting. Why should they, have a show? Go (rotate) into, the mind. We live, lies, just because, we can. We’re content, with the second hand, life, we’re tossed, not so neatly, packed, or, wrapped, in plain, brown, paper. Poets, are prim. We spend, too damn, much, time, suffering. There will be nothing, but the same, old, average. If he could live it, all over, again, he’d do, a great, many, other things, very differently. The void, the abyss, surrounds, and divides, separates, and connects, tears apart, as well as, heals. Where did this puffy basket, full of floral scented, soaps, come from? Our quirks, and failures, are the most obvious things, about us, funny, how this is more apparent, when we try to hide, them. Dusk again, this, cannot be! Don’t lose that tingle, even if, what you’re doing, sucks, get excited, about something, else. There is a new, experimental, type of plutonium, in my lungs, right now, as I blandly, sit, and think, about iodine. The “massage service,” was a nice surprise, and, affordable. I want to have sexual intercourse, with that young model, on the cover, of that magazine, and I am, in no way, shape, or, form, embarrassed, to admit this, to anyone. He wants to have praise, he wants to talk about, worms, and dance. Suicide, is already, passé, as a way to achieve, your final, stage right, exit. I like to read the letters to the editor, in order to check up, on my old, mental hospital, buddies, see, what it is, which has caught their fancies, this time. My eyes, are unable to concentrate, on the task, at hand, I have lost, all of my mores, I am like a social, eel. It, upsets me. Everybody likes a nice, parking lot, or, a clean supermarket. I am so desperate, to get something, going, this, is no longer, a thriving community. I don’t care, if I have to start, at the top, and work my way, down, I don’t care about anything, anymore, especially, my, “writing,” or, my, “writing career.” These eyeglasses, must have been ground, by a person, very proud, of their cleavage. There are not going to be any trips, anywhere, for me, ever. Nothing in this world, is enjoyable, or, pleasurable, and if you still believe, that, there are, a few, wait, awhile, and you’ll see, what I’m driving at. Tell the assembled crowd, some, “funny story,” someone (accch), please, help us to, relieve, these pressures. Life, is so boring, the more, you do, the more boring, it is. Life, is not, worth living, and I really, really, want, to be dead (and I have, for years, and years), yet, here I am, always here, always, right here! Pyrotechnics, three bursts, final thrusts, a brand new, aria. Get a number, wait in line. This is no, rest area, quiet time. Do you have any idea, how crazy, all of this, is? Let’s get it right, this time! I mean, if only, you knew. There have been, some very long, minutes. Don’t fag me, out. We only like to, think, about it. Venture, to try, dare, to complete, something.