I like paper plates. Ahem, ahem, ahem. Insight, out of sight, go to the mall; fall, baby, get up, then, fall. After the morning after, is when the real work, begins. Wrinkled up in a ball, clothing is smelling up, this living space, the hall outside, as well. He was fine at first, she said, until he pulled a K. Francis. This is inadequacy, I am inadequacy. Fuck the moi, moi, moi, but, shit, if I was a golf pro, I wouldn't/couldn't, talk this way, write this way, if at all.. I know what color your toes turn. The sickening smell of testes, of napalm, of old paper, old hats. I was the subject of the dialogue, concerning the man in search of the unspecified, reward. All the while, not wanting anything, even what he already possesses, has stolen, will steal. They rigged it! Didn't you just see that? They rigged the machine! As far as there being no hesitation... well, I agree entirely, that is, if things continue, as they appear to be going, direction-wise. Nope, there are few, a very few things, that I cannot, will not, stand for, and that is a big one, maybe, the biggest one. Too comfortable, too complacent, too content, to sink into this couch, and call it a life. Let's can it all, and ship it out in boxes, let's wonder at the movement of the things we send. Every day is numbered, the seal of disapproval is affixed, no matter what we've done. It's too late to play, prevention, control, self-assurance. If this is a dance of death, let me fall out, early. It's like a cake walk, and I can do without cake. These are old telephone poles, and new telephone poles, and if they catch your attention, you realize this. There are reasons I don't give, for the majority of my time, being spent, sitting down. I want to stand, shake, move, but I'm scared, and scarred, and feel like the damage is already done, because, the damage is already done. There is nothing to write, what I do, is not writing, it's stuff you scrape off the milk. As far as inspiration, no. These phases aren't passing, they're getting harder, and harder, to even avoid, for five swift, and pleasant, minutes. I deserve this, in a way, but only in a way. To wake up delirious, and crazy, exhausted (and run down the shoot). You hurt me. My physical deterioration, is only following the course, set by my mental collapse. The truth is there, and to change, starting now, like the hungry, and selfish, who succeed in this country, is paramount. A trigger was pulled. It's easy to feel small, in a car, with a gigantic, glass delivery truck, passing on the right, and splitting your eardrum off it's hinges. Relieve yourselves, wheresoever you see fit. What is repeated, can be ignored. Have something to do. Clicks, are defining our identity's, not, cliques. They sent me up in a hot air balloon, and I haven’t come down yet. Here’s your Bible back, ma’am (the anarchist’s Bible). Sore, and boiling, like the pears, that they were. Sacrifices, do not get us what we ask for, need. A large number of farmers, gathered. Too much has been missed, no one is going to be sympathetic to my slick, and oily, shimmies. If you do without something, anything, you do so, at your own pace/peril/price, etc. Another dreamless, movement free, night, except, up, and to the cupboard, but given my condition, that's to be expected. What I need, is what I need to get rid of. Fudge you, no, fudge you. So I blew a few things, beyond the point of the cover coming off, I don't want to really die, this is worse than death, however. So little, yet so much. I saw the train stop, I saw the smashed to shit, and half opened, coffee machine. I cried to the rain, listened intently. Underground equivalent, didn't really listen. Cried my eyes out, balls off, thought endlessly. Can't seem to stop, thinking about myself. There is a wet dog smell, all over me. It's a long story, a story people like you, don't have time for. The drinks start out slow, then the "fuck it," switch, is thrown, and I'm gallivanting, from table, to table, grabbing glasses, slamming; maybe this is all part of the pow-wow, but I don't like it, anymore. Well, if there ever was a plan, it would be a really good idea, to get rolling on it, right now, when there's still, at least, one whole page of work to do, to be even half there. It's the silence, I can't stand. Of course, I create my own problems, they are artificial, we all do this, the trouble is, I've become so expert at it, and perform them, so admirably. There has got to be another subject, there has got to be a way for me to slide out of these contingencies, surrounding me, and just see things a different way, for a while. I guess, a good start, would be to stop playing the same, sad, song, over, and over, again. There is more to change, in perspective, than this, however, I must change, this pit like, snarl festival, is two figs beyond, depression. I can't get up, I can't walk into a store, look at anyone, this thing that I fiddle with, is no longer pleasurable, or even, amusing. My handwriting gets worse, as my conditions, deteriorate. This is the last sentence in this paragraph, yes, I'm pretty sure. My teeth are removable, and cavity-free. We ought to have recorded that.
The avant, and Kremlin, guards, enjoyed the free bean dip, and other snacks, that were provided. There is a help I need, that can't be given. You cut me up, and distribute me, tell me the dream is self-directed, it doesn't matter, fuck, I've already given my endless series of twenty dollar blowjobs, all through this rinky dink, metropolis/suburbia. To be such an alcoholic, yet so... unable to stop... but, so clear, on... I am ready for the 5x7 cards, on plastic sticks/holders. You are god, I am a lemon, a postscript, an unfulfilled promise, I am the wind blowing through the factory floorboards, or ceilings. If this, was all that was, sure, fine, but, oh, no! We must feel the illness weigh upon us, we must pretend to be healthy, while we die, and provide inspiration. I see the imminent collapse, too easily for my own good, I drive by the graves, and often, get to thinking. My mouth is dry, the snow is back, spring is a long, way away. I saw, as I already explained, the train stop, with the people getting on, and off, hearing buzzes, and whistles. It's getting far too close, things are very, very. I'll pay the admission price, sit in the darkest corner, I know, things, were otherwise. Take off the stolen jacket, and return it, get medicated, get up, flip back the hood of the case, and see what's in there. Deadlines that I paid no mind to, regretting things, now. I am the ridiculous, of the ridiculous, I'm sick of saying this, but it's all I can say! And it is only because, "I'm going through a rough time right now," but shit, it's been three years of this. Perhaps, just part of the cycle, the flipsy- dipsy, circus, tilty- tumble. Overrated things, like dangling carrots, thousand dollar grand prizes, false love, false fashion, same, same, same. Most of that, was yesterday's batch, it wasn't nice, but wasn't meant to be. I don't know why I can't stop writing about myself, but I suppose the reason is, that I'm the only person I know. They all turn their attention to fucking, after it’s too late. Justify the shock wave, before the end. The ritual of repetition, I erased that part. This is just rage, my rage. Anyway, the night has been successful. Fling it all away, let it be known, that you dissaprove. They won. We are vulnerable, which is hilarious, when we consider the extent we go, to hide this. Collapse, and be eaten alive. Wrong, is what I am. I see you every time, I need you, every time. The before and after photographs, were amusing. Dump me off, like a dead goat, crying, drunk. There aren't any excuses for what I am, right now. That's right, it doesn't matter. But, and that's the operative word, but, we've got to make a run for it, don't we? “Keep going,” the cigarette butts position, in the wet ground, seemed to say. This, when I'm too lazy, to look for a rake, or, there aren’t any rakes. We're attentive to transcendence, but don't come across it, too often. Find the notes. The call me smile, was a piece of the fabric, from someone else's quilt. So, that can't be written, because it hasn't been read yet. Fly into Spanish rages, I was disposed of, with the used fabric softener. I write the diary of an apathetic sociopath, I go off into my segued tirades, on, or off, recovering, or addled. I must touch briefly, upon my (curse) stigmata. I've given myself, according to the dictates of the script. It's a combination of factors, that allow me to do this, whatever this is. My posture, odor (I’m a dud), facial expression; all, adequately convey, the meaning, that I am to be left alone. Five diffused days a week, of turning left, and right, driving all over the place, but not getting anywhere. This will fill the void, at least, probably the garden, as well. Selfish to the end, and regretting it, the whole time. How she ever managed to worm her way into all the action, is a mystery to me. Most of "what writing is," most, how-to questions, regarding writing, can be answered by a declaration such as, know where to put the commas! I learned of the death, years after the fact, I still don't know the exact year. It's no use, to even say your name, because you're not human. Nobody who would ever, or will ever, read this, isn’t very human, at all. What I meant to do, became, who I decided, to harass, the world sees right through people like me, and perhaps, that's a good thing. As far as trouble, being a disease going around, as far as the color of my hand, smell of my socks, these are the reasons; some drawers that we find open, should've remained closed. I'm sorry that I didn't say enough, I guess I was too busy thinking of things to say, so, that actual speech, was impossible. So now, I'm a dead asshole, with wind blowing through his ribcage, the years pass on. It all seems to mean, so much less, in the form it's in. I'd mingle around, bothering you, saying nothing; my presence alone, was a bother. I can't sing, or won't, there's not much of a difference. The long lust/obsessions, used to be able to guide me through the day. No longer feeling numerical, designated as a that, peculiar. I might as well, finish what I’ve started. The plywood, remains unexplained. The light, invades my space. There will be no run-on sentence, to wow the kid in the back row.
All out of order, and screwy, strange. The time it takes… Orgasm, to orgasm we stumble, whether alone, or in the company of others. Faces rot away! Spent waifs, with spare time, gasping for air they can be spoon-fed, and then, talking about death, as if it were a carousel ride. Lazy to the core, from years of back breaking practice. I'm a freak, let me get out of hand. I'm cheap, and for sale, it's almost the same. Worn out party favors, things to remember, contradictions in terms. To our sheer horror, the spine of the book let out an unbearable, cracking noise, the library was stunned, the text needed to be re-bound, oh, the pain! Standing innocently, in the backyard, you had me mistaken for a more healthy variety. Blood-covered aprons, histrionics. Not redone, retranscribed, and it wouldn't seem to make all that much of a difference. Maybe we dropped what needed dropping, even though, we half miss it. We do, without thinking, and think things, we haven't the slightest inclination, to do. We reinvent our reality, we invert, and re-invent, everything. They don’t want us to pay any attention to the fake wood paneling. Our urges and instincts will get the best of us. Yuck, I can taste my own mouth. It was just like a real fuck. We’re sick of being quiet, all the time. Yes, I suppose you could say, I wrote pornography, for a while, without any real experience, to back it up with. Sketch the balloon. This is being written, post nebula, hence, the discretion. It takes too much time, to rewind. You already have it. Are you a mutt, or are you a Welsh Terrier? The lone house, on our walk home. When you sit in class, not paying attention to the lecture, your mind has a tendency to focus, on some rather strange things. The whole movie, was made up in my head, in a half hour. This is really it, I don’t want to live anymore, the only reason being, that I can’t, not by choice, but by some sick determination, of fate. I think they were talking about sense experience, as an inroads to knowledge. I refuse to talk about, or look at, your lithographs, again. It's on the bottom, left-hand corner, of the screen, in Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese. Well, I'd yet in more trouble, for not checking, and did, in the end. Make it up as you go. It takes a lot. We're pretending to have done the line dance, before. We don't need any invitations. We talked about parking lot suicides, and syllogisms. Ah, the last that wouldn't let me, was the fondest, of them all. Four thirty five an hour, no contract; return your uniforms, or forfeit your check! Looking at the stains on the sheets, holes in the socks. My memory, and this system, serve the same function, achieve the same results. Who's fucking, who? Shit, don't ask me. Old stuff, from an old poem, 90% of which, is scratched out. The waterlogged, old toys, in the backseat, the synchronicity of imagination. I didn't even stop there, to turn around, the other place, every night. The streaks of blood, and tire tracks, where the deer got hit, the fly encased, nightmare. Looked like a lunatic, angry, and backwards, up, and down, the street. The spectacular porch, was important, for it's own sake, and mine. It was, and contributed to, the long, lost, forgotten, weekend. It was... dreams of poorly painted houses, but, like they planned it that way. Putting away the hide and go seek game. Kindergarten rhymes, sung into mirrors, nothing that can be called memorable, was said, but stuff, was uttered. Every time you need it... I saw the girls in the car, on a negative, but it wasn't in with the prints. Into, and out of, abandoned canneries, fighting fish, and drunken singing. Once again (it’s absolutely mad), paranoid, probably, with good reason, this time, I try too hard, or, not at all. Lost evidence, hopefully, thrown out... scars occur, at center stage. I still have the gothic, sideshow, radio message, kind of. These are the peaks, and valleys, of the damned. If you don’t do what I say, your ass is going to wind up in my hand! Abusing over the counter drugs? Half stares, half afraid, not even waiting, it took far too long. I'm just filling in all these holes, that I've dug, it isn't "satisfying," but I never thought that it would be. It does seem like "love," is a psychological problem, to be treated, and solved. Maybe yes, maybe, no, all kind of delusions, pathological flimflam. All our lives, to no avail, no gifts, no feet, no chase, and catch, or bait, and switch/hook; presumptions, associations, something? Well, not in my repertoire, scheme, etc. There was a kind of respect going on, but, as of right now, I am in between, heroes. Painted red, on the table, so I'd have a marker, indicating that it was there. We should copy those caged things. Put Helen down, stop spinning her around. Leeches in belly buttons, burned out, rot away. Hodags, can only live in logging towns, that have run out of trees. Toss me in the tar pit, knock him out, with ether. Shot out of head, and holding tank. Driving around, and around, the green pitch wonker, then, disowning it. The long defunct, harvest town, still conjures up images of candelabras, and Latin jazz museums. Of all wax things, lips, tumbled out of the junk drawer. She's spinning six times, on an ask first, take two? Neurotic, twisted, graveyard conversations. Haiku moments, were part of that one night of nausea, we’d never forget. Fuck City, home of the limelight. Intercut the footage of that man doing that thing with his jaw, with a pumpkin. So much gets forgotten, when you’re trying to remember. Time is a slipshod, that starts up, and goes forth. It’s money that’s lacking, first of all. All of outer space, would appear to be right out in front of me. Be that as it may, there is an awful pageant, to attend, some spectacle. Last call, last call, for alcohol. I yearn for something, but don’t know what it is. Pulse slow, eye socket, loose, fingers, numb. It’s all like karate. Cream the corn, Lord, cream the corn. I was never one for basements, I liked bomb shelters. Injunctions, get us into the moment. Get down to the bare bones of it, amass raw materials. Be a manic, obsessive, nut, or else. Forgive me, my trespasses, as I forgive those who have, etc. The Continent, is a cul de sac, we’re stuck in the columns. What is repeated, can be ignored. This is my redline, circled, and squared, ridden in, on my upchuck. The sign says straight ahead, but we know we'll never get there. Chalk-like, streets, in all directions, flourish longer, ask some questions, dine alone. Gripmanic, funk fests, one of those, "might as well," things. I was pretty adamant about that, not happening, thus, it occurred. The things I thought I didn't, I did, as well as, the other way around. They recommended counseling to "get through to me," as they put it. I simply, lost my mind. Perhaps, I should give up, now. All the people, somehow knew, that when he got to the end of the driveway that he'd turn back around. Things don't usually work out this way, however. To stir, to cause, to fuck all the asphalt, without making a sound. Take this name tag, and stick it up your ass. Sandblast the Park Street building, it's worth a smirk. In the Garden of Ambiguity, I found a sort of Blessed Virgin Mary, action figure, standing over sheet metal tulips. Only bipolars, ask how high, up, is, or how, low, down? Parsley flakes, had Siddhartha combusting. To aid his quest, we picked up the bargain basement, tuning fork, that was lying next to the eight track tapes. Boring, isn't worth the price of a handgun. Rigor-mortis sunshines, in only really, dark places. We replicated the spider sounds, then, dubbed them in. I had to get off of that, leech waste, dung heap, playground. Yet another, shotgun (pink dress) wedding invitation. Dismiss us! I've pulled slugs out of iron pipes, scraped puke, out of corners, with plastic bags, swabbed up semen, changed many a diaper, and surgery, was nothing. Well, perhaps a front, for anesthesia dependence. The fear is gone, as is the thrill. We'll argue, but never, ever, understand. The note not written, became an issue. Boris, could be a trip. It’s a desperate pull, for something.
I advocate nothing, do not endorse, any point of view. See, there are these infinite points, on this invisible line, that both tie us together, and divide us, permanently, enough The dialogue was predictable, and the outcome, expected. There was a porcelain faced girl, who was wearing a corset, that looked like it was made of iron, but in fact, was not. The three way, on the freeway, months of this? I've got to turn away, every time I pass the gas station. Plant life, tribal messages, cigarettes in the freezer, some kind of ice cream, on the floor. Either, we'd smash all the (we’re off the air) mirrors, or just, not look in them. Over again, to the genus arachnid. Stalled in the shag again, thrown around. The slug member, slump club. To "hate oneself, and want to die" is a society- wide yearning, to be free, to be understood. The con job, and roll, won't solve your problems. Gutters, all fours, found, somehow, disappointment, written. Get this part done. Uncanny attractions, reversals, and bland individualization, consequences. Should we follow around the happy-go-lucky's? I never called her, and this should not surprise you. Staying inside, or elsewhere, to hide from this ant colony world, we infest. Pajamas all day, why put on shoes? The incident, major appliances in my (remove this culture) way. Muzzled, troubled, cold, drunk, alone, and around, thinking about shit. This became a kind of mounting. A couple of mad, fumbling, thumps, wincing at movies, I've seen before. How to apologize, in a way? The bitter laughter dissipates, right when things seem to be going, real-smooth-groove. A solid state, elaboration, in English. Dressed up nice, then, made fun of. Broken records, don't shatter, much to our dismay. For this, to get from here, to there? This is an ego/vanity, death trap/wish, that can’t be escaped from. Astound the orgasmic, use sound bytes. We travel, to flee from ourselves, but they take us with them. We know not, Vermont. My unexpressed, sentiments, exactly; to write down, what could not be said. So, we left off somewhere, swollen, and angry. Around here, it seems as if people are very interested in the overall health, and aesthetic appeal, of their lawns. We’re cynical, sullen, angry, moist. We remember back to the transistor, push button, lime drop, escapade. We’re getting there (very, very slowly). Most of my thoughts are filthy, and I try awfully hard to not, write them down. We all fuck algae, and walk alone. It’s not if, the United States will fall, but, when? I lusted, she was thirteen, bitten. Put two dimes, in the highbrow, darlin'. Just like a wallet. The barn fell in, last night. What were you wearing his hat, for? How far will we be able to get? Hit yourself, often. Even peanut butter machines, couldn't make any soft serve. She carried on, like a squealing piglet, roasting on a spit. What, glossy, portrait packages? Ready to jump? Cleverly placed cellophane wrappers, take up room, ruin the scenery of the dresser, the living room. Isolated, cottage slashings, evidence burned. Where was I going? He's got a girl in his pocket, if he wants her. He's got a girl in his closet, if he needs her. I guess, I did do some things, say some up shit (uh, sorry). Or, be (he needs her) skeptical, be cynical. What? The book of friends, versus, time spent, alone. We need to get back to dancing dentists, people who do phrenology, and handwriting analysis, seltzer bottles, movement. I feel terrible about myself, but, keep going forward, marching off to my doom. Lightning, is a temporary daylight (at night). Not lost, never attained, big-time excitement, vintage. Deferred dreams, dust covered books, ludicrous kisses, lingering memories. Gluton, elastic waistbands, what she said. These kinds of things, make me into a possibly polluted, drinking fountain. Pants, ripped at the knee. Considered opinion, the longing, sham's, staring at the ceiling. Pillows as props, some kind of arm around, but then, we gotta' wonder. Low lit rambling, tubas, cellos, flattering myself. Let it end, with little plastic hearts, and longing, half spoken, half sung, little towns, long distance. I tripped beyond Sisyphus, and schizophrenia. Man, is nothing, but what he invents himself to be, or her. Why can’t this ever end? When all else fails, work harder.
