To desist, join an ever increasing group of people, in a very special kind of club, that everyone gets to join. Your lives, as full as they are, and as little idle time they allow, are, in effect, fully, totally, and completely, empty. My life is that of an electrocuted binding, an underground power line. A cynical, and detached attitude, is necessary, in this blank, and pointless age. The drama of human life, as it is being lived, in these times, could never be produced on any stage, it’s too pointless, too dreary, too boring, trite (there’s the word). To die, slowly, on the floor, with your face pressed in lint, and dust, and crumbs, is the noble way of passage, the expected exit from the stage. I did not get the part, in more ways that one, my friends! There are two different worlds, that cannot seem to align, the world of thought, and thoughts, mistranslating words, and action. Once dead, we cannot continuously flip the light switch, on, and off, off, and on, on, and off…the awkward, and sickening, feelings, we feel, that either, won’t allow us to sleep, or get up. There are no questions left to be asked, and even though, we desire to “know,” a great many things, all we can do, is sit silently, trying not to disturb the equilibrium of others. We are left with fragments, and shards, refuse, and shattered glass, and we are expected to make something of it, to do something with it. This show will continue, for at least another two hundred years; to distract, and annoy, lend, and borrow, restart, steal, render us blind. The judge’s notes on the case, are so legible, so orderly, so clear; so much, in fact, that I am wont to think that it is he, who lives in a world of his own design, and not the schizophrenics, that he condemns. Perversion is our lot as human beings, our normal, natural, and divine, calling. And yet, all the while, we sit, wanting to fuck, with wanton abandon, every other person who enters the room. I speak endlessly of raw materials, and blueprints, while in actuality, all I possess, are paper, and copper ore. Who said, let the dead, bury the dead? This seems a little meager. The pig became pork, somehow, somewhere. This is in lieu of the “perfect book’s,” failure. We have no intention of committing suicide, at the present time. Lash out at the supposed worthlessness. The symbol of exemplification, isn’t translatable. Leave the names of the cartoon characters, out of the context, the narrative; keep your mitts off the refrigerator. This too, shall decay. This, is like that, for now. The significance of habit, and instinct, cannot be underestimated. I don’t state, proclaim, I hint at, I allude. The lie, destroys itself, in the telling. Decades, yet to come, are currently, passing us by. He’s a why, I’m a what? The part that it looked like, was crossed out, was the most important part of, “the work." A balance of some kind, or the other, is no doubt, required. The charade, the puppet show, the flailing, grunting…all a part of the fragrant bouquet, repeat, or repent? Now, we begin another greatest hits package. Your minions, will circle in, to get a better view of the digestive process. The perpetrator, is the victim, is the insect. Found out? Stop looking! Make a ring buoy, to explain these events. Tickle me, honey bun. No new tattoos/taxes? Impaled on the coat rack spikes. Never again with thimble tits, eyes like a spiders, turn that three inch faggot, off. This is who “the hidden,” are, this is where they hide. Broken electric can openers, and tires, litter the vacant lots. Saliva on the shirt-sleeve, semen, on the pant leg, all photographic licenses/likenesses, used. Back at the apartment of weird dreams, perhaps, button nose, deserved a definitive answer. Smell the pendant, smell the paw. This is akin to the secret key, lock-out. Immune to Chinese water torture? Some incest survivor, rock star, horror story, walk through exhibit? Say no to saying no, maul each other. Well, we’ll see about that! Fall into the misfits, the structural steel, framework. I could never figure it out… for whatever it’s worth. You and your beautiful, moral, skeleton. Some things, are in need of ruin. Some people are dying, others, shop for gifts. We did it, and don’t have to stare at the wall, anymore. Get a head start, on thirty. Once you wet your whistle, avoid getting wet. Is it in my ass, right now, as I write this? It’s a dirty, crazy, unfair, business (all of them). We run out of words, and then, BOOM, we’re nailed to the plank, with a gizzard. Too much sex, leads to some kind of something (not exactly good). We made a whole bunch of worthless plans.
The more lonely, and restless, you are, the better! Remember the smell of the river? Don’t take your manners for granted. Over, and over, I come back to where my origins lie, where it all began, I attempt to describe the blurry edges, and blank pages of (bleak, pointless, empty) experience/existence. Pleasure is appalling. The fictional facts, the subliminal messages. Smile, vamp him, don’t explain. The smell of rain, is the same as worms? Well, we all make associations, I suppose. You are like a missing button. This is the last, desperate, attempt. Many howl, few go beyond it. Let’s just string hundreds of clichés, together! Magnet junkies, prefer this climate. A fig leaf, hides all the parts we want to see. Geese weren’t mentioned, in the obituary. Watch me bend, until the lambchop folds. Just sweep the dust, and dirt, and whatnot, down the stairs. Flipping through my little black book, of right hand exercises, one day, I discovered, much to my dismay, that this is not sex. You feudal society animal. Women bleed regularly, on a set schedule. So high, not surprised. See the dead fish, smell the dead fish, smashed snails. Mustard colored, vocal expulsions, won’t get you into, or out of, anybody’s pants, any quicker. Fate, destiny, escargot? This is all reminiscent of the bipolar nightmare. Makeshift mattress pads, cat puke, sponges with faces, sister fondling? The ham, out of focus, the spelling blocks, on the refrigerator. These are normal shoes, for normal people. Uncaused despair, authority, enemies; she blew out the candles, and expanded her repertoire. Back to the cider? The drained eggs, in porcelain baskets. Tension, and enthusiasm, are like kissing cousins. Take the pointless overpass, past the abandoned hotel, to get to what’s her name’s house? I’m tired of reading these nonexistent, album liner notes. Be, not in compliance, with any of this shit. Tweet, tweet. The false typhoon, has blown over. Tortured people, by nature, are their own tormentors. Iron, flesh, gripping, and haunting, images, pock marks, swelling, time alone, work avoided. There is no such thing as karma, but there is something akin to it, in that, we get what we deserve. The more we seriously consider that, the more resolved we become, to not only live, but live, more fully. Now, turn out all the lights, have a perverted vision, a prophetic delusion, an electroshock induced state, of savings plans, and voice coaching. The umbilical cord, is never cut, it’s slashed at, from time, to time, but never, severed. There is this present, only this present, and by the time the ink dries, it will be long over with. We have resolved, and decided, not to be stopped. Call me obnoxious, if you wish, I will not stay silent, and unassuming, but do not worry, I will never impose my whatever, on whoever, whenever. Lonesomeness, both is, and isn’t, a difficulty. For the most part, we want it, but sometimes, we don’t; and one cannot have, what they do not have. Driving aimlessly, around town, thinking about hopelessness, the stained shirt, indecency. Nobody really loves us, anyhow. Tics, tocks, shuffling, sifting, hoping, wishing, scratching, making faces. Girls full of nectar, feasting on whatchamacallit. When not one member of the opposite sex, will look at you, nor, any of your own, it is time to face the facts. We’re told, taught, and conditioned, to drink all of our troubles away. As if caught up in an imaginary whirlwind, hit by two by fours, embracing in the phone booth, convoluted by the syntax. Hi, how are you? Give me the hush money, or prepare to be exposed. “You’re next,” the dead, and the dying, scream at me. You’re next. Haven’t you heard? K. Francis Sheridan, is the newest, and latest, in a long line of writers, who really, at bottom, have nothing to say. Bend me, don’t break me, pay me in Lira. Did I already mention, horse people? It will be Halloween, forever, very, very soon. Write it down in your diary. Let’s go over to the donut hole, trademark, and talk, at length, about what a waste we’ve made, of our one, and only, lives. Oh, I have dreams alright, bad dreams. If you see anything that you like, think twice. Don’t you think it’s enough, just to be doing, what it is that we’re doing? Well, yes, and no. These hotels, are worth staying at, I want to hit my head on the side of the desk. I am a little on the wrecked side.
There may not be any causes worth fighting for, I don’t think so. Do not worry yourself, in regards, society, for, you see, it is pretend. By the time death gets here, we’ll be more than ready, for its sweet nectar. The pain lies in the waiting, and the meaning; meaninglessness, uncertainty, process, surroundings, partiality, the fucking partiality. Sentences, take on a form, of one kind, or the other. I am awake, and perhaps, I shouldn’t now, be. Adversity is the only inspiration, among many. It is like there is a knot in my hose, for now, I trickle slowly, but once untangled, beware! All is lost, first, and foremost, we nearly had it, but to lay, or stake, any kind of claim, is to lose, that which is coveted. Over at the university, they are still praying, and crossing themselves, to this, or that, mathematical formula. We’re quite alright. Sir, get over the spell, or slump, you’re in, under, there are acts of cunnilingus, to be performed, there are blowjobs, to receive. Johnny broke up with cupcakes, what a sham (shame). Things being especially shitty, as they are, we find ourselves, to be doing the most, as we search for valuables, with our contraptions…systems, forms, objects. Go and take a shit. Mail is a narcotic, like any other. Offending the secretaries, listening to ingrained demands, self talk, in regards to what needs to be done. The umbilical cord, was cut, but has since been reattached, many times. Moral sentiments, the sermons of science, critics, or otherwise. Snackbar (x2). Suicide is only an answer, or solution, on the highest level of human reason, the cosmic level, not metaphorically, hocus pocus-cosmic, but, for the lack of a better word. Cholesterol is a killer, where was the delirium? Everybody is justifiably, sick and tired of me. The heretic foliage, has returned. Dedicate this, to toxic poisoning. What came afterwards? The looks we get, are of the dirty variety. We go nude for the money, nothing else. There are so many things I wanted to do, but didn’t. They speak of drainage holes, I get real interested. Whistle, with a lisp. Categorize your discontentment. Communicate your need for water, to a friend in a kiosk. The absolute gall, of some people! There is no hope for us, any of us. Let that be the senior thesis, a message on a button. We look for inspiration, insight, we get directions, and price lists, how-to guides, and other book titles, further questioning. The ultimate collapse of our personalities, and characters, are usually public acts, no matter our intentions. The current goal, of all who have fallen, is to redirect their antisocial tendencies, into uniform, pro-social, entertainment. There is still a chance to have a life, before it’s too late. No passions, no desires, no interest, no other possibility. Scratch your arm, brush the hair out of your eyes, get on with the task at hand. I keep to myself, I clean, I wonder about alienation, only abstractly. Let me tell you a long story, with as few words as possible, let me tell you about all those graves, let me tell you about observation, analysis, question, antecedent, code, decryption, collapse, cost-benefit analysis, repetition. Cedrick was, and is, a perforated lesbian. The countless tricks, that are played on us, on our stupid, gullible, selves. Bellies that cry out, to be handled, and managed, subjected to the treatments, of a sick mind. Do it, whatever it should happen to be, do it, now. What? It! I hate you! Sorry, once the vitriol leaves the system, everything falls back into homeostasis. I love you, love all of you. The hangover has cleared, the fog, has lifted, and it’s a nice day outside. After my death, things will go on swimmingly, perfectly, just as they had before, nothing will have been fundamentally, or even marginally, changed, by my having been born, lived, and died, upon this Earth. The desire to commit unspeakable acts on a bared midriff is one in a great string of possible, deviations. They led a life of quiet sex, soft kisses, no loud noises, no “unusual” positions? Download all of the lies you told, outline the disaster, fuck the wall, talk about redemption, drive your dog to the veterinarian. Flush down the other. I won’t/can’t say, not now, not in this forum, or medium. Spill the milk, start the coffee, pour the beer, brew the cocaine. The merry go ‘round, has been removed. The money will be made, by someone who already has a lot. I will blow bits of my head, all over the wall, that very one, right there. Yes, ma’am, all night long, with both of you, yes, I don’t care how old you are, or aren’t, etc. I would have to admit to being slightly embarrassed, to tell you how it is, that I spend a great majority of my time. Maybe I really want to be, a long disclaimer. This is becoming a new kind of athletics, now. Who is you? Souls, were not saved (bunnies, were). There used to be more bullshit in here.
Mouth, to mouth, is covertly, uh, currently, the only means of resuscitation. To not care, may not be the case. We go way beyond the (this is from around the side of the desert) mere concept, of authors? Let us complete just one page, without pausing, it is time to put down, what we don’t want to. What, inherent disparity, so what? We make our choices, from the smorgasbord that that is presented to us. Hmm…lousy handwriting, well, these things happen. Funny, how things should be, can’t be, have never been, are. To hide behind all kinds of something’s, personas, auras; off putting, socially learned, body posture. No fun, no frolic, no cake walk, no something, for nothing. Hard work, yields rewards, sometimes. Begin at the beginning, and hack your way through. Yes, falling, oh, yes, I feel it, I feel it every time I move. I need more than life is capable of providing, and the operative word, is need. I have resigned myself to the fact, that I cannot have, more than life, but I need it, nonetheless. This, all of this, is just not enough, for me. I despise all of it, it is a lack, a void, simply, not enough, not just not good enough, but not evil enough, not enough, absolutely. Nothing can be done about this, there is no drug to take, or money to make, or woman to fuck, that will balance this equation, of the problem of life. This scene was set by, a retarded, and insane, stage director, this is no act, however, but all we have, and all we can, have. What we think we want, is at the very least, always visible. Postcard impressions, have a very masturbatory ring, to them. Recognition, is no solution, for anyone, ever. Stop talking about me, in derogatory tones, the concepts of good, and evil, are wonderful, but, not real. Most things, most all things we long for, and want, are not real, which is to say, that they do not exist. This suffering, is no joke, it encompasses us, to such an extent, where all we can do, is laugh. Pull out all the stops, for the people; who told me to get down, and stay down? Life itself, is shitty, shitty, bang, bang. You, familiar, at rest. Act impartial/influential, we’ll/well, see what happens. Be in love, until the bottom falls out, and into fragments. Atomic fusion, is like reality, dissolving, right before our eyes, sort of. Time, is really booking, now, in more than one way. Take control of the behavioral shaping process. Weigh the porous metals, go to the land of milk, and schizophrenia; the skin, naked, under cellophane, is rubbed, until it chaffs, falls off. A word, is like a calibration. Well, if it’s prattle, we may be going about things in the wrong way. These peanut butter, shit incidents, keep occurring. You are not the girl, I met. We know full-well, what we’re doing. Got to get down on the sidewalk? Factors, and subtleties, mechanisms, meditations, anniversaries, situations, infatuations, etc…put them all into the gold embossed, photo album! Privy to fashion, the hand moves the pen, across the paper, there were no lacks, only intrusions. We all see, and saw, the writing on the wall, but didn’t read it, until now. Most of us put things off, until the problems are too overwhelmingly obvious, to ignore. What are poems? Do not misconstrue needs, and desires. The halo is tarnished, the sale ends, tomorrow, so much was wasted, peace never lasts. Find combinations that (forever, exactness) we can all agree on. Gargle in it, use less arm; so much fatigue. This is corner store typecasting, that is not ever going to happen. Let’s commence the game again, look at the same shade of grey. I’m tumbling off of the top (he falls)! We spend too much time, and energy, chewing! Shoot for a new category, entirely. We’re kind of ungrateful. Surely, the likes of us, will not succeed. One book, on how to type, one, on how to live, so many unworn shirts. It was a vision, of uprooted trees. I can’t even look at it, anymore. A tabloid resurrection, would appear to be taking place, outside the donut shop. All references to fucking, have been unceremoniously, removed. Well, not all! Pondering brilliance, being an idiot. Your neck, is swollen, you were right, about me. I stole the case of damn beer. So many interesting ideas, but in no case, does the conclusion, seem to follow from the premises. Our heads are full of dirty tricks, the ultimate dining experience, is not even recognized. Ride the insider, to the curve, this is not a “foot in the door,” actor thing, by any means. Sylvia still wears fur. Draw a blank, it’s all standardized.
Begin at any point, go forward, from there. Take the pain, shame, degradation, frustration, boredom, and envy. To wish, without positive knowledge of truth…we are kept from needed experiences, by our humiliating beliefs. Swim, and the bystanders, be damned. Our schedules, hectic lives…are cop-outs. Our sudden departures, are usually only minor inconveniences, to those we leave/depart, from. We’d better cultivate our charisma, the graffiti scrawlers, owe us a new oak door. Fulfill your duties, and obligations, period. We want, and think we need, some legitimate title, to account for our hundreds of hours, lost. Stating the facts, often appears to be whining, bitching, and crying. The stores are closed, and the machine is out of service. Arise, walk in, plan your coup, engage in blatant self-promotion, be composed, well oriented. As long as this goes on, there will be trouble with money, of one kind, or another, hence, forget it. Memories of bygone eras, remind you that you were that, and now, you are this. Outdoors, a widespread inebriation, would seem to be taking place. Stare, share, at, in…Mr. Athens/America, is in love with a dead person. Where are all of the pencils? Oh, there they are! The strap finally broke, surgery was performed, we all tumbled into an obscurity, that won’t, honestly, make one bit of difference. There is no such thing, as insurance, no matter how much they take out of your check. No more Hindu, wear her shoes, inflame your own appendix, doubt the contradictions, or vice-versa…this is real. We are the thing that is happening to us. Lies, are not yet, half truths, good-bye, ditzy. The barometer, is falling. They don’t want the oil.
The modern diseases are upon us. There is nothing to hold on to. No matter how hard we work, the pink slip is thrown at us, no matter how great a masterpiece, in whatever medium, we should compose it in, it is destined to be forgotten, to be akin to, The Life, Times, and Collected Works, of Johann Splegjur. Society, is a flame retardant blanket, over a smoldering, yet still sparking, multiform, seething, chao’s, a heaven, and a hell. Our heroes, aren’t so, for long, for many reasons. To do, not to endlessly wonder, why we are, where we are, and why, why, why, ad infinitum. All night, every night, something is happening, somewhere, money is being earned. She didn’t want to sleep with me. This is an unfinished work, it always will be, keep that in mind, please. Processed muskrat, too many cigarettes, difficult transitions. I feel that there is no relief, no escape, no way out. There will be a hell of a lot more serious crimes, committed, and gotten away with. Boring, can’t even begin to describe, my day, to day, existence. See, I no longer want to be here, or, anywhere else, either. “Trust me,” has gotten many a woman, married, and/or, pregnant. To be very Russian, would appear to be, “the shit.” Money solves a few problems, but is not a cure, by any means. My pain is a joke, and I spend a great deal of time, laughing at it, I just feel compelled, to tell you this. The fake crow, has been sitting up in the tree, all day, recording everything I do, which isn’t very much. Do not smile, this is to say, be honest, first, and foremost. Motions, and silence, silence, and motions, there are no second chances, only missed opportunities, I just don’t care. Anyway, I am the opposite of the type of person, that one would imagine would write this, write these things, but, I am these things, and believe in them, so completely, that I have to act the opposite! I apologized for being such a pervert. Throw the snowball, hit the sign. Four and a half hours, of nothing. How can we know which one, is right? I dwell in the negative, thus, I come across, as positive, and, in general, the opposite of every single word, I’ve ever written. Do you suppose, it will move along faster, now? It was definitely, a type of fish. We are all one, and the same, but certainly, not in a mystical way, we all just have so much in common, that we pretend that we don’t. It is my, will be my, I will try to prove…let’s just say, that what is hollow, and empty, stays so. You can see I’m really crying. We’ve got bigger things to worry about, now. The beauty of what’s put in our farthest, bottom, dresser drawers. One needn’t use, or even have ever used drugs, to be an addict, I am a case in point. He has a vagina, and she has a penis, you’ve just got to fiddle, and dig around a little bit, to find them. It is not enough to write, or think, or speak, about making such things, manifest, it must be done. Not to boast, I’m incapable of such, but just now, my thoughts ran themselves together, in such a clean, and logical, formulation, that I choose to keep them to myself. Exercising our freedom, often leads to our very freedom’s, abdication, and there is ample evidence of this. This will return, there will be another bulls-eye, another run at the slip, and slide. Either I am totally, and absolutely, silent, or I am fully, and completely, out of hand, obnoxious, inappropriate, annoying. We have been incorrect, in our charted courses, we have made a great many mistakes, we have fallen by the wayside, we have reintroduced them, as categories. You can write it anywhere, on anything, anytime, of the day, or night, in any form, and it needn’t even be “good," but we must write, one sentence, per day. The old man, was shaking, and the veins were standing out in his neck, as he bellowed, “get on the stage," louder, and louder, over, and over. It would take three people, with leverage, to put the marble ball, on its foundation, again. After a while, work is performed in a state, akin to that, of being in post hypnotic suggestion. Watch out, for what you want. My eggface, went low. The old man, is now screaming, “jump off the stage, fall off the stage." Have more sex, than you’re currently, having. Exalted states of mind? Name your first born daughter, tit’s. No. Swindling great amounts of money, from a great, many, agencies, is very common, puts each, and every, one of us, in the same classification, so to speak. The ink, has not only dried, on the first novella, but has faded, and, is still, fading, fast. We need, operative word, need, interesting, and meaningful, lives, to live. For now, all we can do is weep, perhaps, only later, when the fundamental facts, are revealed, can we do something, anything, else. Three songs of longing, on the radio, in a row, feeling like a cast off, feeling like a freak, who can’t help being one, and didn’t think that’s what he was. Why are we still doing, now, the things we’ve been doing all our lives, unsuccessfully? The commas have driven me, to crime. If only we could proceed.
