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Once ruined, we should re-ruin, ourselves. Over, and again, it is required of ourselves, to do this, namely, to repeat ourselves. Great, and beautiful, wonderful things, await us. The tears that we shed, today, of joy, will be the rain, that will provide the bountiful harvest, a little later on. Talk about the farce, gone wrong. Why did he take all those drugs? The teachers took our mind’s away from us. So, we live alone, die alone, and we're ultra ethical, despite our own childish, drives, and needs, the impulsiveness. The hiccup‘n hillbillies, drank all the beer. Demonstrate in an angry, vengeful, way. The desperate, double robbery, the grand mal, circus, the prima donna, concerto, the eloquent, balancing act, the collapse, into nothingness. Two Suzuki's, for the price of one. What do you want to do, why do you want to do it? Now, I bleed. Beyond, the great beyond, the original thought, or impulse; basically, the act of sexual intercourse. Our life's work, should be a choice, that is made, very carefully. Thereafter, we must become completely one, with the work, merge with it, become it, entirely. Everyone is, has, does; well, perhaps, not everyone, but, a great, many people. It is a common mechanism, a trick, to slow our breathing. Incommunicado, to be on, to keep quiet, to blow dry, starch, brush, and sweep. Let us be silly, goofy, like, funny, ha-ha. Light it, and just walk away. What the hell am I still doing here, at this particular level? My persona, has something to do with egg salad. You are worshipped, and adored, but... quietly. The stroke, will incapacitate me. This will stand in, for the second manifesto, in a sense; once upon a time, this was the second manifesto. One building, may not seem like enough, after you've been screwed, in such, and such, particular, way. Fight the concept of stereo fusion, interest the pontiff. Turn the thing on! Up, and down the halls, pacing, wondering. The underpinning of hell, act like a thread, to sew us together; all in, as if, one piece of fabric. The Word, is, in my experience, graffiti, written on public bathroom, walls. It's time for a new this, that, and everything. Someone else's name, adorns my towel, I can't remember, I don't. Bow down, to the ones you want to fuck, basically, every one of them. Now, we're fucked, next, we're really fucked. Get away from the checker, get away from the worthwhile. Where all this is going, no one can say, what all this means, is meaningless. I wish I had a cannonball, to fire at the television set. Scribble on a piece of fine, rice paper, go sit at a table, and spill out nonsense, like it was running off a spool. Vomit, and diarrhea, at the same time? When we drive, we arrive, when we cross the bridge, we've usually, blown it up, first. Let's emerge, from the collective coma, there is nothing difficult, about it. We worry, we're always worrying, we only want a feast for the senses, but we really, don't have any. Get off the yacht, there is nothing to see, pass by. There certainly have been a few grave, difficult, times. Beware of the assassination, the curd, or the beer. There is nothing to talk about, and nobody to talk about it, with. I feel/felt, the challenge of immediacy, and I didn't take it, I needed/I need to, and I haven't... I can't... see, it's all up to me, and I dropped the ball. I want to enact all sorts of reforms, and changes, but instead, I do nothing... or, wait in the wings, like a dullard, and watch the other people, riot. I expect, in a self-certain, and egotistical, way, for things to, “happen live.” I blame fear, I blame you, for my difficulties, and shortcomings. I lied, cheated, and stole, my way, to death, the festival, the photo spread. Who would wish, to be hollow? There used to be more in here about atheism, and suicide. If only it were possible…

So desperately, insane, so without. My tastes, rarely have a chance, to be expressed, it's impossibly, possible, that's the problem. You can write it anywhere, on anything, anytime, in any form, but you must write one sentence, one word, one letter, per day. At least, then, we'll have a wheelbarrow of hollow nutrients, to be pushed out the front door, after our dead bodies. Old man, take to the fields, feel my weakness, Ethel, meet me there. Look around the room, and find your disease, your sickness, your ho-hum, your ah-ha's. I just don't have much to say, I am a consumer, I am an abracadabra. Let's light the ding-a-ling, and hallelujah. This is a blanket, this is a sheet, we are the losers in the arcade. The same circuitous, routes of behavior, and confusion. On the contrary, Doctor, it's as fresh as a violin accompaniment, we're going to the casino. Step softly, move on, reinvent a kind of situation. You've got to get out of this room, the windows are clouded, and it stinks in here, it’s stunk, for fifteen years. So much shit seems to be missing. I wrote this for the money, you will give it to me. You bluffed, we fell for it, this is tit for tat. My perspective, is that of being inside the fishbowl, looking out. An energy field, clings to what he can grab hold of, like an addict. We are worn down, until we become tired. Words are my drugs, now, and I even dream of writing them. They demand that we transcend morality, and then they punish us, for it. Preciously, withered, flowers, you are marvelous, you are exceptional. Unmentionably, delicate, toilet tissues, are piled in such, and such, a way, to be used, easily. I beg of myself, for something, to happen to create. This is the obnoxiousness, of my hate. There are forward leaning, mysteries, there are polar ice caps, melting. We don't have much of a plan of action, to consult, we live, part time, in a bag, part time, in a concrete tomb. What the hell happened here? It won’t be worth it, but, so what? All hail, all hail! I never know when it is, that I'm going to be able to leave. There were all sorts of love poems, written, to no one in particular. Dismissed, as pure, Monsieur Pomegranate, my womb is barren, and hollow, never to be filled. I smoke, to remind myself that I'm still breathing. Well, I just fucked her, and she doesn't even have to know this, in fact, she is fundamentally, unaware, of it. Too much, too soon, too little, too late. Here it is, the aloha, from "if you don't know it, at this point." War, is fruit, that doesn't fall too far away, from the Love Tree. The furnace man, interrupted Henrik's, romantic evening. Turtle acts, celebrating, observing, and not. What was not (never) an option, is reality, now. My output is an issue, yes, well, yes, and no. When they're gone, they're gone, honey-baby. Eclectic rooftop, moments, recalled. Hut, two, three, four, five, four, three, two, one, zero. A cloud creature, attacked me today, and I saw it coming, from up above, long before the assault took place. To rewind the same song, play it, over, and over (I am reveling in the calm before the storm, of posthumous fame). You can have anything, and everything, you want to, they croon (they are mocking you). The shoegazer, entered the catacombs. Don't spend all your time, playing connect the dots, with the stars. There is no "overall mark of the individual," in any case. What were they talking about, out near the garbage dumpsters? Extrapolate, at ease, flop, pizz/pazz. Over it, and here, and now, things that were, and weren't, all the rest, as well. They gave us number lines, so we could cheat our way though first grade. Infectious, and addicting, or, so we'd like you to think. Ha, huh, funny, funky, fucky. Destruction, and/or publication, ah, the nonsensical acts, the situationist, bullshit. Let's get out to the tourney (woo-hoo). Spin-off this, up the lamppost, a proposal, a proposition; this blistering, faggot, this festering, ballooning, corpse. An entire notebook, full of numbers, and the combination of numbers. The time for creamed spinach, is now. Stuck in mistake spools, prodigal returns, comeback, and half-assed, barbarism. As a last will, and testament, I shall pass on my debts, my lacks, my inefficiencies. Chop it in half, and move them around. It is not my intention to impress publishers, not that… Lick me, obey me. There was a final descent.

Obscured, by our own obscurity, and swanky, cranky, moody, eternal, changes of perspective, even if it only amounts to, getting down (the losses that we undergo, our losses, our...) on one's hands, and knees. Considering that this is your one (a decision was made, to ignore, with disastrous results) chance, by all means, overact. It's a one shot, take, so, please, let's not talk about dress rehearsals. We are given nothing, but fragments, with which to compare/complete, our masterpieces, why is it, my master, that so few, are overdressed? There should be tangerines, suspended in the glass box. We will rearrange things, shortly. She will look at you in a certain way, and have you. The bubbles, stand in, for an effervescence, lost. We are undesigned. At core, the war wages, always. Even disposable cameras, are dated, for freshness. You took a year from me, and if I could let you know, what I truly, and honestly, thought about that, you would be very afraid, for yourself. We are going to the same place, that we know not, where. A little late, perhaps, but we got it. The harvest moon, became a large curd, cheese. No more fear, or any false bullshit/nonsense. Hesitation, at the precipice, of all things, being equal. Shut up, young mouth! Put a stop to them now, use any means necessary. Those days, cannot be gone, if we were more prolific, more real, well, then, we must return to, then. Stay out of the kitchen, slippery legs. They swarm through the graveyard, too. Endure the endorsement. The past is gone, sure, but the future, is quite likely, to proceed from, and because of, that past. The tension, never seems to abate. My hand is always getting tired, the scandal, is like a wet towel. Little dances, to correspond with the changes in mood, that the alcohol, induced in us. Protect, heal, others, kill the deal, put a giant question mark, on the wall, of the Bank of Azalea. Since I do not possess a life, to write about, I write about life, in general. I don't know why I'm constantly grabbing my dick, probably, just to make sure it's still there. The greatest hack job, what words were he singing? Passion is an act, but it is a role, that we'd better become adept, at playing. I'm pretending, currently, that this stuff, is better than all the other, that I've written. The nervous disorder, that causes my right leg, to shake, constantly? We're on edge, and tormented, disconnected, and that other word, I had in mind a second ago, but subsequently, forgot. There are frightening sounds, resounding throughout the house, right now. The appendix has a purpose, we just don't know what it is, currently, much like a few other things, I could care to mention. We felt handled. It is of the utmost importance, for me to remain stuck, in between this gelatin, and that soft place. I am not going to make it, whatever that, would have ultimately, meant. Watch your games, drink your beer, eat your hot dogs. Our lives are lived in wormholes, lived in black holes, we are adrift in space, we are stuck in the mud. Hangers, are never lacking, everywhere you look, there they are. The great majority's, sensibilities, are very pharmaceutical, in origin, whether they use drugs, or not. Stop playing with wet rags. There is no end to it, whatever it is, the depression, in general, is so widespread, and common, now, that it is not, in any sense, considered to be abnormal, or, out of the ordinary. Happy with the anesthesia, happy to be surpressed, repressed, silenced, quieted, kept down, under control. Wounded animals, stunned humans, released inhibitions, but nowhere at all, to put them. Delicious disasters, age-old debates, printed, and poignant, reminders. A magnet, no longer, it's been turned around. I don't expect, to ever see any of you, again. Rubberbands, hold the whole damn thing together, in the meantime. I had no idea, that I'd fallen, so far off, beyond some limit. When communication is impossible, save your breath, I guess. My senility, goes like this, I have no life, perhaps, someday, I'll be a better actor, better able to pretend as if, I have some semblance, of a life. A nice, long parade, perhaps, a party, or two, some actual fun, and interesting conversations, would seem to be in order. I, for one, am sick, of being sick. Some people, expend an awful lot of energy, cleaning up after other, filthy people. A lot of times, we discover, we weren't really, where we were. Another attempt at passion, and intensity, is viewed as a deliriously, psychotic, stab. The cops took him down, perhaps, they shouldn't have. Once you get your name up on the marquee, you'll wish you never wanted it up there. We don’t want the cupcake, with a 37, on top of it. Listen closely to what you're thinking, wonder why you didn't buy a six pack, rather than a forty. There isn't anywhere to go, or anything to do, there has never been, and there will never be. People who have "The Truth," in every, possible sense, of the word/phrase, exemplify the fucking!

So far to go, no goal, no destination. It is so, so, easy, to find excuses. You've got that elfin magic, darling. Used roughly... otherwise, the sewage outlet, skinny legs, freak shows; refer to the Zeno rule, of movement, and direction. No, this won't see the mailbox. Waiting on the milkman, crying on the curb. Read what's been crossed out, feel stupid, be dyslexic, do your math. Rumination, could be, your ruination. We often exist, from day, to day, on a fragile eggshell, of half-formed ideas, and anomalous protoplasm. Go out, the in door, and in, the out. Walk around the town with a spray paint can, and go wild! Assume this is the end, even though, we know it’s not. Before coitus, always ask your beloved, if they have insurance. Something was supposed to make you laugh, I can’t recall now. I know how sick I am, I don’t care. We act as if the lung cancer verdict, were a surprise. Smell the ruined pantyhose, hanging out on the line, today. The lull in the party, was our chance to leave. You gotta’ do deeper. Work the crowd, try to sleep, is there a reason to believe, there are reasons, at all? Telephone poles, with, or without, birds perched on them, are often a sign, or symptom, of being hopelessly, lost. GG-300, we know our own assassins. Betty was a boundary anxiety snapshot, she was exhaustion. Drain it out of the clouds. We’ll look back, and laugh (this is doubtful). When the screws are loose, the board will fall. To have done that, like that, by the window? The snake charmers daughter, best to hope she doesn't get a hold on you. Boarded up windows, scream out, nobody's home. This must be some kind of Mayan, love trick. The smell of mold, the rusty button couplings, the other, off, and beyond me. The marbles in the jar, by the window, or perhaps, we were imagining things. Run out of the green room, act sexy, she went there to get laid, and left alone, just like everybody else. The product takes on your odor unless great care, is taken. Even given the spray on, or glossy, choice to make, we don’t choose. We got the booze (ha, ha, ha)! The thousand dollar Truman button?! Rolling home runs, just, rolling home runs. Nothing to lose? Well, maybe, baby, maybe. Yeah, but you know she's got some twin brother, at home, in her bed, with a hard-on. Until there is nothing less, until the consequences, become a crisis, on their own. Did you punch in? Enthusiasm is threatening, to the general public. It's already past tense, when you’re clinging to life. Something is still very, very, wrong. Just raw materials, putrid entrails; the original inspiration, has been torn apart, into it's component parts. We need fresh feelings, we need to stop, merely, observing. Tangled up in verbiage? We enjoy using swear words. Most things in life, are way beyond analysis, but some of us, don’t want them to be. The patients, entertain themselves, by hitting themselves in the face, and yanking on their own crossed off, slits. Hooves, hooves, hooves! That’s a good question, where do birds, sleep? Do not over-estimate, the work you've done. We stole your gypsy, line dance, persuasion. Hepatitis B, is the death of the vampire. Stories that collapse in on themselves, like a house of cards, these are the lives, we're leading. Caught the green, and then disowned. Must find it, in here, somewhere. There has got to be one, just one, steel, and concrete, handrail. Functional language, and fictional dialogue, are like the rope, the ties that bind. If nothing else, I am stringing letters, into words, into sentences, into paragraphs, etc. Turn around, time for zit cream. This reminds me of the egg timer. Exploit yourselves, the choppy writing, gets strung together, the thing gets linked up, somehow, the disparate tracks, somehow, converge. The chief argument, for estate sales, is that bug collections, can be purchased, cheaply. You are radical, in a hysterectomy, kind of way. Ride in, on estrogen clouds... passed down, laid out, speaking strange tongues… I should climb up there, and grab onto the electrical wires. Your octopus was outside of my window, and the babies crib.

What is wrong with me? I don't know. Unusable, rusted, machinery, a large tank, with a yellow smiley face, painted on it, the chain link, barbed wire fence, falling down, a dead dog, left shoes, every eighteen feet, lying on the road. Nauseating songs, dance songs, in case anybody asks. All we do is lose, in this gamble, called life, as any true gambler, can tell you. The incident transpired in Southfield, which for many reasons, always reminded me of a plane crash. The steel part of the structure, is rusted, we're collecting wood, now. I will not become a drug addict, if only, to prove the pundits, wrong. Who's gonna help you, now save you, now? The myth, or myths, that we commonly refer to, as reality, come, and go, fade, and reappear, again. Beware all of your intentions, becoming castrated. There is a way of arranging things, a way of getting fetishistic, a way to go off the deep end, and not drown, not need any "help," getting out. We pattern our lives after our perversions, and addictions. Blow the damn thing, loose hold, we’ve drifted through the egg wash. As bodies continue to get blown to smithereens, and there are forty people, squatting in a four bedroom house, rejoice, because this is what we're planning for, this is what's bound to happen. Notice, watch, figure out, what's to be figured out, look straight through them. What I fail to see, is that, I fail to see, what I fail to write, is darn near, everything. Let's review for a moment, hmm, nothing to look back upon, fondly. Re-do it all, the entire thing, until dawn, until the wayward, find their way, hmph. Foot powder pundits, see what the buying public, will shell out for, switch off the censor, fuck on the cold, wet, basement floor. All the wasted time, tells us, in no uncertain terms, what not to do, ever again. Dusk until dawn, are some people’s work hours, broom pushing, times. The further detached, I become, the more irrevocably, involved, I find myself to be. Too much freedom, perhaps, liberty, in general, is not the good thing, that everybody presupposes it, to be. Torment, and horror, and nothing to say about it, no one to communicate it to. I am, quite frankly, afraid of my own fears, and these are not thoughts, per se. Once in a great while, things come together, an equilibrium, is reached… after a long time, spent forgetting, what we ever learned. Don’t lap at the trough, any longer! Off near the fountain, soaking, in our own filth. Scratch, scratch, drip, drip, then, onto something else. It is hell, as far as I'm concerned. The fruit, is what must be eaten, and there is no sin, or temptation, to be committed, or aroused, when the only solution, knowledge, is not allowed to be known, touched, nibbled. I say, eat the apple, with absolute abandon, until it's smeared across your face, and I say, literally, fuck the snake. There is no such thing, as later, sis, these are not thoughts, they are spasms, manifestations, ejaculations. To hate one's friends, and love one's enemies, is fitting, somehow. The secret, unrevealed, was to eliminate distraction, by causing it, to the point of satiation. Writers, are the castrated few, who soak in their own diseases, that is, their own consciousness. The three televisions, and six radios, may seem arbitrary, but I assure you, they’re not. The hieroglyphics of the writer, may, or may not, be translated, but they must be, painted on the walls. The symbolic significance, of walls; that block our view, path, forward momentum, everything. Keep going, unwrap yourself from its constricting confines. After the crime is committed, after the (key?) satisfaction, is received, we are forced to believe, that the all-encompassing satisfaction, we received, was unnatural, in all senses, wrong. It takes, an almost, beyond human, kind of fortitude. Strip life down, to it's bare, and naked, existential, reality. Drug yourselves up, fuck yourselves dry, do whatever the hell it is, that you want to do. Ignore the superfluous, in all ways, always. Kill all of the selves, that you've spent so much time gestating, and nursing, and let the real self, the free savage, shine through; riot, and romp, scream, and tear down artifices. Wake up, and if you believe that it is pretentious of me, to state this, I would advise you, to shut your mouth. For, you see, we are all asleep, but the trouble/solution, is that no matter how hard I try, or how long I've been awake, I cannot sleep. This world means nothing, our lives are false, put on, pretend, worthless. It is time for a new vision, to counteract the visions, which, are the truly evil, ones. Everything you hate, is what you are. This particular, asphyxiating, strait jacket, this society, this culture, economy, military/industrial complex, these sandbox games, played by sandman people, will erode! Virgins, are the true harlots, harlots, are the true virgins. We have not, after all this time, reached any of our goals for humanity, for the people, in regards, life, itself. Burning away, and ashes of carbon, scattering, like lice, off a Vicars frock coat. Hang up the laundry, outside. We’re still looking for that “next level of excitement,” amaze us, atoné moi, sacre bleu! Blow me! All the things that you believe, mean the most to you, really, don’t.