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Spy on the underworld, assassinate, more randomly. They call it, "adult entertainment." The wrong corpse was left out, on the examination table. Cigarettes are paying for their own cremation? To only lean, the way of culinary persuasion. Gun in hand, on the wrong side of town. They have the right to fiddle around. Suicide is too easy, just, far too easy. They don't let you take your houseplants with you... or your magnificent creations. That the whole world should end, that I, before it, and to not care. South way grinding, into the daily lie, and orbital dysphoria. Mosquito bites, perhaps, this is the true end of Johnny Applecore. The electricity has finally thrown me over the edge, and even further, frankly. The only open, sagging head, sagging herd, who to call, who to cry for? To blend into the suitcase carriers, to lie one's way to the top. The bottom feeders, are not so in need, of Oregon. Two on, five off, because I want to smear the World. I know my idea can only pale in comparison, and I must admit, that I don't feel good enough. I can't objectify myself, I don't know, I know all too well. Loss, spelled out with shattered china, and porcelain, cups, and saucers. Everyone used to think I was a hand lotion. Probably, because I used to worry about it so much. I'm currently wearing the garments I keep hidden, in my room. Does that really surprise you? I haven't had a decent conversation, in two years, there are bones in my glove box, because I can't see mine (problems with having flesh). Aliens are putting slide rules up her finger's favorite hiding place. GG-300, we know our own murderers. Your favorite bands, books, movies, history, heritage, pastimes, or high school memories. I don’t want to know, Betty, you boundary anxiety snapshot. I'd pretend to listen, while your kidneys rotted, and you'd pour another drink. Clown college exile, I've been hiding from the World for years, playing with snap toys, for far too long. We make claims, and can’t back them up, with evidence. At the cellular level, things have gone away. Just use the lubricant that comes with the product, no returns, or exchanges, have a nice day. What do you want, you flaming intellectual? We all secretly want the world to end, which it never will, of course. It's been... used, reused, recycled, reiterated, parallel planes, amber waves, of pain/gain/grain. Farts, like popping, packaging bubble material. This is clearly, and distinctly, not getting me anywhere. Melting into the chair, drifting off to sleep, having no proof, scientific, or otherwise, that you still exist on this planet, no idea whatever, that you’re still alive. We don't fear sleep, we fear falling asleep, yet... we stay awake, more than most, sometimes we sleep, while awake (like at work). There was nothing left to squirt, or spill into the sheets, I left, never to return, without any good-byes. The old posterity myths. The minute I hang up the phone, I start regretting everything, and contemplating, alternate realities. Original anal interludes? She fancies herself, perfectly. Scream into the basement, and back out again. It's better to be sucked dry, and spit out, than rolled over, and fucked. My idiot hypothesis. Her ... she ... better than mine, I cannot clean myself. The minimum wage identity crisis, the lake dive, with all my clothes on. Then, starting to think that I am dead, not, merely pretending, anymore. The spell only lasts, as long as you don't think about it. Hair gets long, flowers are provided for. The wind has its own ideas, about undercurrents, who am I, to intervene? This is, or had, something to do with, the Emergency Broadcast System. And it's only relevant, when you're standing in front of it. There we were, with onion rings. Why do I live in the past, and why do I want to talk through every song? There are no "blues," she is far beyond me. Blind pig air raids, no sirens, tingling passages, people doing dishes. Hair on my arms, small wrists, or big hands, who cares? The endless, formless, all the people who make no sense, have all the money. Back to blank, fake leather, funky, funky, sunglasses. Backwards things, become more clear, dancing crazy, used to seem like a great hootenanny. Driving by the bus garages, imitating lepers, conceiving of things being other than the way they actually are. Obviously, repeating myself, into either margin. Hopelessly enamored, to spill one's guts at work, and home, of course, not that I mind. Hand tricks, pickled peppers, legs get crossed, and/or uncrossed, to prove a point, and to make them look good. At the market, or in blackout central, time keeps crushing me, and keeping perfect score. 1, 0, 0, 1, 1, 0, 0, 1, 1, 0 (our score card). The way it’s done, not done, composed, results of some kind. No, wait, I'm sorry, do not incorporate this. Too tired to write tonight, interrupted development. He branded her, in, and out, of the house, maybe, it was a boat. Commenting, being challenged, inside, outside, I don't know where the hoot it is, or, if it is, but I sure know it’s hard to find (still looking). There will be essays, there will be caps, capes, kooks, crap. Very new, or, original, this is not, we are still trying to figure it out. Spell it, mushy.
This really happened. Forget all that syllogism nonsense, let’s talk about death, forlornness, alienation. Let's talk about sitting alone, in a crowded field, full of "hip kids,” who don't even look at you. Let’s talk about being a threat, lets talk about giving each other our diseases. I’m telling you, breasts were bared! The streets aren’t the best educational source. Let’s talk about something that must be beyond hate, beyond contempt, because, we're powerless to act. We were pissed, and shit, all over. It’ll be banned, in twelve states. And, let’s talk about things we supposedly want, and push away, like a law of physics, or something. Love and relationships; talk about mosh pits! It's careen off of Hitler, and Saskatoon! Poor, sad poet, I'm a serotonin beehive. There was the radio tower I mistook for a UFO, in a manic-delusionary episode. Strange to see him, at that time, that’s the guy that you call Christ? It made them, come to terms with it, it made it their problem, maybe, it's mine. I slept with my boots on, every night for two years. Now, do you really want to talk about mental health? There’s a nice contrast, between the fog, and the lighthouse, but the “alone," part, don't you think that’s overused? It wasn’t really that, no, no dear, you’re mistaken. Don’t trust yourself, either. A stranger, a sight to see, yes, he used drugs. The airplane crash, was a staged event, part one, of a series. You will publish this thing, exactly how I tell you to. Try three years of ridiculousness. Government agents stormed up to the attic, and started pounding cymbals? Think something up. They deserve neapolitan. Those who don’t know you, think they do. Pan out, ugh, star, K-day, timeframes, I didn’t say anything. So much time, so little done. Fuck! She said she was stronger than she looked, who was I, to disagree? But why did she find it necessary to impart that to me? Sometimes, your best friends see you, three times a year, but when you do get together, you talk, as opposed to, what ordinarily passes for conversation. It sounds like a lot of “what’s up/nothing," type shit. Highway games we play, to pass the time, and get us home, even though, we know they don’t work. Look at every car's passengers, that drive by. They were... looking at me. There I see a shadowy figure, there we went again. I looked into her eyes, saw nothing of value, I hated her, I don't think she's very nice, either. Of course, I could very easily, have been wrong, but I can have opinions, man. But they have to be well conjectured, and in keeping with the available facts. I'm impotent, isn't that obvious? I fixed myself, with a rusty scissors. Now, I'm a girl, fuck my hole! Stick your finger, into my morality. First respite, Mortimer the belligerent. Too many pots, and pans, to throw around? This thing/stuff, could go on forever. Because sex is a violent act, I must, instead of carnal raptures, focus my attention, on the truth quotients, of symbolic logic. You are Princesses, you must overcome these fears. Get the book done, you're going to graduate school! I don’t know how, but they’ve seen this, and read it, them! Very popular rhetoric, the fake English accent, didn't get me very far. My undergraduate days, are over. I'm blinded by all these question marks. Use your old teeth, to perform some other function. It is no longer exciting. We’re unembraced.
On the same day. Ruby, Curtis, and Andrew, are drinking wine, like fruit juice. Filling what up, letting what down? Drives, to, and from, three disco's, tapping my foot, in six different versions. To sit there, waiting for a call, that’s never gonna’ come. I listen, but can't hear anything, at all, nor could I have, under different circumstances. Words, and fingernails. One flesh would bleed the same, jealousy, and Vietnam. Actually, I can't mail this to Anton. Whatchatalkin' about, brains, and bed? Now, see, I don’t know. What sugar are you talking about? Feet and phobias, the front part of my hand, art. How could this world, have been destroyed? Finish with water, in this fascinating line dance, across state lines, and continents. The chaos hay wagon, is already full. The lyrics are painted on the inner sleeve, and even though I own two cars, I have no transportation. What good will anger do us here? What good are canned emotions? So, I suppose doing a good twist/turn daily, does apply, to opening up jars. So many possibilities, so many small, pointless, blunders, without truth. Is this some kind of oven? Screw loose, board falls. A clever kind of salted metal, I'm just bewildered, by all your file by faces. What do I got? Yellow skin persuasion. What do you got? Blue eyes, but you'll never notice mine. I wanted to hurt them, instead, I hurt myself. Exuding ashtray enthusiasm, just a memory. This is who 'the hidden' are, and this, is where they hide. Chronic pennies, yellow eyed cat, it's like the former ballerina, who sells bird feeders now, with x-ray fingers, and a voice, like hers. Me and the mirror, the low light monster, or god in the tempered glass? A wallflower forgotten, never separated from the bunch. She, her teeth, hair, perfect, I'd never quite seen a smile like that. Let this be a love poem, let that be anathema. If I were the last person alive on Earth, I'd walk through your house, and look at all your personal stuff, the stuff you keep hidden. Underneath are stamps, and paper clips, plastic pigs, with little teats, cellophane spiders, and pictures of Mars, rock gardens, and Tom’s cassette tape of whale’s mating calls. All the really pretty hippie girls, go out with dopey, ugly, drug dealers. Theoretically, it's fine (huh, what?). I’ve been called violent. So far, nothing is missing, but I know better, than to get too comfortable. An interesting human construct, that explains, and spoon feeds, everything to you, but none of it, is true. We’ve been deceived for so long, that it’s in our marrow now. It says something about the department they had there? It will never work. I showed them, I don’t really know why. Is it even, real? It says something about competition, and survival of the fittest. The locked cabinet I looked at yesterday, while thinking that my life is over, which it might be. Oh, you lily livered curmudgeon, the only thing we can ever know, in any sense, is that one day, we will all die. So, in a sense, we're all waiting around, for death to defeat us; we never know when, or where, the way we neuro-associate, these things don't equate. So, you see, that won't solve anything. How we think?! Well, that idea’s shot, what’s the next one? I never did make it to the reptile house. I had no idea he looked like that! Like what? Leaves clinging to barbed wire fences, on the other side as well, I'm a little overwhelmed. Both sides! She must want to fuck him, or something. The group think, dunk tank, says that they don't believe that would be a good idea. My name, and my dreams, do not matter. So, it was (cry out, blood orange) no Pia Degermark, that I led out into the dance. You better get cracking, or your going to be very disappointed. I’m out of gasoline, can’t stand up. He was doing, “bat to kes,” in the back of a van. Enjoy the two minute orgasm?