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If I live that long, things will be o.k., problems will be solved, the world will be worth shit. Stay alert, be a tautological hybrid. Your voice makes me ill. Man’s control over his animal nature, is rather limited. Let’s get skittish. That street I would walk down, while still on the clock, just to kill time. They hit your knees, with a little rubber hammer, and call you, well. Swabbing out peep booths, with a half mop. Who do I want to make it with? The emphasized, kept falling off, so I had to pick it up with my hand, touching ten wet globs, in the process. Maybe this is a mistake, that junk was piled like that, just so I'd take a picture of it. Figure it out! Was I re-reading it, at the time of my arrest? They say, community standards, I say, doubtful anyone will ever care. There’s my girlfriend, pretend. True, I don't have many. All the stores that used to line this boulevard, are gone, in their place are the kind no one really ever goes into. Go on pure instinct, nothing else. All of this, is for nothing. Two white houses, and a black one, the one I see as aesthetically perfect, despite its state of ill repair, it was abandoned, I like the sound of that; a house abandoned. In a safe area, in fact, I’m probably the only one that knows. Why not sell, at least enough, to buy it? You can't have the other, its a gift shop, now. So, buy now, while the price is still low. Berlin is a supermodel, we are the clothes. I have endorphins, my skin is pale, this is who I am, at the present time. I am sick, right now. No, nothing is certain, in fact, it's all quite cloudy. Sex, oh yeah, it’s much better solo. You can have her, do, or be, whatever, anytime, anything. Stocking shelves, preparing food, driving somewhere, this is what we're doing. So, I've done some things that defy explanation, no need for panic, it’s just my way of comprehending what things were like, before my conception, yes, before sperm and egg connected. Condoms in the shopping cart, damn, I only came in here for one thing. Cum inside, no rubber, no protection. If only I had a camera, that day. Does the fact that they are amidst different products, mean I have more than one thing on my mind? Laughing, is not my specialty, anymore. The corn was on the table, along with the cake. Tie these little bells onto your shoes. At that minute, you'll probably not be able to think of anything. Too many things are incomprehensible. There are cookies on the counter, you had a hot meal prepared, with cold milk. I had one of those quick start, wake ups (kick … whoa!). Everything is different, I didn't realize I'd been gone that long. My long list of books, but I can't find the one I want. Shave me (shaving). Playing with your lighter, repining, I keep spilling my pop. 1994, was the Year of the Cunt, whatever that meant. My entire life, is a torn out page, from this book. We can’t quite digest it. Each and every one of us, will do our fair share, of suffering.
Women can bleed regularly, why not us? In fact, I think I need that house, I've gotta’ make it mine, they don't, and can't, make them like that anymore, they were going to tear it down. So, what were the headlines, that day? Eight dollars every quarter, the landscaping authority. See the dead fish, smell the dead fish, the repeat button, is depressed. The trucks are lined up, they must be going somewhere. This was the same day, the same season, coming around, again. Fined repeatedly, by the FCC, they continue, unabated, the kids like it. A fondness for hiding their drugs in the applesauce. A mustard colored, vocal expulsion. Waving your finger around, like a Nixon banner, and their parents, can't believe it. His queerness was suspect, the bar, and the club, the inflamed appendix. Give me the catheter! In fact, her urine, smells like shit. What do you want me to do? Into Rexall, for Little Debbie, not pretentious (and flavored water). My view, your dying words: "A mixture in a can, could have given me a little longer." What we searched for, was not there, or anywhere else. We need to wear our eyeglasses, at night. Mudpin, on: writing, philosophy, psychology, photography, music, media, school, revolution, nihilism, existentialism. That's enough, that's your book. Heidi put down the bottle of Scotch, and called me a, "confessional faggot." I didn't understand, just sat there, confused. You asked for this, you get it, now. I am chained down, there's a pea in the mattress. A monster that, knowing it was there, didn't really frighten us. I stumbled home, as you lit the candles, lit the candles, alone. You can just make out her nipples at the bottom of that picture, like Indian casino tokens, exactly like that! Let’s do a little handkerchief analysis, describe your God. I was too old to feel this way but... couldn't throw my garbage away. Ambiguous perfection, enacting revenge, afraid of success, and failure, it shrieks out, annihilation. Their faces had reverb, rotted through, kept them in the backyard. I couldn't believe it, when I saw his face, collapse inward. To say the least, I’m not folding, or flying paper airplanes, anymore. The smell of its putrid entrails, moldy. I could not throw away that pumpkin, this is who, and what, I am! Even when this page, and its words, are lost, and/or forgotten, that's who, and what, I was. I'm running out of paper, a good sign, it means, I'm using it. The denial of this, rather. Everyone wants to be cool, to pound on a jukebox, and get Buddy Holly, for free. But why do so many people give up, and fade away? Whatever happened to ... all too common. Heads and shoulders, in rusty cars. Really, not so, that emotional. This is uncomfortable, and toothless. Mandolins, soothing room, I may never own my own home, I may, someday, rent a house. Everything has turned magenta, including the space/time continuum. Edit the names out, or, at least, change them, to protect the innocent. There is butter stuck in the crease of my thumb, it's gourmet, it's good, you should try it, it'll take your mind off things. Funeral home pens, are always inappropriate. He thought he was going to get a job, but he just ended up, making a fool out of himself. Downed transformers, can zap you so hard, you won't know whether you’re coming, or going. Hit, we can't do it by ourselves. Triangle man, is complaining, again: he demands an apology from the administration. Yellow makes me hate/love, and I can't stand up afterwards. Matches make the striker smell like camphor, and sulphur. There is absolutely, no way out. My hair is in curlers again, I don't want to offend anyone, but I'm not going to pussyfoot around, either. Put on the goofy sundress (thank you). Half of the last five minutes, is already forgotten. Call it sadomasochistic, crutch wrestling. They all came back, with form letter attachments. The shades, were drawn. What is the purpose of that behavior? It seems like the door is open. Only the shadow of your finger, is pointing to the hair on the bathroom floor. The real exercise, was just done, I feel dirtier, and cleaner, at the same time. And, as I'm sure, you're no doubt aware, there is sweat pouring down off my forehead. Life is for dancing, being defiant, to that little, internal, see-saw-ride, that we're all conscious of. Blood is there, under the skin, and relevant things transpire, daily. I smell like coal, it's hot in here, I can't even see the lines on the paper, anymore, my eyes are so bloodshot. Focusing on the bookplate. As if this place were a mecca, for a lost race of idiots, characters, and thieves. He’d have made us take it back, disillusioned? Read on! Crack a thump, wart on the picture frame. The equal globe, but divided, by hemispheres. Every drug dealer in town, would be strolling in, to wipe your ass for you. It’s a great day, for everybody except us. Get down on the floor, and find those “flicking” salt grains, behind the stove, one at a time. And I don't want to hear you whine, look at your memorabilia, fondle you. We are experiencing, too much pleasure. We had to spend a lot.
A dead man, is yelling at me. How long will this car last, how long will I last? Lets be realistic, about unrealistic things. She screamed, "I alone, exist." Construct a shelter, with sticks, and sod. Kiss my forehead, a poignant reminder, I made out with an alien! Why is there a razor in your car? Forced to go out, door to door. Stay awake, forever. I picked her up, she gave me flowers, I want to blend in to your illusion. There were traces of magnesium, in his system, piss in a cup, meditate on this. The pain you feel, is just a role you play, cars are dangerous toys. Euthanasia, a little overpopulated, but I'm sure they're doing fine, over there. Cream her, scum in the cup, go, and sin no more. Thank you Judge Hernon, for big sex! Congested, the face of America. Just take your chances, kick the casket. She answered in seconds, I studied it, for years. Way beyond Sartre, corn on the cob. Porn in the desk drawer, is it experimental music, or really, just shitty? Her voice, I'm not really here. Turn around (slash it down) dipthong, there are colors, and roads, take me with you to the poetry reading, bitch. I'll sit on the floor, and analyze dreams. Everyone's attracted to the Queen of Smudge. We are interacting, using language. The noisy pen, the rusty button, sleep at work. Red pen significance? Bend over, get ready for this! The pedophilia, megalomania, vanity, conceit, selfishness, self-centeredness, egotism, egoism, impatience, impetuousness, exhibitionism, jealousy, envy, wanderlust, obsessions, of all sorts, and kinds… Over the inevitable fall, like the Roman Empire, and (it’s nothing) Pythagoras, the knave, manufactured housing. I talk, and I think otherwise; but the fact is, I don’t want to have sexual intercourse, with anyone. Bleeding, slowly, life gets darker, darker. Anguish, agony, misery, horror, suffering, pain, grief, destitution, prostitution, monthly magazines. Not that it matters, but I'm afraid there's nothing left. Here, there are no cops, no white coated, lab technicians, we see, and hear things. Because if anyone, could do it, where the fuck is it? And that brings up an important point: “anyone,” will not get you half way to Charleston, on one tank of gas. Man, it's freezing, it's gonna' happen, not much can stop it. A little farther out the main highway. He got out of there, mumbling aloud, to himself, blood is pouring out of his nose. The perfect time to try and make girls feel sorry for him, laying in the narrow passageway, between two parked cars, thinking, “someone I know is bound to pass by here, sometime.” Don't cut out one part, and paste on another. Socks become a grey, solid, mass, if you wear them too long, it smells like love. Just keep plugging along, even when you don't want to, half interesting things, still happen. Somewhere on Cedar Street, the memory lives on. There is no fruit in this bowl. The dog in the junkyard, exists, I've seen it myself. I want to stop being what I am. We need to know when to quit. My unhappiness is what killed me. If he could kick the drugs, he could he a new age superman. Right when we become rightsized, they downsize. Form letter rejections, are unacceptable. Forty ounce beers, were so neatly stacked, that I couldn't believe that no one lived there. My escape attempt, was pathetic. Roam around and around the bowl, and down. I am going to continue to work very hard, on this. I hate myself (I don't hate myself), both of these, at the same time. You can put it better than that. No, I can't, and it doesn't matter anyway, because this is separated from that, and the next one. Not to mention, that they will all run together, anyway. Pink face, no, it's just grease. Wave in the parade, sign up for the witch-hunt, right at Dave's pasties, way up there. That's what this is, it makes less and less sense, as I go along. Color me blood red, and inside out. A book about arguments, in the wrong section of the library. Dump her as fast as you can, do not live this lie, any longer. Get him out of your life, as quickly as possible. Winter reminds me of that patch of snow, and thousands of sticks, last fall’s leaves, are still there, rotting. There's not going to be anything left, we’ve fragmented ourselves out of it. Stop looking both ways. She was eighteen, I think (hope?).