Sitting In A Room Getting Made Fun Of By A Clown

My feet stink. I hate the focking news. Without trust, there is no love! I wonder if it was love or lust as a child, when the people were voluntarily stuck inside the television box because it was their destiny that they fulfilled earnestly. The lovely powdered people pat me on the head with their courageously imparted tales, assuring me that I was stupid enough to believe them, and in this day, instead I feel betrayed. Betrayal comparable to a trusted sales associate and style consultant who ridicules you by complimenting you, adding more insult to injury by essentially leaving you unaware that you were being ridiculed and will continue to be ridiculed for your obliviousness.

The standard of quality to the concentrated peoples is nothing but shallow veins, clogged valves, and a pathetic parasitic reliance on the Earth!

I Love Blank Spaces Without Borders That Seem To Attract The Meaning & Love-less Multitudinous Drone-Fodder Searching Fecklessly For Adoration!

i like blank spaces without borders
AND THAT IS WHAT I LIKE

when you were sick, you stayed home
you told me everything
it stuck to me like home in the city
i wasn't ready to leave

gleam famous rock obstinate
creatures of small dark places
not belonging of sad marked caves
indecent grotto shallow stomach grave

pity the weaker
POSTULATE, ANSWER?
nod need near sir
prettier than cancer
CLEAN
FEEBLE
FRIGHTENED
TORN
NAKED
CLOTH SOAKED IN BRINY WINE FINGER SLIME DITTIES RHYME COLD CLEMENTINES KNOCK OUT THE TASTE
WITH LIME

get it out the dog's mouth before the lady
CHOKES ON HER OWN surprise
one foot, two feet, left feet, three piece, estrange these drained seas on
both feet

tip toe trapped in coral
a wedding feast for buried knees
the tide is washing over me constantly it screams like whale feed during
time to breed
stepped on oyster shells popped out a string of beads
wore it around me danced and fell through glass like the highest reach of a swing
god's breath don't stink

anyway if you want to reach the peach on the tree
make sure you don't hit god while he is sleeping
make sure you can see past your atmospheric boundaries
he doesn't like to be bothered when he's sleeping
and he sure doesnt't want to wake up and catch you
stealing!

Detachable Wrist.

Some thoughts. By Deezenuts Bucktoothmuckraking Geniuse. I have a headache, and I don't want to talk to ANYONE until it goes away. Until it goes away. Until it goes away, way way, way, which way? Away! The man is talking to me on the blasted screen and I'm talking back, impressed with the so little yet trusting discharged context between us and the napkins on the dinner tables in our brains. It's amazing what grids can do. Your life is a grid within a grid, and all of the environmental influences shoot across the grid, and land somewhere on the grid. What I'm trying to say is, everything can be found on the grid! Just be careful not to walk in square feet. That will almost surely give you OCD. I know this because my wood floor is in squares, not long planks like my old wood floor in my old Queens apartment THREE BLOCKS AWAY (where we had a dog!). Whenever I walked around my house, usually from point A to point B or point D back to point A or point F to point C, I would make sure my foot was at a precise angle in the square on the floor, since the tiny planks were precisely the size of my size eight woman-foot. Sometimes, and I know there are no 'sometimes' in the world of inalterable OCD, but sometimes I would have to step in floorboard squares that were right next to each other as a 'rule' and if I didn't, well, like any OCD acquiesce, my legs would feel uncomfortable and the discomfort in my muscles would creep up to my hips and from my hips it would seep into my nervous system and travel to my brain and tell my brain that the warlock in the closet is displeased. That would simply give me an unpleasant feeling. And that, dear friends and worrywarts, is how OCD works!

I take so many drugs when I'm well, I forget what to do when I'm sick.

LIKE, DUHHHHHHH.

eating store brand chicken nuggets from the microwave LIKE ANY OLD HEALTHY FUCK WOULD

Counting Blessings and Bullets

That dream was much too strange to ignore.

As with any dream,

but with this one, I woke up with hostility to an absolute zero. As if the unveiling of reality was personally undertaken by an angel today. An alarm from my phone that I'd never woken up to before accompanied the awakening. I read a text sent sometime during the night, from a man I'd never met in person before. Chris. He says he's visiting the East Coast. I study a palm sized desk model of a globe and spin it on its axis while I relieve myself on the toilet. My package is waiting for me in the living room. It's a book I probably won't read for a while because I drag my feet until they're buried in cement before I can ever accomplish anything. 120 Days of Sodom. I'm not excited to read it, I just want to have lots of books in case I ever decide to really care. In case time ever seems spare, which it never does for me, always dense with debris and ghosts and birth. In my dream, a man lead me into a church insistent that I sit down and drink water for the sacrament, strongly insistent in fact, to the point of force. Once I drank the water, he had a gun to my head as planned. I was ready to be shot, as he had planned, and for two seconds I thought I already had been. When I realized I hadn't, it somewhat occurred to me that I was dreaming and was in control, so I immediately placed my hand in front of the gun, covering the part of my head where the wound would have been. This dream occurred a few hours ago and I was unfazed until now, where I sit crying and shaking. I'm afraid to go anywhere today. The other parts of the dream involved a giant courtyard of an Oxford-like preparatory school filled with dirty, sickly, rabid dogs, sniffing defensively for food and territory on a fresh cut grassy terrain that may have been a graveyard if it weren't for the convention of stray dogs; unruly black girls trawling through the stairwells, one holding a small silver gun in her hand, large German Shepherds being sent after them to no avail, nobody listening to me when in passing I discreetly warn them of her loaded weapon, a young man caught on a big screen stealing from a distinguished artist and later claiming he doesn't know why he did it, a funeral for a man who looked like the man who was dancing with his mourning daughter. I read her mind and she was planning to have sex with the man, who was seducing her lecherously in tight spandex American flag underwear, because he looked just like her father.

It was easy to explain the sequence of the dream. This is one of those mornings where I am afflicted, and the sun is too bright, almost like New York City is trying to tell me something. The media is hyper, the anchors are anxious for some reason yet excited with all the recent activity they have the scintillic pleasure to report to all of us rabid, spoiled drones. The daughter of a politician is shoplifting, a musician is running for office, a man shot ten people at his job; we are at a point where things are repeating themselves because I know I've heard all of this news before. If only I knew how to play cards, if only I took the time to read between the lines and focus on the grand strategy. I am prey to the diversions however, selfish and sick, feeling like I have purpose even though we're all alike, "just" going to go about what we have agreed to do for sustenance. I can't dote on this any further, although I am shaking in my seat and I can't picture myself at this point stabbing myself with hygiene products to shed dead cells. Constantly morphing back into the same person. Smooth skin by the age, sticky with nature's wax. Boring.

"Just." Clean up and go. There's no time for anything else.