Dreams #1

Slowly circling the drain. My thoughts are slowly driving me insane. Edit: Never repeat the same word twice within a sentence. Rules, rules I can never seem to follow. I sure hope I make it through this life alright. My dreams so vivid. Waiting until the last second. The moments stagger by, slower than ever. Wait as long as I can until I need to kill myself. What's the best way to go? Friends make suggestions; Gas myself, Drain my bood, Tie a neuse, Gunshots are quick. Will anything be painless? Who cares about the pain? What will the other end of life bring? Closing in on death. No one even suggests... Don't kill yourself. We can change things. Change the whole system that is forcing you, sentencing you to suicide.

Fast opinions.

Oh, we the punks! Oh, we're in the streets, riding out innocence through unspoken laments. Oh, we the punks! Oh, we do bleed, hiding our influence through untimely events. Oh, we the punks! Oh, where we heave, striving for impotence through unprotected intents. Oh, we the punks! Oh, we are free, contriving our intolerance through unfathomable content. How will we afford the untimely morgue? How will we afford, walking through the door? How will we afford, an instrument and gin? How will we afford, a smoking barrel or a grin?

Languid Humor = Garbage

Reasonably sure that I have lied about, that is to say have imagined every woman I have ever dated, has begun to set back the immediate structure of a worthless self. Stolen womens clothing from questionable sources developed a strange inadequate karma of melodramatic cheating accusations, much like every note ever taken down in classes. Displeased by an unsure regurgitation of half truths and historically misleading falicies though slowly becoming positive I have never structured a string of words original to the language but always true to some personel of the human sanctuary... have made words. If these memories have some how been replaced with actual occurance then what such entity enforces a limit to the inevitable reproduction of those things having happened, happening again. A daily route through the brains firing synapses. Plausibly the motor function of an ability to source through our holy britanica, in mere existance to solidify definitions into illusionary diplomacy. Have we just been together this whole time?

The Mayors Nemesis.

Such a catastrophic disappointment, and what's worse is who'll care? Just a hint of a backround while this surely numbered cigarette burns down to the callased deposit between fingers. It hasn't rained in weeks aside from short bouts of snow everytime my girl has my sick dick pressed against some tooth on its way out from years of my paying no attention and her dispute between vinyl or brick walls.

Now by this time my head has been shaking like a bopper girl behind an orange curtain waiting for another shot of her bosses private stock. With one foot out the door I can hear a pin quiver and a latch slam with anticipation while some companies micture of standard oil slips from the tip of the hood down past her tonsils... Merry Christmas. I finally muster the audacity to look out the windshield but only through the rainbow seperated by the line our wipers couldn't reach. Some conversation strikes up in the back of my head having to do with the now late Lymphatic Residuals new release and how given the opportunity, "We'd so hit that."

It's so clear. More profound than her father sitting accross from his second ex-wife who'll surely be picking potato pie from her cheek with a fish-bone. If I wasn't so sure that I'd need to check under the table to find out who had been tugging my pleats first to have had any omnipitance in carrying on with the utterly dismal evasion of pop-pseudo culture references I might have touched the fish. The 60 year old draft dodging con-patriot is clearly nudging me now in approval of what those tits must look like out of that dress and I whince catching the glisten of face make-up from when she kissed the stranger as an elite non-objective spectator of our melodrama.

A countdown begins, a rapid exchange of poorly calculated words and a lifetime of tyranny scaling the better half of the century. A cold front will reach a warm front in...
twenty seconds, count it...
nineteen seconds.
A storm will have to be built when the warm high flying clouds from the south pacific colide with the low drifters from Oh Canada, and build themselves a turbulant comradery of turbining molecules and filth to brew our holiday gift.
Eighteen seconds.
Seventeen inches cumulatively.
Predictions are made about my devotion to my family after merely sixteen years of tolerable devotion.
Sixteen seconds.
Fifteen seconds.
A question for my choice of desert wine. With limited time I drop her skirt and run to the cellar.
Fourteen, thirteen.
Obviously the grappa. Cold and just, unlike the port I'm sure the color of fathers climactic dick head.
Twelve seconds and counting.
Eleven.
Because of the anime' that made this O.K. to talk about.
Ten seconds, count!
Nine Seconds.
A cork breathes a sulfur meant for my nose only.
Eight seconds.
The rotten aged wood sound of our legs climbing the staircase back to her room.
Seven seconds.
Six.
A joke is made and glasses exchanged.
Five.
This cunt in my hand and my loaded barrel eager.
Rawr.
Something about a bounced check and a need for my services.
Three.
A head rears back and smacks the wall.
Two.
She squeezes tight around her groin and squeaks while mother calls for her.
One.
My bag is already packed an my rooms belongings sit on the front steps of the old home where I once grew. Eager and wondering who'll break first, in silence as we drive back the same way we came to help papa get his life on track. A resounding feeling that nothing has been created by our wrestless finger tips.

Criminally Lustless.

It's about time we commit a god damn, old fashioned breaking and entering charge, huh? The whole state of affairs is shot and with five free minutes before we see another, "Please officer," I'd like to take another shot. You're looking at a week in the pent house before anyone catches on to apply the charges. The liklihood that any neighbours actually care is only a relative opinion. A mere correlation in fluxuation between neighbours with guns and neighbours with alarms. Come to think of it I won't kill a dog, but i'll sure as hell rip out its throat and let nature run the course.

Let's just say this time i can't wait to get back to my mothers house so that I can listen to my father complain about how he, "Took care of this family for 25 years," and how now, "It's your turn to take some responsibility and stop lieing to yourself." All while sipping scotch and water from the ed tardy glass my tenth grade girlfriend left in my room the new years morning my wife left me after finding it with three shades lighter lipstick around the rim from the eve before.

Three more years of pining and I finally have a girl I can nail through the drywall of a house in the abandoned home down the road and the Neons tear it down, just to throw up the now classic caution tape, evergreen tree decoration.
"Nature is cruel, but William S. Burroughs ass can sure wake me up in the morning."
"Who's Burroughs?"
Not at all what I am talking about but, "An occult open flap of a drug war dignitary invited to be free after a launderer's list of documented drug use along with the whearabouts of each involved member circumnavigating the Manhattan drug ring. Remaining unincarcerated for the impact imprinted on the fragile skull of each and every reader."

We're now sure the support of unemployed single mothers showered the surveyor's boards in support of the undisputable truth involved with a drug adicts breakfast. "At this point in time, we're going to need all the pills we can get."

Nothing.

It's Like The Repetition Of A Cycle. You Reach The Top And Fall To The Bottom Only To Keep Rolling Before Some Bastard Child Trying To Play God Flips The Snow Globe Over And You Just Fall Again. Thanks Equal And Opposite Reactions! Perhaps The Next Occasion I'll Just Dig A Hole, Never Take Any Steps And Just Stare Out With My Mouth Agape And Remember To Think Of Being Disillusioned! Maybe Just Maybe I'll Be As Abhorrent As The Rest Of Society And Maybe Just Maybe I Can Never Turn A Stone Or Hump A Leaf, Get Back On The Whores , Rise Up And Shine, Or Dry My Wet Eyeball! Now Allow Me To Remove The Foot From My Mouth And Define Anything Solidified In A Context Being Material As Ten Other Completely Irrelevant Conundrums.

A dismal sigh of dignity "hun."