mother fuck, bukowski was like, woah is me, whoa is fucking the world. birds, beaches, sad tin cans, crushed hats. okay, enough, man.
ill work the comma. ill work the coma. my mom was run ragged over the bed with some plastic drip flooding her veins. little whispers of wildflowers. and some screams about how things are hell.
i cant really talk about that so ill just say that i am off focus. the full length mirror layed down across the floor.
other people perched atop it. relating drug stories to the backdrop of les savy fav.
but thats not their doing. its mine. and i am over dramatizing this. anyway.
its the gay tone in our voices. its the sticky slide of our bodies straining to say, HELLO. but more like just Hello.
cleaning up the mess. injesting whatever we can. thoughts, minds, letters, words, faces, bodies, whole animals, sunsets, sex organs, stories, and other shit. just floating down our bloodstreams. fucked beyond where you know your own wills.
no wishes anymore. just some coughing in our room, california stars playing. somewhat awkward in this atmosphere.
in this frame. in this scene. of our little script.
play again. play the damn game. unlock the door. lay down the carpet and let anyone walk along. padded brick road. and with your feet still stuck in the floor, take off.
its like this. count the lines. count the colors. count the pills. count the dollars. count the size. count the days. count the times. count the machines. count the dizzied up empty cans. shoot them off the fence post. poke them with your eyes.
i peak. i say, alright. i go home. i am here. then i say no more. and this time i stayed in this dreary memory of my mother chanting pain sick swan songs. and i say. fuck off. to everyone else.
who are laying their bodies flush to the floor. listening for heaven to come stumbling along in a beeline to their brain. through their noses. through their veins. through their mouths tracheas stomach pits and assholes. in through the mouth and out through the ego.
go on counting. so and so. and so and so. and so and so.
take off my clothes that you put on. take off the coolness of every slick blue night.
rain falling from rooftops and the drip hitting the back of your throat like a a fifteen mile an hour orgasm cumming and cumming nonstop.
theres this knowing in not doing. in non action, as theyd say. this is not a rant or some kind of tirad. this is no final stand or final word. tomorrow might be sore spots from bed posts and syringe tips. fucked beyond the time and climbing towards the window.
but im sure itll be different than this. bitter ex-thing with no ex-thing to speak of.