What did I know back then in those darker days, in those days of natural conflict
during those constellations of breaking timid and fast
during those revolutionary attractions elsewhere.
Putting dynamite to the mind. Letting it die a little in the process.
Suffering and unstoppable. Instinct and liver.
I have nothing to write about because I am overly troubled by the process that I ought to process as I type that I ought to number twenty nine be a genius all the time. Running on in the sentence is not writing is not typing it has nothing to do with any of it like my face has nothing to do with my soul like my attitude has EVERYTHING to do with the way you’ve fucked me.
It has nothing to do with anything like my face has nothing to do with my soul.
That was a start.
I have trouble writing about how I ought to be inspired as often as I am horny. I mean, I have trouble writing. I have found the culprit of my rumble and my grumble and after looking it dead in the eye I toyed with desire and it got so frightened it left.
There’s no denying a snake sheds its skin and because I’m in the wrong body to do so I penetrate mine with ink in the shape of snakes.
There’s no pending altercation from my process to my destination.
There’s no pool of waste, of filth and of mangled good ideas. It was a good idea to leave this place. The curtain of consciousness sparkles when I run into it and I’m reminded of my inferiority complex. I’m reminded of poor impulse control. Poor impulse control got me into that place. There’s only smooth, clear sailing over the seas of shit.
While the rest of you are out there breathing, I’ve learned to live underwater. My head in a fishbowl, I can’t sense a scent out there.
Insect bites that have lasted forever. Lyme? Am I diseased? Am I diseased beyond that? I’m a sponge to all this radiation. I’m a goldmine to whatever microscopic feasts are instilled into our subconscious-reality.
I dream a vacant night’s sleep.
