I am obsessed with finding the right combinations of letters and syllables to magically turn this endless fountain off

I feel like if I can just lay it all out there these mutterings will cease and I can focus on anything else

write around the issues and they will phase away, leaving another corpse in their wake to be pawed at and combed over for hidden value

there is none, it is in equal amounts to hope, emptied and left behind to free up space in this archaic inventory system straight out of an 80s video game

Tetris skills required, interest in tentacle porn preferred, gang bang experience or equivalent degree necessary

they teach that at those fancy ivy league schools


on a difficulty rating of one to ten with one being stubbed your toe and ten being spiders have taken up residence in your skull and now every decision is based on the safety of the hive collective

where would kissing me lie, somewhere around four, testicular cancer or a seven, daily visits by the clown rape gang out of Cincinnati

I like five, molested by a monk with broken glass for fingers every other Tuesday until you turn fifteen, then it becomes weekly

life goals

soon this debauchery will be put on pause for the weekend

I can look at this mess without the help of deadening agents and try and sort it all out before it tumbles in on itself

not the pensive lover or the manic scribbler of filthy fables unfit for more trained eyes

the inarticulate moanings of an imbecile unable to voice the distress of the situation he put himself into

wants and needs put on hold for a few fleeting moments

like Moses parting the red sea but at the end I stand alone and it all becomes another unassailable plot in a book for dummies on how to human

waves pummeling and the idea of drowning becomes urban myth

bloody mary, bloody mary, bloody mary

if you say it three times while staring into your own lifeless eyes she appears, looks you up and down and says

bitch, ya basic

then she giggles and smokes all your weed before stealing ten bucks and giving an unenthusiastic hand job

urban legends ain’t all they used to be

there was a craft to it, a hook in the car roof, a ghost hitchhiker, the idea of happiness

disembodied remnants of a time long past, of rock and roll, good times, whiskey and the american dream

now it is contemporary, healthy living, wheat grass and corporate expenditures under two thousand dollars

call the hookers escorts, the meth can be study aids, retreats instead of celebrations, and sexual misconduct instead of rape

tidy it up and wrap a pretty little bow on it and repackage it to the people, a kinder, gentler facism

experiment failed

get your shit, you don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here

unless you want to

up to you


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