Sunday, September 16, 2007

kill this superstition

my body is poisoned and i want nothing else right now tomorrow afternoon type with purpose intense focus skirt around [her] the issue caffeine like cocaine wine like conversation cabernet savignon hurts my mouth and loosens my heart shortens the distance i was born in washington goddammit why doesn't that count for something? surprised i can type at all at this point remote control for my shorthand desires swallow back the cancer and choke on my stagnation and the progress of the commoners MAKES ME TIRED. plaid pantry is sex compared to the wincing compromises of trader fucking joe's my lack of balance comes with real hello kitty commentary not sick longing i never hear my name maybe i don't listen carefully enough to the incense. there are so many people and pairs and portentious and forgotten feelings that i just return to two-thousand-whatever and pretend that nightmares are blessings that provide more waking DISTANCE the serene drug i would twist myself in knots I DO AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN without fail over what i deride as fake but is probably real in some shirtless sort of household why can't i sharpie up my future as easily as most americans. left with this boyhood vacancy digital present parental rebellion refusal to lay myself on her tracks and risk the inevitable severance the coincidental glance. catch what i pretend to throw countless mistakes and nuanced allusions to what i thought i heard so fucking long ago. i use her face like most people use childhood trauma. i make the effort to forget generational transgressions like lost movie ticket stubs and all it gets me is eventual betrayal disease-ridden fever-inspired memories of what probably meant NOTHING. water is hollow and i need to remember my reliance on such emptiness to stave off what fairy tales promise and gradeschool teachers hint at. there's no label that can explain the vague disgust i feel when confronted with airport mirrors and masturbation stalls, no necktie can reverse the years of commentary created by the absence of eye contact and human consolation. when i use you i feel momentarily lifted thank you st louis t-shirt haven


Blogger Jonny said...

if that really is drunk posting you are damn good at it.


4:55 PM  

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