it's all i can do to not go insane
to clic on next and read the next page
so if you continue to insist
on being a finicky bitch
i'll be forced to uninstall you
or turn off the antivirus

tactile
rub per inch
breathe in the sour salt the sweat the spit
dig in deep
the entropy feel
what a fiber
taut
picture the blood pump the syphon and the swelling dump
black breath the dust of dead
time out time gone
living forward death ahead life relentless
hug it hard feel the pressure
the give the soft
the against
moisture wells
the stinging choke
a reverse swell nothing
what swallow no throat no chest
no here nothing
no alone no poor no pain
what pain
what smart
what deflate
where drive
the one productless
the one endless
the one unbegun
silent scream stuck below the bumping dump
the bumping bump
bass line
snare smart
listen to the humming man
water swirl
sway
figure eight
not here not now
heat and rasp and savour
beat and beat and melody
whatever push
mist away
what accomplished
the world happened
nothing here none of us can see

ethereal apex of social success
multicultural tolerance of impersonal melting pot
inevitable quantum change manifest on rails
interpersonal justice manufactured
hundreds of people unarmed, uncomfortable
crammed in and so u n c o n f l i c t e d

okay god damn it
i came here
to do one thing

shut up
please
just go to bed and
leave me alone

the cats are pretty
though

soon they'll climb up
onto places
they shouldn't go

the flies won't lie
the flies don't lie
flies don't lie on shit that moves

what conflict
the guy i listen to at least if anything makes up fantastic
reasons to be fucked
up
what an artist concerned with being an artist
fuck
and art
and pain
and

how often
how often

if i sing the lyrics i feel i feel them i feel i know
and i AM

ashamed

My furniture walked out of the apartment again yesterday. Not that I said anything about it. The swelling's still up from last time. That got them angry. Something probably happened but they never tell me things.

I hear the door knock. I should ask who it is. The knock is harder. I don't ask. I open the door.

But I don't get to say anything because I get pulled really hard into the living room and there's a lot of blood again.

Oh no. Please, I asked them not to bring more blood in. Keep quiet. I can't. I just can't. There's too much blood and I don't like blood. So they hit me. Real hard on the shins. This is bad because they always get me to kneel that way. I'm crying, but I don't think it's from the pain. I'm tired.

They leave, they're all laughing. I shouldn't cry or they'll come back. It's worse if they come back because I'm crying.

But I want to so much.

So I do. I curl up, I hug my knees and I cry so hard.

the number one reason not to write
is to not waste any good ideas on poor execution

poor execution is very discouraging
and ideas lose all shiny shiny
you have to wipe it off
and then that's no guarantee of quality

absolute complete and utter bullshit
i can’t write for shit
who am i kidding
what am i doing here
i can't do this

i see colors yellow and orange and brown and blue and an animal on tracks

this is all a lie
it's all bullshit
i am angry

nobody stands for anything
except me
i’m the only artist here
i am ALL the bullshit

CRINGE
CRINGE FUCKING CRINGE
AAAAAHHHH

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK
FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK

I am so sorry

poetry in a spit -or- prose scares the shit outta me

i think in scenes
the product of a generation's worth of movie reels
short film festivals
and youtube self made...
men?
thought burst
come means gone
method man is dead you hear

picture yourself a poet
i underestimate you
on purpose
i don't respect you
and make no effort to make it different
refuse improve
because i believe it fact
i can't trust you
how many years the burden on this side
authority questioned
have you heard
yourself
ask the dumbest questions
you've been let off easy you
careless sons of bitches what's the depth of a circle i swear to god i will kill you
cause man i tell you
dumb just is not enough
you don't deserve the word
frankenstein had it easy his monster had balls
i have to put up with loud cowards
who'll drown my voice and not their own
when they've been prodded like cattle
to the slaughter
the machine my scorn
fuck you
and the horses you rode in on
actually
no
not the horses
they have an excuse

i haven't been sick in forever.
i don't like to say i'm sick.
i never admit to it if i'm asked whether or not i'm sick.
i try to use self deception.
by convincing myself that i'm not sick i can act not sick and shrug it off.
it is the opposite of psyching myself out--if you can do this why not the opposite, is what i thought.
but now i'm sick.
but nobody's around to see me.
i don't really feel like being around anybody.
i'm asleep when they're here and it's been long enough they know to not knock on my door.
i think i've alienated them.
or maybe they're being nice and giving me some space without abandoning me--as in they still think of me but care about me enough to try to understand my signals of irritability or apathy.
it's actually been a long time since i was sick like this.
i ususally only get mild stuff and then i try to sleep really well the night i feel my first symptoms to eliminate the virus preemptively by boosting my defenses. it ususally works and the next day i wake up ok.
but this thing won't go away. maybe it's the flu.
whatever the fuck that is.
or maybe i just don't have the heart to lie to myself this time.
i sleep a lot.
i don't eat much.
i move a bit, my fingers on the computer or mouse and when i have to shift positions in bed because i get cramps after a while.
i think poorly of myself and it is pretty silly because i get by pretty well and nothing really awful happens to me and i have a very comfortable life with little conflict.
nothing much ever really happens to me.
i am the nice guy that people talk to for advice because i give good advice or so i'm told.
maybe i'm stagnated and that’s why i see no pressing hurdle to overcome.
maybe i could give myself some good advice if i asked for some when something bad happened to me.
nothing bad is happening to me.
it's been a long while.
but then what do i do.
i could hurt myself but that is silly on three counts. i would have to explain why i did it which would end up badly because i don't know except that maybe i wanted some attention or at least something to happen but this is silly because of the second count which is it would be fabricated and artificial--not really conflict but an outburst--i really have no reason to do it except boredom, and while it would certainly pass the time it would pass it as much as sitting in my room with the lights off and dreaming about bouncing, colourful ideas would except it would be more painful. which is the third count. it would hurt. i don't like pain when it's not getting me anything. it's like letting go of a five dollar bill on the subway on purpose and expecting to get something for it. all you get is losing five dollars.
maybe if i got hurt accidentally.
i wouldn't want to see it coming is what i mean.
then i'd have something to preoccupy my brain and not this lulling suspense of nothingness of having everything be kind of ok all the time.
all i find interesting is in my head and so i sit around most of the time or lie in bed during daytime hours wasting away in daydreams.
i feel i use other people as brain fodder and i relate to the them in my head by how i can incorporate their stories into my dreams like their stories were fictions or, conversely, incorporate myself into those fictions.
the reality of death is too far away from me.
i feel like it will never happen to me and i feel cheated because i know it will and i feel meaningless when i don't have to struggle for it or i should say against it. i am worth very little because it takes so little to keep me here.
but then again that is a fallacy because everyone only needs basic necessities like food to be here and the basic premise for all of this is that everyone has different struggles and, further, some are harder to overcome than others' so food is not the point.
what i mean is that those necessities are provided for with no real effort from me.
so i am effectively a leech.
a consequence i am scared of is that when that stops being so i won't be ready because i feel like i'm stacking up bad karma and a lot of horrible shit will happen all at the same time later on. i would like to have it a little spread out.
even if i don't think of it that way--there being no quota of things that have to happen to me and that they'll happen all at the same time and that maybe won't happen to me at all--i guess what i'm trying to say is that i would like some conflict spread out a little bit over my life because this is very boring.
unless i'm missing the big picture of the meaning of my life.
maybe i am here to ponder these questions.
but that feels too much like a cop-out.
unless i actually cut myself off from my externally provided resources and try to live off of that pondering.
then i think would this pondering pay for itself either in actual physical resources or financial ones or just plain pain and discomfort genuinely derived from a drive to fulfill some meaning unto my life.
that's actually what i really want to do.
i am going to take a break from school next year--i should at least try to pass these three courses i have left.
i will make my debut and change a little of the public discourse of my generation by bringing back the verb to ponder.
i guess.
i hope.
and that's something.

Alone.
I think.
The room is empty. Of people. There's stuff in it. People's stuff. Strangers. Unknown. I acknowledge the link between these things and people. Individuals. Persons. People. Pasts. Faces and laughs. For some reason I think of laughs. I think it's easier to identify a person, the image of a person in my brain, by their smile. Laughing. Those are the more willing memories. Your mental picture folder. Of all the good times, the times that made you look forward to new, similar things, or perhaps similar in effect and quality and consequence and not necessarily factually or superficially similar, and therefore somehow ended up
being more directly responsible for the places you went than the bad times even though the opposite could be said, that the conscious evasion of similar events to those poisonous had an indirect effect—but that's the thing, indirect, unknown, unknowable—so, yes—perhaps more effectual of change , but only because they do not cause anything, because they are inexistent, parallel lives that stretch second by second through different strata of reality and are therefore infinite, and therefore infinitely outnumber the actual events that take place in the lives of... People. Who right now are not in the room. And whose stuff lies all over the damn place. Their personalities laid bare.
I think?
I mean, they picked this stuff. It all seems second hand. Sort of like my stuff. I just settled here. But I got new stuff, too. And, actually, I stole some furniture from this place—well, I was here like a week ago and Jason told me that if nobody picked it up I could take it ‘cause a lot of the artists usually left all their stuff there ‘cause—well, anyways, it was nobody's, ‘cause it was in the hallway and like, it's never been moved. Unless some person or persons move the thing when I'm not here, but that seems unlikely. There was a point to this. But now it's about stealing and personalities. Who are these people? They left so much of themselves. Painted on these things.
But then again. Well, it's all a mish-mash. The eccentricities mount to a cacophonous level and mix all to an uneven shade of brown. All the same. All stuff. No faces. Just stuff. None of them are
here, so none of them are real. To any extent.
Not to me, I think. I see people in my head, but they are not people. They are people in my head. Not people. This stuff is not people. It reminds me of people, but just the idea of people.
Not people. Individuals who don't exist but are people and have left themselves painted here for everyone to see that they do not exist and are faceless and leave stuff behind so I can grab it when they don't move it after a while.
And then I leave and I never existed.
I hope nobody takes my stuff.

breakfast

i feel absolutely shitty
i’m hungry
i’m thirsty
i’m cranky
i’m groggy
i have no will or interest in anything
i want to stay in bed
i want to cry
i want to not wake up
i want to dream forever
but my eyes hurt
they're the puffy of shut too long
i’m losing patience with my skin
can’t decide if i’m too hot or cold
all the clothes have run up and are suffocating me
pulling
i’m entangled and still with knots and i struggle
to shake them off
undo them
all i think of is to kick
shove
grunt
roll over and fall flat
on a stolid floor that offers a slap
reminds me
there's a limit
the floor's a limit
bottom's a limit
i am still
my body complains
it says move
range
let me move is kind of what i say
but i stay
the floor feels nice
and it feels cool when i writhe
scraping bottom
then
i am on foot
looking outside
disheveled
yeah
the same as every day
except today i’ve said the words out loud
they'd look
i can see me mirrored
it's not the glass i’m less there
and i remember my meal of the day before and i get thirsty
probably what i’ll have today
suicide creeps up on you
i wonder if they'll call it that
a few months later
lying on the floor
one hand on my dick and
one hand holding breakfast
breakfast
i’m all out of breakfast

three of us are in the room
i'm looking down between my legs, my back is bent and my elbows rest on my knees
there is one wall and a floor
one of us is laying across the couch that's against the wall, with an arm on the back rest and one to the floor
the other's sitting cross legged on the floor, i think he's nauseous
he looks up
he looks down
looks like we're waiting for something
it comes into my head that i don't know what this room is or what it looks like
i look around and see no walls or ceiling
it occurs to me that maybe i don't remember what i'm doing here
it was pleasurable, albeit the terror, to know now that this would have been my reaction to a hypothetical
terror is not knowing and terror is a point, having all and no dimension
my fear is linear and the first thing that comes out of my mouth is
how long have we been here

marketing

jesus christ carries a flag and it says
don't worry, you won't be forgotten

they only hate religion because it got there first

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