Sunday, 6 May 2012

Vegetarianism (i'm not perfect)

My question to any first worlder who regularly eats meat: why kill something when it doesn't have to die? Time, ideally, is the only murderer.

Thursday, 29 March 2012

Monday, 19 March 2012

Three Towering Office Buildings

Three towering office buildings sprout limbs and uproot themselves. It’s a Wednesday afternoon and the employees of Borizon Family Research are out lunching together at the nearby mall.  Every one of them eats shit infected burgers and they puke so hard their lifeless eyeballs rocket from their skulls. This is fortunate, because their work place has found them. The food court is torn in half like cheap bread and the ineffectual workers are picked up and tossed back into their workstations.
Mitch Ronson awakes in a heavy sweat. He gets out of bed determinedly and packs a few articles of clothing into a dusty duffel bag.  Into a large suitcase, which he joking calls his “valise”, he tosses his children’s laptops, his wife’s jewelry, and his dad’s collection of rare sports cards and other autographed memorabilia.  He heads west for San Francisco and spends a few sleepless hours in a deceptively clean hotel.  In the morning he sells his Subaru to the first used car lot listed on Google, and the contents of the “valise” to a pawnshop in the Mission District.  Before hopping on Bart he withdraws all but one hundred dollars from his joint account at Bank of America.  He takes BART to SFO, nervously eyeing his duffel bag the whole way. A talkative blonde with wiry, dog-like hair sells him a one-way ticket to Amsterdam and he is gazing pensively through the murky window of a 727 plane only three hours later.
After checking into a hotel, he goes to the nearest smoke shop and smokes himself into an anxiety attack. He spends the next nine hours thinking continually about his decision. In the bathroom of a McDonalds he verifies that he is not, in fact, transparent, and that no one knows who he is or what he has done. He vows to leave in the morning for a place more alien.
He travels South-East Asia and then heads to South America with maddeningly alacrity. Enmeshed by his new life, his family rarely surfaces in his thoughts. He simply doesn’t have time for reflection because he is never bored or unhappy for long enough.  Eight years later, while walking through Bolivia, he rolls dumbly down a modest mountain and dies.

Sadly, I'm Mitch Ronson, and I've not died, so my mostly factual recollection is incomplete. Eventually, I met someone in Nicaragua that became fond of me, and I of her. We drank heavily together, laid in the sun, and laughed idiotically every night, even when fucking. After being married for 17 months, her silent presence pulled overwhelming guilt from my mental wastebasket and I was ruined. As of now, I'm back in America, living in Sausilitto and working in the city.  No matter what, I'm a fool because Kelly left for Utah 9 years ago with my kids that I'm legally forbidden from seeing and she remarried. I should have kept a journal while traveling, because I barely remember it all now, sitting in my 1 bedroom apartment, nestled in a newly built complex. Sitting down to collect my regrets has been cathartic, but I've been compelled to die since my fleshlight arrived in the mail, and I'm so tired of whimpering through my 40's.

Friday, 16 March 2012


The last 10 things I've posted have been lying in my documents folder for a while. I'm afraid my computer will crash and I'll lose everything, so I'm backing up my thoughts on the internet. Goodbye, no one.

Hi, My Name Is Junior Doyle

Hi my name is Junior (J.R.) Doyle, I publish deeply anxious tidbits of thought. I let my mind rush, my blood gush, my fingers redden; basically, I let my spirit deaden, and then I let you read it. I smoke tons of weed, take strolls, banter candidly, take pictures randomly and sit, sit, sit.

I don’t really let my spirit deaden for you, I deaden my own spirit because I don’t know what else to do.  When you’re stuck, what do you do? Which way is out when you can’t move? In Falmouth, England, County of Cornwall, slouching on a couch with red eyeballs.  

Shhhh it?


It's Just a Memory, No One Will Ever See It.

One hit and im deep in the muck. Its not an effluent sort of muck, much more colorful, but not very lustrous when you’re all alone.  Just kickin’ it around my nana’s flat in London.  A tall place, more narrow than anything. I’ve become very familiar with it at this stage, I’m glad that I can carry it with me in the future deep inside my memory.  Pages I can turn to reveal mouths agape in the middle of speech I cant recall.  Try picturing where you grew up, you’re the first home, the first school you went to? Could you draw an ariel map of it? What did the inside of your cafeteria look like? Try and remember an average scene, like walking through the halls with things on your mind. I remember walking next to my cafeteria, which doubled as an auditorium, after a performance I’d put on with the rest of my class. It was unusual to be at school during night. Although, there was always the book festivals atleast once a year. I was walking towards the main entrance to the cafeteria, my friend Floyd was in front of me with his parents behind. He still had his lion mask (although maybe I was the lion and he was a different, yet equally typical animal). The mask was dangling across his back, held by the string around his neck.  Try and remember something even more mundane, like maybe going across the grass between the 2 and third wing when you knew you should walk around along the path like everyone else did.  Middle school was a bore. I remember making friends in Mr. Abramson’s math class. He was a P.E. teacher, and a shit math teacher. I don’t remember learning anything mathematical that semester, I believe it was the 2nd half of my 7th year. Nevertheless, I was in the highest Math attainable by the end of 8th year. I considered myself gifted by that time, although I only paid attention to things that caught my interest. Most information just fell away, or was never allowed in. 9th year, freshman year of highschool. I had gotten over the chaos of my new schedule by this stage. It was warm, but I don’t remember if it was in the beginning or the end of the year. I was sitting in Class with Emilio and Ian, the former I haven’t thought about in years, the latter still shows up in my life now and then, namely when I go back to my parents place. Matt Santola was there too, he showed up at the creek when we already had the weed on us, most of which I think I paid for. Inhaling smoke deep into my lungs felt unnatural, and I didn’t get high. I forced a change upon myself. I acted like it took me to the same place as the 3 other guys, but it didn’t. When I met up with Michael Sterns and his Mom, I was totally immersed in my character. I was probably with them because I was afraid not to go home, or perhaps instructed not to by the other guys. Michael’s was on the way home, but I could have been picked up. Michael and I were at his new school; De La Salle was private, expensive and its field bordered ours at the back with only a narrow creek between it-- at which creek I had smoked weed just moments before. I was soaring around his school, lauching myself from its benches and bugging the hell out of Michael. He was convinced, but that’s only because I had even convinced myself. I was fucking highhhhhhhh. But I wasn’t that kind of high--the protracted zombie, or the blabbering pseudo-intellectual. Nor was I the chilled out its all cool and nonthreatening sort of stoned that I would come to love. I was like a child playing airplane, arms akimbo, but totally faking it. Now things truly get fuzzy. Some classes here and there that I couldn’t care about, nor pay attention to. Actually there was 2 years of French where I became friends with Ryan Wansley. He helped usher me into the same sort of place I am now-- hanging around the weirdos. I still cant speak any francais. But I can do other things, like smoke a bowl and play with my fragmented, discontinuous mind. There was Thayer’s English honors class, with Megan. She had the body of a 18 year old at 16.  She tried to show me her nipple ring in the back of Thayer’s class, but I had a boner so I had to pretend that her boobs didn’t interest me and remain in my seat. Thayer taught brilliantly, he showed me how effective a bigger lexicon could be. I never missed a point on his vocab tests, but I struggled with the essays. I’ve never liked doing things people ask, I prefer doing as I feel. At the time I felt like masturbating, getting into myspace and smoking weed with my growing circle of friends.  I guess that’s where am at now too, minor qualitative adjustments made. 

Our Lord Dogdemon the Antichrist

 As he fumbles found hairs between his blunted fingers
He realizes that he is old and tired of living, for life won’t change until he dies.
Anxiety grips his chest, and upon standing he becomes dizzy.
The dog begins to bark at him, which alarms his wife—
Mother of their two children and Grandmother of four more.
The aged antichrist vomits blood on their black tile floors demonically.
The dog stops barking to inspect, tongue first, like a snake.
His wife grabs the phone and calls their oldest son, a surgeon.
Panic, Panic, Panic.
Coincidentally, their boy surgeon arrives as the ambulance does.
Police are inside, hopelessly affecting an earnest resuscitation,
The dog’s eyes glow livid with dark power.
In a bed of acrid blight
The demon thinks,
Out of sight.

Life for a train, trite remarks from a silly child in pale blue pajamas tucking himself in between sheets decorated with clowns.  Go away, come back, stay a while, I believe youre the primary cause for this ride being so bumpy, would you mind hoping off? Yes, right now, youre a lumpy bed and I cant rest like this.  Fetch me those berries in the backyard. Yes, but they aren’t poisonous, she lied to you.  Now sit there and watch me get high, cup your hands beneath my chin in case I puke, I don’t want to spill any on the rug. Atleast not right here, I sit here too often and the smell would bother me.  Throw the food scraps where? What bin? Just stuff them between the couch coushins, but be mindful of my booger collection. Lets see if youre immune to fire. Just sit there quietly, don’t chide me friend im doing my best at covering you thoroughly.  You look so pretty, you should wear more orange.
I have a lot of problems, the undiagnosed, armchair problems that berate the mind of lazy talents. One of my problems is that I think too much and do too little.  But there is a more pertinent problem facing me at the moment. As the sun fills my bedroom turned office with dusty heat, I am forced awake and it is before noon—an aberration. Haphazardly I throw my left arm near where, nightly, I normally put my glass of water I use to dampen my mouth--which is vacuumed nightly by an illusive bully as I sleep off the effects of cyclically drinking. The empty slap says the water is not there.  It often isn’t, as more things slip through the deepening fissures in my dilapidated mind.  After many blind, hearty jabs I know for certain that I cannot prolong my time in bed and, unfortunately, must begin this day.    I grab the poorest looking clothes nearest at hand so as not to be classifiable or typically fashionable.  Then I look about my room dozens of times trying to collect my thoughts among things that are not mine.  This daily unconscious ritual is married with oblivion and I take an especially long time in this cramped space I habit when I visit my family.  Sitting on the bed to lace up my shoes exacerbates the unfamiliarity of my temporary abode, the firmness of the child’s bed from which I just arose is forcing me off the side and I struggle to escape my baneful hut.  To the cupboard I saunter, the encompassing black in my eyes from my morning headrush receeds just before I smack into the dining room table.  My diet has changed, it’s a “college thing”… or whatever. I’m a fucking vegetarian and it’s been easy so far, except when I visit my family.  Here I eat pasta and cereal, my choice this morning is obvious.  I sit at the table with tousled hair and a sallow face wondering who will be the first to greet me this morning. At one point I knew the schedule, but that wasnt a conscious effort.  My family dog saddles up beside my chair and I rub his head and watch the hair float until it leaves the sunlight shining through the back door and ceases to captivate me. Some lands in my bowl but I shrug it off and continue eating.  I’ve spent too much time starting at the Ansel Adams photo on the kitchen wall and my cereal gets soggy, I gag at the sight of it drooping over my spoon.  Soggy cereal the worst, I ceaselessly avoid all things attached to the adjective “soggy”.  Soggy cereal and mouth boogers: two morning gagfests.  I always get the mouth boogers when brushing my teeth, it must have something to do with having my mouth open for so long, or maybe my tooth brush jars it from the back of my throat. I yell to see if anyone is home, forgetting that my sister may still be asleep, but no one answers.  I inspect the cul-de-sac through the bay window in our front room and confirm that  no one is around before I step outside to see if I dressed wisely.  November is bright, even brighter than summer, but summer always comes with sunny expectations.  I act surprised by the weather as if this was something new for Concord, like when people marvel at how early the dark sets in during winter, like it wasn’t something they had experienced every damn winter.  

The Lecher

Im an angry old man who fantasizes about raping young girls. I don’t remember anything before the age of 16.  I was in the war and I think I killed something, but it was chaotic so I cant be certain.  The people at the pharmacy think im harmless, but they’re all idiots.  I killed my wife, but no one knows it. She was 10 years older than I, but she deteriorated much quicker.  Her forgetfulness got on my nerves, so I poisoned her with every chemical under the sink. One or two would have been enough, most likely, but I didn’t do any research because I was afraid of getting caught.  I know from watching Law and Order and CSI that they can catch most people nowadays, everyone leaves a trail of some sort.  I miss her now that she’s gone. Even an annoying presence is more agreeable than none at all.  Watching her die was the worst thing Ive ever experienced, even more horrifying than the war. I don’t like lying, but thankfully the police didn’t ask many questions; as far as I can discern, Im well liked by those that know me.  You probably know someone like me, we are everywhere.  We want to enter your home in the middle of the night and take something meaningful from you.  Your children, your wife, your aged dog.  We are the people that make you start, the ones that make you check the lock on your door twice. The reason that your children cant walk home from school anymore.  I’m salivating at the thought of doing harm to you. Thank you for letting your guard down, otherwise we may not exist. I don’t dislike you particularly, I dislike it all. Im not a misanthrope, im just post-modern.  I am the latest incarnation of evil, I am art, but I am also human.  Reason led me to evil. My creative urge led me to evil. Your shapely figure, and my lack there of, also let me there in part. I will save you from the torment of time with my callused, clean  hands.  This is a thankless job, and I am an underappreciated artist. I want the aliens to come quickly. Your life will finally come into perspective, you will shrink.  I will dance gaily at the sight of something higher than myself. The aliens will be my God, but until them I am yours.  Things unfold slowly, and I sit here and wait for the right time to leap into action.  It takes a lot to move me.  An adroit sensibility moves me. The outline of a hefty cock in a nice pair of pants moves me.  The electrifying sensation I get from the sublime moves me.  The slightlest semblance of originality is my ecstasy.  Listen to the sound of me beat my cage.  Give me the freedom to find my other self.  Give me circumstances different then these and I will behave. Something different, a different set of conditions so that I can prove to myself that I am not evil by nature—so that I can prove that I have no nature... that none of us have a nature; we are just the product of our unique enviroment, some unfortunate, others better off.  My mind is always active, it never quiets. It disturbs me, I am disturbed. We are all accountable. I’m just as guilty as everyone else. Anihilation wouldn’t be the worst thing ever. Let the non-humans live, they did nothing wrong.  Goodbye, I’ll speak with you on facebook.

Facially Fucked

Faster faster faster. Muarice was facially fucked. Outside his Grandparents house on their ranch a dog wandered up from the main gate that leads to the cow pastures and ambled coyly about the driveway Maurice tied his shoes on the bench just outside the sunporch on the left side of the house. The dog was covered in a thick layer of his own oil and had been lost for some time, but Maurice was too far away to notice when he called the dog over.  He resumed tying his shoe as the dog sauntered towards the bench.  He was staring at his mud-caked sneakers delicately finishing the final knot on his right sneaker and he could hear the click of the dogs long nails on the pavement as it neared him.  He stood up and grabbed the bottle of bug spray resting on the window ledge behind him and began casually putting it on his arms, watching the greasy, grey haired old dog sniff the potted plants near the door that lead into the sun porch.  As the boy innocently reached down and lifted up his thick white socks to spray his ankles in a mist of chemicals redolent of the mid-west, he noticed the dog tearing into the plant nearest to him. He had already sensed that it was a mistake to call the venturesome mutt over to him initially and now he wished the dog would go away. He could hear the clamor of his family, who had now finished up their breakfast and were preparing to come outside.  He quietly asked the dog to leave and pointed up the road, he feared that if he was caught near the dog he would be asked to fix the flowers, for which he didn’t feel responsible.  Gesturing didn’t work, so he bent down to shove the dog away.  Maurice had his hands on the dog’s rear-end and was steering it away from the plants, gazing backwards towards the door for the incipient arrival of his family.  He turned his head forward and met with the dogs teeth. The dog quickly turned to nip, like nippy dogs do, and went for the nearest bit of skin, which was the boys face. One of his upper canines were lodged inside Maurice’s right eye socket and as he leapt backwards a sizeable portion from the right side of Maurice’s face was left in the dog’s mouth.  The beast lunged again. Maybe it had a taste for tender boy flesh, as so many do; or maybe Maurice still appeared threatening, gesticulating wildly and screaming his head off; or maybe it had caught rabies from the Racoon it had cornered the night before.  For the face again, it got hold of his nose and gave him a butcher’s rhinoplasty.  Emmet, his father, kicks the dog across the face. Im dead youre dead we are all dead. Emmet is probably a rapist himself. Not only does he hate his own son, but he hates it all. He hates you and me. Im not really affected by it, because most things don’t affect me. Im in a wheelchair and I can barely breathe on my own. No one cares, so why should I?  Maurice is my friend.  I don’t mind that he spits on me when he talks emphatically. I don’t mind much. Maurice showed me his penis once, he layed it on the table as we ate, like a limp zuchinni.  It was huge. If I could get erect, I would have been so.  He expresses his menial desires to rape someone, and does so without a speck of spit.  He wants to, badly.

Life Sux

This inquiry begins where thought ends—death. The worst of all possible things, although sometimes the end result of the worst of all possible things, like torture, or a life of rape, any sort of terrible existence. One doesn’t have to have any facts, or know any history to fear death and come to profound insights about it. I remember being very young, probably 9 or 10, and the throught of death would creep into my mind in the middle of the night as I lay patiently in my bed waiting for sleep to overtake me.  It would keep me up, my entire body would become taught with fear. I’d have to get up and search for something to distract me, the thing that worked best was the poster from 5th grade graduation. Okay so now I realize I must have been older, probably 11 or 12, and in middle school rather than elementary. On the toilet under fluorescent lights I would examine all the faces and try to recall things about my classmates. With that rectangular sheet of laminated photo paper I could distract myself from death, and fill my head with idle thoughts. Upon leaving the bathroom I would concentrate to keep those thoughts cycling through my head, and fear would again well up in my frame when I could feel the thoughts coming back.  If these thoughts were a color, they would be black, and they would spread across my mind like viscous octopus ink, leaving everything grim and murky. One day my life is going to end, and its going to end in a way that is incomprehensible. Incomprehensible because its not like flipping a switch, because there is no darkness to comprehend. Its death, I don’t fucking know what its like, its unfathaomable, unthinkable, the worst of all possible things. It taints life, muddies the rich elixer that we drink in as human beings. Time time is bad too, little kid. I want to start over. Goodnight.


This one began. This one began, and this other began, and then they entered one another’s proximity, and, like animals, appreciated the curious shape their species had taken. Two forms sat beside eachother.  She looked nice; small faced with a warm smile, clearly eastern European by his account, for he had a predilection for these types.  She admired him, in his stylish, lithe body--a fairly good form on which to hang the latest fashions.  Rough and little, tiny fart-sacs on golden wheat that lay still, barely touched by the light of the moon. No two people had met in circumstances like this before.  He felt it quicker than she, but it came eventually.  Just let it flow, let it come naturally, your mind can process something other than your own thoughts.  A story, something insightful, something revelatory. It lies in your life, a life that resonates with a few readers, I do hope. Hope and hope, say it, smoke it, do it all, let the words come and call.  Do you hear them?

No I don’t hear them, they died in your mind, spent like a flaccid penis after sex.  With alacrity you try, you search for a story that is your own, we all do, but yours is one unworthy to digest—even though it does come out like shit. Can you understand, am I transcribing my mind or just trying to? Indolent boy, you came to late, you never practiced and this is the best result you can muster. Like a weak fart from a dying old man trying to shit himself: teetering, tottering, almost there, and then comes a puff of pathetic air.  

Something Forgettable

Birds bark and bray through the silky air currents. They are not food, they are fodder for the imagination; they are the idyllic dream.  Three young boys of high school age sit silently on a bench and gawk at the hawk—an aberration in the London sky. Their minds soar, separate and converge chaotically like a pack of pigeons as they are penetrated by the regality of the hawk’s features. It’s so much nobler than them. They are just a troupe of boys wracked by their overpowering sexual urges and uncertainty. A lithe, leggy black girl walks by and they are grounded again.  Ribald comments are bandied as they chase after her in their anachronistic roller skates.  Such is the mind of a man, pilloried by its own biological demands—best suited for coasting and sexual boasting. 


Way good on the real side of things. Alone, I dance with your spirit in my kitchen. Your face and my face collide, to soften things we purse our lips and aim. No no no, you’ve misquoted, I said that I think I do not entirely on purpose love and desire to caress with my eyefingers your every cell. In a world full of evil humanlings, there is one God, he took a break and gifted me his insights. Warm and fragrant like bed sheets that are always occupied by your friends.  Fine lines cross her face like hair, actually it is her hair, so picturesque, or wait it is a picture, of reality, of which there is no such thing. Woman: lithe, her petite shapeliness and undiluted body, pure and sacred. Essenceless, she is, senseless is my love--based on pure sensesation. Idle fantasies: I get drunk on liquor and drink in her form from safety--clandestine peeks between bobbing heads (my eye fidgets).  You are art, I don’t need to represent you.

Mindless Drug Addicts

Three young punks throw open the front door after spending the last nine hours in the same room smoking meth and playing video games. Redolent of suburban decay, they walk to the edge of the street and around the corner, just out of view of their nosey neighbours, to await their ride. It’s their dealer; he seems louder and touchier than normal. The three punx glance anxiously at each other-- undoubtedly with similar thoughts on their mind.  The dealer knows that the tall one, with the long, dirty, purple hair, is hosting the other quiet ones in the hot topic hoodies while his oblivious parents are vacationing in Lake Tahoe.  The 4 of them perambulate Concord in the dealer’s torn and faded yellow wagon smoking more cranial candy.  As the four of them wind, without orientation, about the large grey suburban hopscotch, two of the dealer’s friends steal valuables from the house.  However, the nosey neighbors notice everything through their tacky lace curtains, and they phone the police.  Sirens are off, so the pock-faced robbers don’t notice anything, and are arrested quickly, (totally dumbstruck) without resistance.  High and doe-like, the three punks arrive back home, by way of the corner, to a band of cops questioning the elderly neighbors.  The boys are seized with anxiety, and their shoulders tense as two female officers with notepads approach them.  Their six obsidian eyeballs shimmer when they squint at the monstrous maternal peacekeepers in the mid-afternoon sun.  They seem interrogative, abrasive, and distrustful to the three demure teenagers’ addled minds.  Their parents are spoken to, and the quiet boys in hot topic hoodies are sent home.  After all is settled with the police, Purple spends a nervous night smoking the remaining meth and watching cooking shows in Spanish. His parents return home from their vacation 3 days later to find him thoroughly dead.  The parents spend the ensuing month struggling against a relentless deluge of grief, despair, regrets, lamentations and a miscellany of other unfiltered emotions that come pouring from deep within their own hearts.  Trembling with sadness, at the suggestion of their therapist, they clear his room.  Among the pile destined for the dump sits a number of inconspicuous school notebooks filled with drawings, poems and short stories of an unknown genius—one pilloried by drugs and the absurd. And so he passed silently through time, his written whispers too quiet for it's din. 

Tuesday, 28 February 2012

a smattering of honest feelings

most people are dead, lifeless, disingenuous freaks, devoid of all truth, totally faceless faces. their stares bounce of your chest like empty peanut shells and you flow to converge with your river of friends. friends that are real-talkers of unique character: embracers, dancers, effervescent romancers. they love you with violence, they share themselves in silent corners. they are a deluge of true feelings and the problems with cliche's. they hug your spirit, even though everything is dead, empty and vapid. we commiserate, my true friends and I.

Sunday, 19 February 2012

Drifting into tomorrow.

dead alive not happy to survive slack attack the beer sphere with fast Pabst down my throat. Joke with fake, belligerent unfriends and pretend that time will persevere 'til the very end. Take down all their habits, watch them like a nervous rabbit. Fit in like a snake, slither and imitate. Crouch, duck, hide, abide by the voyeur's silent stride and watch the immaculate young bodies undress.

Tuesday, 31 January 2012

Dimly Imagined Things

Music distorted and adulterated by cheap effects screen the night. Glowbulbs line the freeway for outdated future footage. The dirt we deal for dollars stains our super spirits like spilt beer. Torrents of dick tears drown the 17 year olds; a laughable bath for diluted kids.  Play/stab the corrugated facades; junk the good stuff; finger the ray being split by the pole and let others think deeply on your blank soul.

Thursday, 26 January 2012

A Scene

Santa Cruz, California, Beach Street, diagonal to the arcade, right behind the beach, with only a road and lethargy separating the soles of my shoes from the sand. I wouldn't want to go shoeless on the beach because I hate carrying around my shoes--it feels so stupid absurd like picking up your dog's turds.

Monday, 9 January 2012

A new start

With arms akimbo he awaits their ethereal grace.
They touch him and he billows.
Inside his mind they labor away,
Reworking the rusty and disused dendrites.
A tyro with his new brain, he is awkward and inefficient.
The chords come slowly, and much paint is thrown away,
But, eventually, he is foisted from the garbage like a broken idol
And reassembled to perform for his friends.
Their accolades are like whispers
For he is tumescent with self-satisfaction—it is the first time, ever.

Saturday, 7 January 2012

Superficial feelings

Dead on arrival, stuggling for survival
Besieged by the giants of literature
Shackled by my own vices
Distracted by the internet
Im a pile of garbage
A hapless mass of waste
Stuffed with lifeless potential
Mind open like a sore
I poke it with my finger strokes upon this keyboard
This jagged arrangement of words is too personal
So you pass over me like a cloud
I want to fire laser beams at the sky and carve my name in the atmosphere
But instead I will commence to willfully rotting my latency.


Rough like hair rubbed backwardly, you lurk.
You hurt, rend and tear at the fine fabrics covering convention’s breasts, hopelessly.
She is a swarm and can bear you.