Blues start on monday. Holy rider, ghost on the horizon, why is there so much bubbled brew? Couldn't sleep without twelve, the road gets blurry. Rode the road straight down the line. The grease settles atop the stomachs of fifteen fourteen thirteen year-olds, and I'll have no part of this. Feedback is welcome, the louder the better. You leave around that time, sorry to have you go, but these women think they rule it all. A touch is too much commitment, why bother? No answer? Fair enough. Click, bang, pop, klackity-klack-klack: bull's eye. The blood wouldn't stop. You were looking pretty good then, but I don't mind (Burrrrzurp the cattle died). They dance along the floor like heated little babies in tight gowns, strung together like the tops of soda cans on a hot summer day. My belly was on fire. What is the male figure supposed to look like? Toned muscle and tight skin for whatever the beasts have underneath.
I can't take this anymore, my throat decays at the rate of a million burning suns, and the wind that blows through can't even penetrate my lungs through the gallons of flesh that are supposed to be coursing through my veins. “Lies!” I claim, “lies!” Why are we are separating at the rate which we came together? Experimentalist trash in an Anarchist fashion sets lines in the sand which she won't cross. I am done with it all. I feel better when I have that book. Holy text for a man living in sin. Nine circles, and Virgil is done with; the Beast encapsulates Brutus. Skronk the keys and forget the ceremony where one is drawn-and-quartered like a balloon in the Haight district park. Doo-Da-Doo-Da, free at the very least. Doo-Da-Doo-Da, my fair woman could I perchance borrow said yeast? The answer doesn't matter, we talked of gowns and foot-coverings. Don't let that time slip away though, I can still afford a decent meal. Oh how that body glistens, why can't that be me? Oh how I try and try, but that outcome I can never reach.
I explained this all to my mother, I refer to her differently in person (icannotbesoformal). She sang to me, “My dear, darling boy: do not worry, you have the opportunities to change your ways and make us all proud.” I wanted to cry then and there, “What have I been doing? What happened to the bliss and wonder? Why is it that everything must be in such excess? Why do they come in six? Why do I need thirteen to survive? Why don't they care for my ways? What is happening?” Four hours later my mind shut off of the conceptual and turned to mush. I babbled my brain through understated understanding and burnt up in the sun: two to go. Two too much to take a tally of my tick-tock turntables. I want to make sense, and I want to be clear: I do not love you.
I hate the ocean towns. Everyone is tan and thin and pretty, and I had a beard then. I don't belong anywhere I don't think. I want to be everywhere and everything at once. I have one friend like this. I have one other friend who thinks like this. I have another who can talk about all the sorrowful poetic beauty that nobody can see. We don't casually take drugs and I can not stress this enough. I haven't vomited in months, I am not proud of this; I am becoming too good. I wear a shirt that was given to me as a gift and I feel like I should be upset about this, but I am not. It is now Wednesday, and that is a good day for a wedding I am told. I do not love you.
Just finished my last, (boyhowitwentsofast) I want to be happy about this. Why do wondrous things make me glum? Why is fruit so hard to come by? Why do people try to fill up so desperately? What is wrong with sparse empty spaces? Why can't you accept this? What is wrong with your flesh? Why is it blue all over? Why am I always so tired? Why is the day too short? Why can't we all call it quits? Why can't I go to green-rolling-hills? Why can't I hear the songs of my time? Why is my bank account a miserable whore? Why is everyone so content with taking advantage? Why can't people ask questions and be answered? I want to pull my hair out of its seams and dance upon a bed made of feathers teetering away at some old song, “Alor si mosse, e io li tenni dietro,” I need that guide, I need that guidance, I need some guiding. AHA! I'll catch you there, and I will catch up when you least expect it, and I will show you my true face and you will swoon and I will repeat: I do not love you.
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