February 6, 2013
Seventy seven seven Seventy
How many times can I arrange words on a page
How many words can I arrange page on times
30 hundred 100 thousand million
I am so tired from all of this sickness and health around me
Are we all in an Albert Camus novel or what?
Sweet Jesus on a telephone, why are we so far apart?
Why am I so far away?
Is this the way the world ends, with a cliché?
Is this the way the world begins, with a half-assed Camus reference?
February 7, 2013
What does it mean to be a poet?
Can I sing like Whitman?
Can I growl like Bukowski?
Can I cum like Ginsberg?
Can I hallucinate like Blake?
Does it really matter?
Poetry is to live and to think things over;
The fuck else can I do, write a poem about a flower for the 2500th time?
No thanks, I’ll just cum with words everywhere.
(Hopefully I don’t get anyone pregnant that way. Hopefully.)
February 8, 2013
Scary Movie 1: Boring
Scary Movie 2: Holy boredom Batman
Scary Movie 3: Snoring right now
Scary Movie 4: Get this shit away from me
Scary Movie 5….hopefully never see that in my life
Wayans brothers or Zucker or whoever, do you understand what comedy
Comedy is more than random references or disgusting moments; it’s that perfect moment where all ironies come together to remind us of how fucking silly we really are.
That’s the truth, and fuck these franchises that pretend to know better.
February 9, 2013
I am sick.
February 10, 2013
Temptation makes beast of us all, especially me; Who doesn’t covet and want and NEED someone else’s girl, even if they’re boring as dog shit and up in the air somewhere and couldn’t give a fuck less about you: It’s just the fact that YOU COULD DO IT, that makes it so much more…interesting, so to say.
But let’s be honest here, it’s just fantasy situations; scenarios that are better than reality, and reality continues to exist, and to thrive, even, but not in this way.
Never in this way.
Call me selfish or perverted or snake-like and I wouldn’t raise a finger to “defend my good name”. Whatever that means.
February 11, 2013
I walked seven miles today
Seven miles of this odd old city
Holy jumping shitballs my head hurts my feet hut
My soul hurts
And my head, too.
You ever noticed the city before, riding the Metromover and the Metrorail?
But that’s besides the point
I think every day you get to see yourself act and behave in odd ways, and you’re never really sure why you’re acting and saying those things; it’s just the only natural thing left to do
I’m a creep
And a loser
And a weirdo
And someone who would feel happier living on an island with a million pets(and maybe a vagina or two or twelve around, whatever.)
I can’t pretend to be socially adjustable or even a decent friend/person: Deep down, I’m still that awkward cry-baby from childhood and I wouldn’t change a goddamn thing.
Motherfuck the need to “change” because others want you to, or look down on you if you’re fine where you’re at and don’t want to waste time with people you once thought about(or admired for their nice shapely asses, I am a pervert after all, remember?)
I don’t know, is the whole point of being human to feel bad about how you feel and then write shitty poems and then repeat the process all over again?
This chain of events gets boring, so I’ll take my leave and have some fun, again.
I mean, really, isn’t pleasure and being yourself the most important parts of being human? (I know I know, “love” and “family” and “friends” yadda yadda yadda)
Motherfucker those are other avenues for other people, but not what everyone needs; that’s like making an anti-social loner HAVE to be with other people the rest of his or her life.
It just doesn’t work.
February 12, 2013
David Foster Wallace
Hunter S. Thompson
And all the other legends and artistic sons of bitches:
Why oh why did you ever leave us? (I’m so sad now, thanks to you guys.)