Title is title.

I sit in front of a warm fire and I sweat.
I feel like trash and have been sitting in this seat since I woke up.
Motivations running out.
Stone me.
With smoke or granite.
Unplug the Internet and hang myself with the cord.
Vomit into a lobster pot for days.
Until I turn inside out.
Four dirt walls.
Leave my grave uncovered.
I want to seep into the sky.
Sublimate in the sun.
Or weep until I have washed away an entire city of ash
If I could sing it beautifully maybe you would listen.
Missing the message entirely.
Hanging only in the soft catch and carry of pure emotional release.
This fire is not mine
I did not lay these bricks.
I did not water the tree which produced these burning logs.
Though true, they did not split nor light themselves.
I did, however, purchase the maul with the life insurance money my father has left me.
Using the muscles he left me.
To heat the house he left me.
So I could sit here sweating, asking the Internet, “Can anyone articulate an argument for being anything but Vegan which can not be broken down into,….
only to be met with the obligatory
Fuck you!
Self richeous
douche bag,….
While I quake,
and feel the crack.
The lumps like so much rotted cheese in my throat and stomach
which threaten to burst forth
a deluge of textured bile
washing it all from my eyes
a white room
like a plane stuck in the clouds
all water
a purity
to exist in an aesthetic abstract,
the dandelion clock
in a perfect field on fire
at the center of the hurricanes eye,
because it is 2010
and my father is all but freshly dead
ash on the mantle
in a haunting receptacle
All in and mocking the me I’ve been faking,…
I know!
I’ll print, ‘the death of trite.”
ten thousand times,
on separate sheets of paper,
of which I’ll weave into a rope
to hang the ghost of my former self,
as I sit back,
battling a laughable addiction with pipe resin
wet palms
shaking memory.
Aware of tomorrow
Terrorizing the self with self
on the hour
no respite for the wicked,
Casting stones as if for target practice.
Instead of bailing out the sinking ship.
Do you want to be a part of the solution?
“Of course.”
“Well then look at what you’re doing.”
Oh, I must be cursed.
The ability to see all of this folly,
in self
and peer,
both lover and brother,
all the while crippled by the
“why bother?”
of it.
Would rather be dead than a slave to industry,
or maybe that is what is scary,
when looking down the barrel of life, it is always just that which is left clinging to the muck, pubic hair and semen at the drain of life,…
that eternal, “why bother?”
To scream at my own eyes,
to beg them to love all they see.
To see the thing,
whatever the thing,
for what it is,
not what it is intended to be,
the two are seldom similar,
the thing eternal.
As looking closely even the plastic fork becomes so much more sinister than a simple tool.
It becomes in the stomach of a seagull,
swirling in the gyre
off in some ocean, nowhere near;
out of sight.
But curse!
Never to be unseen.
For only a few pennies to someone.
Long dead before that fork stops staring at the sun.
Your television is an anchor,
whatever station’s the captain.
But, are you really laughing?
Or is that just a prerecorded track?
Funny is now crafted in Hollywood
And unless you’ve upgraded to digital,
you’ve probably missed the memo.
So go crack a coca cola and smile,
or write,
“Godbless America” across your chest and masturbate into the mirror.
This is the dawning of the age of entitlement
and unless you are being foreclosed on
it may be your night.
If I were you I would spark a cigar and ash into an empty envelope,
mail it to Hatti with a note,
which reads only,
“O’doyle rules!”
Then go and post about it for an hour on the Internet.
Refreshing the haha’s until your finger is bleeding a little.
Am I lost,
or did I give up?
I went out searching for myself only to find out that I have lost touch with everything I ever was.
Or more succinctly,
“I have no friends and if you are a bill collector, I just don’t care,…”

Sénior Pigeon holed.

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