Shredding the day's night's
endless waking with a
vengeance and turning to the west with a halfhearted
snicker I pour the contents of my skull into the
stress bin and witness the
crucible of former fantasies twisting the fated
destruction into a sinister pattern of unwelcome deceit which
engulfs my beliefs in an empty but flirty shroud of
ennui digust and
doubt. Pasts without futures
spew forth remnants of
suicide note love letters replete with mercurial
subjectivity and starving children who stare at me with
wide eyes and deserted homes as they
poison the scraps of food they discover so that they can watch the greedy
asphixiate in their hands while they dream of a loving
afterlife. The
elderly man was just fourteen years old so he draws a
memorial to the passage of time on his
casket and grants the wind the status of a
living being so that mothers and children will surrunder to the forgetting of their
existence and not waste themselves upon the shores of a sea of the
mundane which keeps them transfixed long enough to miss the beauty of their
collective loss. "A
pity" he thinks as he slits his wrists and ends up on
life support on
Sweeps Week on
television while a small crew of
junkies and
rapists tape his last breath and go to the drug store for
condoms and
smokes. The
Dad's love for the
Mom keeps him alive, but the Mom's been dead for twenty years and died hating him.
I sleep cause I can't eat.
These are the visions and words which fill my empty moments so I take great pains and medicines to keep them to a minimum. It sucks, but what would you do? I'm not sad, but I'm questioning.