You are not a real person. I will tell you why: drugs slip through your fingers like siphoned gasoline when nothing explodes. The evidence is in truck stops. Meat markets. Street corners. Between your paint splattered legs. You never wash your hands. ((I hope everything explodes.))

Beauty in gasoline puddle rainbow.

You drink people until the ice melts (carbonation lost). You drink people until they begin to naturally ferment. Sweet smelling bruises on sweet smelling fruits. You drink people under the table. You drink people with three quick shots of whisky and Lucky Charms. You aren’t an alcoholic until you’re doing cocaine. You drank my emotions with a bendy straw.

Your limbs betray you in dangerous ways. I dreamt of holding your head, clean&bloodless, and you spoke to me but I couldn’t look into your eyes. Your body speaks in jolting twitches and graceful spasms, and your voice says nothing like the way you hold your head at an angle. I don’t know how to hold your head – not under my arm, against my body. I don’t want to hold this for you.

You are analog. You are lo-fi. You are clockwork. You are beta. You are a television script handwritten from a photocopy of a mimeograph copy someone translated from a garbled German cassette tape left in a hot car.

Haplography at line 352, and there are numerous erasures and corrections within the text.

If you existed I would never get out of bed.

Love is influence in movie theaters. Mexico is cheaper than dying – someplace past the bordertown. I will go nowhere with you, the cops always come. Jaywalking is a crime.

My arm reads, “burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’” and the man told me about burnouts. People shine bright and burn out glorious/momentary. I should stop watching fireworks.

We have nothing but life to lose.

The video cuts out here; nothing more can be determined from the tape.

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