Monday, October 5, 2015

cutting open some possessions a-holes.

time is slow as hell. nothing is charming- merely, adrift. charm is unreal- wanted, but holds refusal to speak to me. i wanted to charm and didn't: i crawl on my hands and ass toward the end of the day. the journey is a slippery slope. i do what it takes to get there and i keep it minimal.

not all births pull through. you don't always finish what you start. we all do decompose at different rates anyway. it is uncomfortable. the guarantee of life is it's okay to fuck up in this manner.
is it not okay the world is broken? am i really the only one that can feel it and know it's not just like sandpaper?

my ear is to the conch. i hear everything's nothing, which is breath- electric, and bunched into black and white: the flipbook. i acknowledge this is distorted noise- an accurate reality like all of them. i know the dark matter. isn't that stupid? i force an image of an ocean because one doesn't immediately conjure. it is not an ocean. if long horizontal landscapes exist, there is one that does command a presence. it is a desert.

i know my own destiny. isn't that stupid again? i like it and society tells you to judge. that means that's your job.
so dislike it: know your own destiny.

extreme nausea all over the areas underneath my ears. i don't know how to explain it or why i'd have to anyway. everything can be found in the extreme nausea under my ears, except my self-evident failure. maybe my birth did not entirely pull through. maybe i hit my head as a baby. maybe i forgot to take my medication this morning.

it has been months since i initially mourned. i live for that for which i continue to mourn. i don't know what to name that which i live for; which i mourn for. everyday i wake up and continue to bury the same remains that brought me to this point. this is a pattern.
must i continue onward this way? it smells like dog food. it's a real think-tank, all right. it feels good to burp. the smell of dog food is what has shaped me. two-year-olds and i have everything in common.
this sometimes entails an act of censorship. it is sometimes not an act, so it doesn't happen. all acts require choice. what is a choice?

i am doing everything you are not supposed to do in life. it feels like i am refusing to choose. i do this, because i don't know any better. i was raised in a dunk tank. i was raised in a shit-hole.
i forget everything that happens because i am touching a shadowy figure i don't even know. are you mad at me? are you mad at me?

when you fail to succeed, you can always fuck up real bad. you can do drugs and prostitute yourself literally. i do not succeed nor do i fail in that conventional-speak. i don't even feel abandoned by the moments that have passed. i don't know what they are anymore if they no longer exist. what it is i feel abandoned by is a collective meaning i've displaced; spewed. i long to be a kid in a candy store and all the candy is free and all the candies are all the organs i need to be happy which is what society measures (judges) we're supposed to be.
society shrugs its shoulders just as much as i do.

i am lurking further below, in the murkiest of waters. there is an urgency there. urgency only matters when it is there. imagine you are not you. you are me. you commit suicide as soon as possible because you can't just party. you don't have it in you anymore. it's just not your way.
now, imagine you are not yourself nor anyone else. you are not even a hermit. you live in their spittle. you reflect the hermits. it's your next life. now, you can party. you have it in you.

i don't regret anything. this has nothing to do with doing too many party drugs. i am listless toward anything. don't you ever look back and feel great about where you are now? no. no, i do not.

do i not draw well? are the planets dying? it was never mysterious to me that they are. maybe the point of gravity isn't black-pitchblack. and maybe...maybe the air smells like something neat-o like crackers and white people eating them. i'm telling you, even if you're obedient, beaver, ninety-eight percent of what we are bathing in is anti-matter-dark-matter. maybe it hasn't even been colored in yet, beaver. wouldn't that be a kneeslapper? golly.

i have not even dared so much to sneak into the house of a neighbor and woke up being them (though i have dreamed it. i have seen myself from their eyes. when there aren't eyes, i imagine eyes. the imagined eyes cover the ceilings of everywhere i've gone to. "child," they start, "let me tell you what a wise man has to tell...

"if you wake up, it'll continue being disturbing out there, but only you are disturbed. you must go on. you must continue to feel the weight of the world on your shoulders. you must be the one to carry the pain- for you, dear child, are going to be the only one that isn't a martyr.
"you are going to have a right to say you have all of the pain at once. the ache! it cannot be mistaken. you do know the pain and weight of the world all at once, don't you? the eyes all over the ceilings know."

the stillness
of the hanging faces persist- and if i...if i can
focus a little more, i can continue
onward, with the same

harrowing pain the triple-threat: it hurts me, it hurts
others, it hurts my chances of
getting what i want. deep reticence: so much shame

to receive- which is never a hereditary feat (those
aren't worth addressing). it is free

however, not a wild idea. wild imaginations

don't believe in themselves
anymore. sweet child? mourn! mourn! the
trumpets! jeepers, the lyres!

wild imaginations can't stand to look anywhere
but at

the hanged faces
who cannot be described. these ancestors watch...
the search for them is never intentional...

looking in the clouds i see
clouds. i see, t'isn't my time. hearing

in the conch? no ocean less terrific. this reality

is accurate, nonetheless.

dear child. you enchant me with your insecurities!
after all, dear child. you are honest and courageous.

IN A DREAM, SOMEWHERE- i was supposed to get somewhere at a certain time, and i did, but the door was locked. i didn't get it and also i was panicking. i continued to try to open the door the same way i had the first time. what do i do? who am i now? what do i eat? what do i drink?
nothing was labrynthine or anything- the boring tiles on the boring floor were lined up next to one another evenly as if god made them that way.

i wake up from the dream, somewhere. i'm facing the desolate ocean on a shitty day. i'm jumping up and down past a sandbank unselfconsciously. you can hardly see me. i'm not much.
again i hear everything's nothing but trust it no more than a distorted noise because i don't know any better during the moment which is an urgent knick-knack.

there are several truths according to therapy. what's in the way of the middle? this ocean. this view of the ocean. these tiles. this door. this dream. these insecurities. this conch, these clouds, the hanged faces, god. the several truths are in the way of the middle of the several truths disguised as golden wheat in heaven.
and i might not even care, even if it turns out differently than how expected.

i presume
you expect.

just imagine your are not yourself nor anything else as

how they describe
themselves to you. blank out

for good. it might be nicer to know
you that way; it might