bald-head turned his back “the bodies,” said he, “are what run these here foundries” he spat in a grave and he scratched at his jowls yellow sulphurous smoke draped itself around his suit like a mink scarf he laughed/coughed abruptly and spun to me “I’m joking Sonnie, get that hooked-cod look off your face” But I could hear moaning in the dirge of...
There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.– Ernest Hemingway
Love you grandpa
I’m going to play tennis more. Thanks for teaching me how. I hope being dead is more fun than it looks.
House of Leaves
Definitely scratching the itch that This Side of Paradise left irritated.
Denial tastes like swallowing a light-bulb: coppery, gritty, and fatal.
I felt the prickles of sunlight for the first time in months each one brought to life a dead cell or reset aching bones the only thing we will wear soon is our sweat and at night we will dig deep into the soil to feel that older coldness but only for a short while.
The birds did not sing so much as scream, like a squirrely preteen seeing the boy of her dreams. I woke up to their cries to each other from the countless branches of countless trees. I am in bed alone in a house that is not mine, but my lover’s. She is nowhere in sight, and the only clothes on the floor are my own. Dirty discarded jeans and a turqouise shirt which carries an odor of...
UG Drug Thread
“If my parents knew I was part of a group who celebrated christmas by drinking cough syrup they would probably cry.”
second verse to a future corpse
If I could eat your heart and gain as much goodwill as you had your entire life I would do it. If somehow my shouting stopped atoms from shifting and homes from closing down I would tear my larynx. If every composite sketch and crumpled piece of sheet came alive and toppled upon me I would let myself be devoured by my abandoned ideas We can paint our bodies with lead and hope the brain damage...
Who wants a foot massage?
Itinerary has been reduced to: thinking, breathing, fucking, schemeing. (and I think about fucking too so thought doesn’t even count) I have to focus on focusing on something abstract and decoding it like a cryptogram; a dinky puzzle inside a box of Crackerjacks I can know my basest instincts or I can’t know anything I am a semi-pseudo-quasi-root of a-human being and I can...
Can’t write at all today because I didn’t think at all today. I just rotted.
I dreamt about insects all night.
When chills blew in from the north east you heard not from me a sputter We shoveled coal and created heat by huddling near eachother But deep down we were Donner and our teeth were not held back our fleshy love was a sure goner stifled by a cannibal attack from your embrace I did acquit your affection you did fritter though we argued we both did admit the once wild wind was now not...
Who needs relations
when you have a pharmacy in your bathroom? when you have a fist and some chapstick? when you have enough cheap-shit vodka to fill a bathtub? when you have enough books to keep you sharp? when you have enough noise to keep you angry? Nobody
I’m king of metallic taste and razor burn got talent in getting what I do not earn fucking that queen with the metal shoulder blades icy sweet philosophy and junk pile ways but those are the breaks when life degrades to what you can and cannot take (On nights like these I can’t feel my stomach when I sleep.)