You're spitting blood at me instead of words,
grasping onto clothing,
retching onto your knees,
pleading,
begging,
stupid.
I'm simply kicking the chair from underneath you,
you strung yourself up.
Consider it the lesson of your life,
and the end of it.

I feel that old twinge of bitterness creeping up again from the shadows.
I almost don't recognize the pattering footsteps of the old fiend.
never the less, the hair on the back of my neck stands up and my eyes glaze over.
Next thing you know I'm foaming at the mouth speaking gibberish in-between nips at your ankles.
Ah! the familiar pang of imaginary injustices,
piling up and filing in to rows of sentences without pauses.
Oh what a wonderful feeling is that of the raw ball of hate caught in the throat!
Venom drips from the fangs hidden in nonchalant inquisitions.
Tread carefully for I lay in brush of amber straws waiting for the perfect time to lunge.
Needless to say, I did not seek out the dog that teethed upon me. Nevertheless, I've become unforgiving and rabid.

Every time it happens she can feel it breaking off,
branching out and reforming.
Every time she utters a word,
she is walking down a new path constructed a millisecond before she steps.
She is choosing her realities with no particular discrimination.
It isn't that she wafts through the wind without care,
it is that she calculatedly assembles her existence but fails at being an active member in it's design.
She could be,
though in doing so she would doom herself to a path of bland ever-constant introspection and would have to forgo living life altogether.
A billion or so versions of her move in unison so perfectly that even the most scrupulous judge would not find fault in her chorus lines.
However there is always something amiss,
even if it be nothing more than a hair they are all separate and un-touching.
Which of these 'perfect' copies is the 'real' one is an utter mystery.
I think it is safe to say that they are all the 'real' ones,
what is important here is the particular one.
There are trillions of paths that hold her,
but not quite the her that we are speaking of now;
not the her that moves her pencil to the left in such a way as to create a stray mark on the paper;
not the her that wrote this.

And then you say, "All we are is dust in the wind."
Little specks,
enumerable and miniscule,
grains of the infinitesimal,
listless,
pointless,
directionless,
fading dreams of nothing.
Well, I say "Thank God, I love the prospect,
there is freedom in being nothing."
Why are you so displeased with this conclusion?
Is it that the contention you wrought is dispersed by my contentment?
We'll let it drift then on the wings of some updraft on it's way to God.
invisible to the naked eye,
just as you and I shall drift thoughtlessly into the atmosphere.
Little particles of dust fading into nothing and immeasurably free.

I'm leaning on a stand for support of something or other,
he's putting the mic closer to the speakers;
feedback.
It's a response to questions I was caught screaming towards the back wall,
only to hear them break at the far-end over the tops of 'them'.
Vibrations making my skin tremble,
in fear,
in repose,
in envy,
of those whose lights shine brighter than mine do.
In this dark secluded resting place of weary alcoholics and cheap lays,
who am I trying to impress but the bartender who gives shoddy looks through ***** glasses.
She's squiggling on the floor and I doubt she even knows why,
but he can dig it.
Nobody gives a **** what's playing as long as they hear it.
So I have them hear it,
they have them feel it
and we go on like this for forty-five minutes.
They're grateful,
but their drunk so that's not saying much.
This is all the fantasy I psych myself up for,
I'm projecting.

I'm laying in the ruins of my own new lifestyle.
Tipped over bottles of ***** aside,
I still feel okay.
I wonder if the world's crusted over pedestals still condescend to me
or if I have gone beyond their gaze.
There are little plastic fairy tales dancing around in my head like tipsy gumdrops.
What wonders shall spring from this:
(the new day,
the old day,
the ever increasingly frequented day)
except hangovers and light thoughts about how I'm handling this well,
I'm handling this extremely well.
Again.
I still feel okay as long as there is 80 proof to wake up to.

Everyone is up to their knees in **** talk,
They all word ***** in mass.
So I sit back and I watch them eat each other,
whilst falling over themselves.
It's something akin to the end of days.
Revelations revealed in all it's gory details.
I'm just waiting for the ravens to pluck out their eyes.
It's ravenous and disgusting the way they drool at the scent of blood.
It sickens me the way they tear at their own flesh.
They're so consumed with blood-lust and so attached to their own need to feed that they lost track of where their skin ends and their prey's begins.