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I don’t even write.
I simply waste more time,
I feel like smoking ***,
sitting, enjoying this moment,
and watching the world burn bright and beautiful.
I don’t even want to write.
I am nihilistic in this sense, and also self-effacing, masochistic.
And nothing satisfies me, so I am like the Buddha, and relinquish my rights to the great systemic pattern.
Killing time and hoping for the apocalypse to move the broken record that skips and repeats.
Why waste more time writing the things that have been said?
Why express the inexpressible?
I wish to forget the meanings of all the words and pen bleak and esoteric paragraphs in universal grammar.
As I slowly begin to forget even what I was thinking of a minute ago, that thing that prompted this new but white opaque letter.
There is nothing more to say than that and why spend more precious moments contemplating the inevitable.
I have digressed to a state of vague generality so profound that all meaning is lost.
And I can only wipe the spit from my lips and experience the thinking slow and bored perception.
I am complicit in this great shadowy game.
The game that is me
and that is you
but also both of us together, as a whole
and my tacit approval of the state of things has lead me to a deep and darkened valley,
a slippery ***** of mud meant for clawing fingernails in desperation.
And I, like the rest of my generation have perfected the bacchanal and reverie of the leisure life.
Soaking up the romantic narratives of a primitive past to accept the fate of indecision, and construct meaning from the meaningless.
Picking up the pieces of a shattered ghostly mirror only to rearrange them in the likeness of a persistent and inherent logic, which can only be shown and never understood; my own computational meat sack ever deteriorating, or perhaps growing, to the ecstasy through entropy.
I have yet to find the great rut!
On the brink of a new n’other I am blinded by choice.
And I’ve yet to find my voice!
And proof of purchase is another thing entirely.
My misery is self-imposed,
and understood as only frivolous
trash beneath the hooves of trampling centipedes of mars
Because I looked into the stars
And I stared right at the sun
And felt the rapture in the wake
Of the wave I meant to break
Sometimes I wonder if there is any line between poetry and prose, or prose and story. Where is this line? What is the difference? Is it some kind of structural difference? The problem with this is it becomes difficult to define where the structural lines are drawn. Is it some difference in the use of language? Anyone who has read Burroughs knows there is very little difference between his language in poem and prose. It all comes down to that old bald thought experiment. If we were to remove hairs from a man’s head, one by one, at what point would he be bald? It must be the context. This is a poem because it is presented as such.  

The thing about it is I don’t really give a ****.

The thing about it is that I’m just looking for something that I do not know.
And I get a kick out of pretending
And sometime something something I’m a little bit high now folks
Because sometimes I need something too
all the time
And Some might say that you can get a lot higher without drugs than with them
But at this day and age that’s becoming less and less clear for most folks
Including myself
And that’s pure Thompson
May the great decadent castle topple down!
And I, like a noble captain,
Will sink with her
I stand with hunched broken back
On the backs of millions
Pondering lifelessly

I smell something. I can’t really know what. It’s horrible. I do not know if it is me or someone around me. A woman in front of me has a dark line around the back of her neck. As if that crease her skin collected some errant dirt and she never washed it off. I don’t know but it may be her. Or I may be a ******* because she is pretty fat. And that’s empirical. And I know it’s not her fault, but I may have some sick bias against fat women brought on by repeated social direction. I remember when I thought of myself as undesirable. I did not wash. And I didn’t shower yesterday. And really I don’t know if this line here on her neck is really dirt, but ******* that smell. It’s killing me, and even distracting me from the gripping narrative of the American sedition laws during WW1. Honestly it is probably me, but why is it so persistent? Wouldn’t I fall victim to scent saturation blindness, or whatever that affect is called. The point is you can’t normally smell your own stink, and none of us even notice our own stink. I think there is something in that somewhere. I can’t smell my own stink, and so I blame this poor girl.
I had to say something
My skin was starting to crawl again
And the backs of my eyelids were itching
Everything was deconstructed
And I saw infinity there
Well really I saw infinity everywhere
As if it were a forgone conclusion

They managed to make my heart pump In my ears
I had never known there were men on mars
Training in esotericisms like philosophy and Art
And did I mention I made a lot of this up
As some kind of joke on you
Because I’m far too Oh! So terribly concerned
That I will fail And Oh! How embarrassing
Reputation is the only currency we have
Now that privacy is gone
But there’s still money
And don’t we all just love her
When watching a zombie movie, did you ever think we are the zombies?
Did you ever think we are the shambling dead?
The listless mourning, past its prime
The rotten apple, left to rot
Everything gets better and we feel worse
Our project, nigh finished, and here we sit
Only complaining, and waiting
I think and I spit
On the ground
(I heard that’s illegal in Singapore)
As I am just another falling leaf
In the autumn of an empire
I sit with the TV on mute
Hoping for some lateral inspiration
From kitsch
I am born of kitsch, of product placement, and buyer’s remorse
And I have no shame for it
I am another product
Built by a combination of complacency and incompetence
Incompetence in one place and competence in another
And I sold the world
And it made me a nice profit
But then there was nothing else to say
And nature reared her mighty head
Hubris led you years ago, and now does shame
An experiment that drew no conclusions
And only drew on time just a bit longer, pulling film across the projector
And inventing for just that brief moment
All that we held dear
“I spent the rest of the day smoking joints and listening to music. There was very little else that I had going for me. I was left hungry for something I could not put my finger on so I wondered the streets until dawn. With my head down I tried to feel confident but could only manage to fake it. A cloud of thought grew out around me, only broken by the introduction of some new stimuli as I walked. And very little stuck with me on my journey unto dawn. “

I read that in a book. I think it’s Joyce.
But that would be convenient wouldn’t it?
“Tell me, do you have a better idea?”
I wonder, is there one
Or are we all just products?
such a tired cliché…
I’m the miser’s purse
Something Something, we don’t care,
You and I,
Where this goes.
Do we?
Have a drink on Bukowski though
Despite my lack of common tact
I do have dreams you know.
And where were you when Burt and Ernie told us our Sponsors
And Images with discreet meanings rested in our hearts?
We Don’t need to read ******

“If you won’t stop screaming I’m gonna have to call security.” She said to him. His glare ****** her way. “Secure this,” He said. He ****** his hand into his coat producing from it a photograph of dollar. He handed it to her asking “can you break this?” She looked at him in fear and confusion “Sir this isn’t legal tender.”

“well I say it is” he said. But that was it, as security immediately burst into the room and the scene devolved into panic and screams.

<*** text="He perceived an abrupt break in the energy, an ebb, stagnation. Everyone appeared to know where everything should go from here, But pretty soon he saw realized they were all talking out their ***** and he turned to leave."></***>

When we’ve reached that beautiful peak I want you to throw the radio in the tub. {
mood: toska;
languge: english;
background-position: -40.7127 -74.0059;
why-am-i-doing-this: IDK;
Reading an art magazine and Jason Goes to Hell is on in the background, I cannot really get anymore satisfyingly pretentious. The day is softly leaving me now and I don’t really see much point in being so cryptic, as some people might like to do. I have found that I reuse a lot of words. I wonder what that means. They come in waves. I’ll use a word over and over and then drop it. Sometimes I will make up words and use them for a time. This movie is god-awful but I can’t seem to get off the couch. So to the keyboard I roam, the path to corporeal transcendence. As is above, so below, as the saying goes. And I stand between with my machine.

Ting Teting ting
Teting ting
Teting ting
I’ve found that I’ve come to be blessed by the Thing
And I Ring! and I Ring! and I Sing and I Sing!
For the courage counter-culture creature torture
Sold for sport
I have a dog his name is brady
Ugh. stop already maybe
There is
can do
there is
can do
are we
stuck here?
My bastardized hand trembles at the sight of its own reflection
Understanding the unknowable
I am cut and pasted
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