hes skipping the blank parts.
fire spewed speaking out his eye and everything.
swear it lets the silence in.
to ***** midmorning naught but bile
and tar from your lung, sour taste on tongue 'and charred resinous lips and cankers in mouth.
skipping the blank parts.
this is too much to put in words it pains darling like mouth is faucet ears are ringing sight is grey and unwholesome nerves are sweaty like wrists and jaws too. heart thick heavy beating like a ******* palms and brow sweaty
a new nightmare never sleep gone delirious ever after think only of the thee and the thine and what can i do to make it stop naught but drink for ever after.
early sunday is the worst day. days are ever after cursed is sunday and the bad day, was always was it leads to monday and the no sleep and you go to school or work and they all know you are so tired
so id rather skip the blank parts and spend in blankets cold and clutching to this bottle ever afer like a baby cuz its nicer when its blank here.
so now its the dawn gray, the child breathes in all the nerves of the surrounding block and breathes in.
what thoughts there darling stir that tattered man of child man of scattered breaths and
and of least action least least resistance
night smokes away in his lungs.
his sight unsteady and grey, **** the stars.
his head holds the stars as he passes away.
he thinks, "I dont wanna be astounding, I dont wanna be anything, the dreams, i smoke the night away...why wont they listen?"
the yammering outside his windows
he clutch the sill, needs for balance and hes sweating thinks the week back in his memory. did something dumb but he skips the blank parts like a movie but its not his cellophane life its becoming more like that he thinks
the cats outside his window yammering outside his window
"headache man and the sunup surprise" he thinks, garlictongued and glittering of sweat.
something strange here something dumb something wicked.
like melodica, im disturbed in step
hitched his pants hitched breathing summer sweet midsummer nightmare is the thirst and drink.
"and somehow it helps" he thinks, head droning like the bees they are buzzing out his window, but screech in speak like the crickets
the air might ripe and seethe.
he can barely breathe.
the scarlet cheeked is he and fairly farther from himself than usual, laid away in pace and time and people, all else arrested. the vines now they crawl along his sill on which he clutches ever after pick the roses from his cheek.
and so he often thinks of it, and his peers think its selfish, but he pronounces himself in such ways as to make it pronounced that he is thinking of this.
and they give him no consideration, no pause or gaze to entitle him to a moment's breath of doubt,
that he is most gnawingly alone.
they gather no cinema, no accord, no intervention. they simply do not comment upon his lost thoughts. and this no comment, for him it seems, gives him validation for his, heretofore mentioned, but heretofore implied, unmitigated and (some may say) uncalled for unarrival.
there are no senates in the state of human. only the mindnumbing pain that is his sour being, upon which he has coerced the subject upon the senate to be impressed:
that he is waiting for the right moment, to be impressed.
to be enough to take himself.
it is not pity, but such a bitter impulse.
that brings him to himself, to take.
and as father of all pronouncements, the species of newspaper blaired...
"the king is dead, long live the king."
so of which he was reading, was par for the course.
he sat down with his wife, and his son, and he spoke to them gracefully in his normal fathers and mothersfamily whisper, he said:
"this is the time when we must eat our cereal, and be well-versed in our gods, and our gaols. and we must believe in the powers that be. for they have told us no lies and will tell us no lies. and if it not so, then this paper begs the difference.
this paper...pulp...and felt, and gold, and ink. will never speak of us naught.
and for what they proclaim to us, the masses, is written in ink,
and thus, so stone.
so god ate his wheaties that day.
and so i rant and so i speak in illogicals and i so im biased i know.
this is what it takes to be a journal and to filter all the bad ***** things that are black out of the poets mind.
so blame it on cadence, blame it on speak, blame it on linguistics, blame it on my upraising, blame it on an apathetic attitude,
i dont care, just blame it.
just it is my mood and it will not be forgotten, it is me that is scribing this sentence, so it is not forgotten, on the fence and bethrothed to many ideals hence so i be,
i am not an idiot.
i am no coward.
i am not a leech, nor am i a parasite, nor i am a murderer, nor am i criminal.
i sit still still with moles burrowing their burrs into the underground, waiting for the tunnel, and so, the light.