I call it poison, but perhaps you won't. These cold pressed apples, pineapples, and spearmint only paste more modge podge over my face as I schlack it on...gritting my teeth I light yet another cigarette, now that's 2 packs of Marlboro Red Labels now onto American Spirits Light Blue. Cancer isn't coming fast enough. I wish I would at least be ******* out my innards by now, I haven't even vomited, maybe I'll take that toothbrush I bought for you to use when you would stay the weekend, that I haven't gotten around to whitening the sink with. Maybe I can do that Sunday. FUUUUCCK!!!! I am not praying I make till then. I don't know if I can even breathe another hour like this. I haven't drawn a sober breath in years- I'm on the wagon, but I was just transferred from a wheel into the **** bag for a horse. Being ****- at least it's something I am used to (a sigh of temporary relief washes over me. Or is it finally the Nicotine buzz I've been hoping for since I escaped to the forest with an airplane bottle of Southern Comfort[Brainstem: South to the **-femalien crease that's been comforting all these years, where are you now?] , and a pack of my Uncle's cigarettes to find out the first time how to make the pain she's gave me go away.

Men drink essentially because they can no longer illicit their needs.

You who I wasn't even attracted to at first, where together we barely called [Brainstem: this is where I construct a motive for using a chainsaw to pick my nose with] . You who I can now remember the way a mixture of your hair, body spray, sweet sweat, and vintage knits began leading my nose and my memory towards one of the greatest happinesses and darkest times I have EVER had.

[Brainstem: I just hate him. The kind of hate you have for a mosquito, a person who encourages you to speed up while they're walking without reflectors or night-lights in the middle of the road at night with their dog- that kind of hate. The hate that has me smoking my cigarettes to their orange and gold filters, that has me staying awake, unable to touch my own **** because it's already started staying at someone else's place and looks like two Californian Prunes and a shriveled overcooked mini-hotdog does. The kind of hate that has me burping up what smells like rotten eggs or bial.

....Out of nowhere without anything but the image of a virginate 21 year old casing around my aorta, lying in my bed in just a pair of her Fuschia & White Victoria Secret striped 100% cotton ******* that ever so slightly crease inward into the creases where her skinny young legs meet the ever-so-bite-worthy crease....After our first official date where we knew we weren't going to **** each other but rather she was focused on her breathing hoping I wouldn't be able to notice how excited she was [Crime: #4] then step away and find an imaginary monster that challenges every thought I have, conversations and incidents and challenges and givers and receivers and lines and dots, darts, knives, life, and *** and blood faintly stained onto the bottom of the that 1 1/2" piece of fabric which is the biggest obstacle between us.

While I write, recall, remember and dictate and draft up this piece, I realize that I am not the lawyer visiting the killer in prison OR even the killer cruising around in a slightly rusted robin's egg blue Volkswagen Anti-Climaxer, I am not even part of the story anymore, after you decided it was acceptable to be so graphically forward with me (I take another Xanax that's beginning to be two an hour that I avoid taking) Interspliced are scenes from Dexter, versions of serial killer life, visions of this fake superstar with his **** out flailing around spurting a little streaky one shot of *** onto your tongue and in your mouth, or maybe you were plastered with it.

I just know it's good I don't have a gun, I could go for a bullet sandwich 9 times over about now. I never touched, discussed, abused, misused, lead on, flirted with; I never did anything unattractive with the exception of being a heavy smoker and a low-earner right now, but I see women even younger than you make better choices than you. In fact right now I believe you will not even breathe on me. But it's no matter I have the reconstructed skeleton of his severed body parts I let soak in hydrofluoro until I could pick away what little gum-like pieces of pink sinew are still left. (Dexter: The Sarge and The Lieutenant walk  out of the precinct at the same noticing each other.

Do you believe that I really handed over the upper-hand to you? I've never had someone begging to **** my **** on a Thursday and getting a fake celebrity ****** from an awesome artist. And what really ***** the hammer and lifts my limp **** and ****-ticket up to your pretty little mouth, is knowing that eventually you will have to be alone again, and the shine of this excitement will wear off, and then I TOO CAN PLAY THE GAME.

1. Time to light the cigars.
2. I present the Nicaruagan landscapers' body, George Marshall, who is better known as 'The Skinner."
3. I accept that you're going to think being honest about your most promiscuous moments is attractive to talk about. I certainly thought that, up until you That is.
4. No more chocolate cake, again.
5. Throw out the soda.
6. Start taking Amphet Salts and running away from home and into everyone I would've liked to kick with my foot, bare, filthy, and furious into their cheekboned. Then smear the bottom of my oily and baby-***, **** and inviting foot into your Hood until you spray like the five hundred other times you tell me you didn't. But even all this. This cell phone, this furniture, the awful sound of the train all night, the illusion and total manic state that puts diplopic faces of imaginary people between me and the rest of the world.

I need to know, do you even want to here this? Are you confused? What led you to come over or invite yourself here?

Pills, blade, play, or having that kid. But putting up with his ******* to be in the background of thought as someone while I was at home with his four kids. And I just relax then because, while I thought organizing the tower room to serve our primary guest of action was necessary when I looked at it so lit up by the buildings across the way shining their light through its atrium making all of the room much more suited for making art, writing and dancing. This is a huge handful of good-naturedness in a friend that can't seem to get off the phone and I must have to hid the monkey. I have to go to Walmart and return the monkey. I will...... and this is the biggest luxury, the hotel maintenance will even cover up my own series of murders or Dexters.

You believe me right sweetheart. You're my closest friend, but she is worn together and I just like the rings I own to be worn by you so that you don't get the idea to slip up and not just give me more anneurisms for my ****** up already head, or cancel the party, but really play that game and seee them cased out, otherwise I could be...a? A Cosmetic Manufact- "I believe in Freedom." You said.
"hahahaha", I can see that got you where you are today, postulating my grief by throwing self-care out the window and just judging me based on what you don't relate to instead of what you do relate to.

PS I know you didn't have time to let anyone know I was coming already? Until I snuck a peak and figured out you had been casing me the whole time from beginning to end to break me. But I'm not broken. I'm just not eager to be touched by anyone else of the ** form other than you for a minute. I also have time believing that while you were scared of me giving you your first ***-to-mouth experience while I stand you up in a skirt in the back of the school bus. And I can recognize tears of someone around us, and so I stand up and I recognize that it's my friend Stephen who is really (...is really, an imagined hologram of myself I invent to learn about myself in dreams, and other horrific events that my mind shuts down for, and no you're not the only 5' foot and 5" inch blonde haired ex of mine that performs from the camera but not for the eye. It will all come out in the wash regardless. I better to get goin.....I could write on and on and on and on about all of these multi-secular, uninhibited, depressing suggestions from the same bill my sister has to pay her Electric and Water monthly on, but I need to not sleep to make the need more. And even though I say the photo of her touching a single toe with a dead boring hell bent nobody Phillistine that could care less about her Grandfather being sick or her getting an STI or STD or if she is taken care of. But I do. I will. I don't stop being the good natured caring and and passionate person I am just because someone I really thought was going to take me an honest man, just taught me to be more meticulous in making sure I dispose of the body properly... But maybe she isn't playing pretend, maybe she's just another Fake Prada caught up in the mix.

I take my coffee black and my sweaters long sleeved, and I walk on weekends down the market lane, with tender hope of seeing her. Today I did.

Now I'm a man of 45, but don't think for one second that I don't remember the way her tiny vein-lined hand grasped my 18 year old shoulder, the way she laughed at how I tensed up, from too much love, or harder memories. I loved the way she laughed, and I shuddered when I heard it as she stood over by the craft stall with a crochet blue scarf wrapped around those same hands. She had grown 42 from years apart, birthday last week, and I'd sat alone and thought of her all day.
I never quite recovered from our three year adolescent romance. It felt more like an Earthquake. I walked through bustling noon-washed streets and traced her soft blonde hair and lithe frame, and I swear I almost felt it on my fingertips again. I should probably have forgotten about her by now, but nobody forgets Earthquakes.

The pavements were lined with people desperately trying to drown her out but she's burnt into my eyes now, and I felt like kicking myself for remembering when I burnt every picture of her in stolen *****. I hated her for about ten minutes. Now I'm 45 and seeing her again has latched a youthful taste in my mouth, and the vivid memory of stained pink cigarette papers from her red lips rolled over me like a tide. I gave up smoking five years ago, I wonder if she ever did. For a moment I lost her in the haze but she was sat in a café alone, looking like she needed someone. 

I thought briefly about sitting beside her and waiting for her eyes to meet mine and glaze over with tears at being reunited with me. And I thought about how she'd tell me how she's been so lonely, and she missed my lips pressed against her neck as if there was a part missing when they weren't. I watched her, and she looked alone. But oh God, she's beautiful. 

The way she sat there lit a bliss inside of me. I watched her, and melted into her mulling gaze, her lips fell open lazily as she observed what was left of the early afternoon rush hour crowds. I decided to sit across the room, just close enough to see the colour in her eyes. I thought some more about how happy she'd be to see me again, leaping out of her seat to greet me, her paper-thin frame clutching to my fleshy torso, and we'd breathe in our scents like we always did. My mind even wandered briefly to her nakedness, protected by bed sheets, as we writhed around beneath them. Her girlish ******* hovering above me, black pupils swelling with unadulterated want. That's what we were like back then. She had no intention of settling down with me, we only squeezed every last bit of adventure out of each other. I found myself continuing to envision her smile entwined with my smile, swallowing down the memory of our bitter, painful departure. I pretended that the last time I saw her wasn't when she slammed her front door in my face, tears blistering her cheeks. I've been pretending for so long, it's like it didn't happen after all.

I observed her all the while, high cheekboned face softly highlighted by the pastel sky of spring outside. This was a quiet café, and I could hear the light tapping of her high heeled foot against the chair leg. She bent down to pick up her handbag and retrieved a pack of blue Mayfair cigarettes and placed them on the table- I suppose that answered my previous question. She sighed heavily, and it then occurred to me that she might be waiting for someone. A friend perhaps, or her sister who always hated me. I'd been watching her for a full ten minutes when her eyes finally met mine. My heart shuddered in its cage and my blood was flowing at such a speed that I didn't notice at first that she wasn't staring at me at all. No, she simply skimmed over me, pupils flickering rapidly, her brain registering me as just another face in the crowd. When I finally noticed this, it was like something inside me had shrivelled up and died. All the hopeful lust, all those years of being consumed by her, I'd been waiting all along for a dull glance. I looked down, and watched my beating heart slide pathetically to the floor and wilt there. 

When I looked up again, I was greeted by the image of her standing to greet a family of two. A man, around my age, tall and skinny with greying hair and thick-rimmed glasses. I watched her slender arms wrap around him, then their lips lock in a disgusting embrace. I couldn't stop the ******* tears from flowing. I looked down again and my heart was having a seizure on the floor, blood oozing from each exhausted vein. 
I paused when I heard the dulcet laughter of the second person. 

A young girl stood, skinny and blonde and heavenly, pale blue eyes gleaming like springtides. With each giggle my mind ached with the image of her mother, spinning in endless circles, her blonde hair wrapping around her neck, and that same laughter in the air. I almost choked when I saw that girl. My eyes exchanged desperate looks between mother and the daughter, the embodiment of whom I loved. With each arduous second my throbbing heartbeat became louder and louder, overshadowing the noise of the customers asking me if I was okay. And she had noticed me too. This time, her eyes met mine with recognition, and her perfect face twisted into an expression of sorrow. She began walking towards me, my whole face turned numb. 

''Sir, are you alright?'' The soft delicacy in her voice rattled my skull and erupted in my brain. I rolled my head back and forth on my folded arms, and my resounding breath caught up in my woollen sleeves drowned out any other sound that wasn't her voice. ''What's your name?'' She asked me. I lifted my head in a daze, and let the wave of blistering unhappiness wash over, and finally crash behind me. The only thing I saw was her daughter. Terrifyingly beautiful, as if the woman stood by my side was sixteen again, and peering at me with total, innocent obliviousness. She was her double. A cut-out photograph gazing at me. And we stared at each other for a while. She was everything to me, and I was nobody. 

''I'm nobody.'' I responded weakly. ''Absolutely nobody.''I'm still trying to decide whether I'm satisfied with this, but I thought I'd post it anyway. I spent an excruciating amount of time trying to decide whether to write this in the format of a letter to the ''woman'' or addressed to some kind of external person(s). Anyway.

..and then we were cloned,
all of a sudden,
we got to be
high cheekboned
aristocrats,
that's what it felt like when
they crept up in stealth mode
attached
some electrode
to me.

If you think that you're free,think again, there's no freedom in being exactly the same.

..and they're honing their skill
if life doesn't **** you
they certainly will ,but
you'll live on and on and on and something's bound to go wrong with the flow,
until then
they'll carry on with the show and you
won't have a say.