Loathe
Self-reflection
Selfishness
Inside out
Backwards brain
Blow the fuck up
Please?
Please bring space to me
Happiness like a branch or a leaf
Who does not feel
It’s lacking
And therefore
Must be so loved

The guitar, flute, drums, paper, words and sounds
Some things can only be expressed with explosions
and felt only by fire
but I have not
and I am nothing
so what to do?
Anything?
Go along the day every week the same thing morphing into the slightly different and the mildly amusing
I could go outside and scream but I wouldn’t make a sound, a wouldn’t move a molecule because we are not here

A computer is so lifeless, heartless and I write my thoughts on this? My feelings are as dry
I’ve never been anywhere real, like in my dreams, sadness sometimes beyond conscious reality, and sometimes the unfeeling swarm of color to enjoy
Most likely I have built up my own walls, around me, to protect me from people if there is such a thing
Probably I am an illusion like you all
I need to leave, I feel so wasted in my own
I need to climb a fucking mountain and piss on it while shooting rockets in the air out of my brain
I need to love someone if such a thing is possible
Or I will rot like I am now
A tree has more love and stays alive like that even when she’s cut down so I can wipe my ass with dead forest

Death makes life beautiful but I don’t feel hate or love or sadness or joy
only weariness of the continuing desert of my life
I feel not hunger but lust, a feeling that I must do something
anything
but I’m just on the ground
In a chair
twisting my hair and waiting for a bus to come
in a class
in a car, in the backseat
in the corner of a room so square
So barren like fluorescent office jails
The comfort of being inside and alone is gone, but a week of commuting and walking in the rain to get here to there for nothing will change that, maybe. Avoiding social situations and beating myself up when I don’t try and when I do, nothing new happens. Next weekend I will be relieved and hungry and lounge away in the arms of a chair and maybe some herb. I could be high right now with minimal risk taken, I could catch a bus somewhere far away to be lonely there, I could “start my life” today and do what my subconscious says but I won’t, just….wake up reluctantly with hope still in my eyes, I rub it out and make some coffee.

Tinny, sugary pop music on some persons’ radio while they hit something behind that fence. Lawnmowers mowing, trucks, SUVs driving by on gravel, the not so distant highway like an ocean, like the sound of the wind through the trees almost, but constant and without breath. Then the planes, constantly, jetliners, small single engines occasionally fighters. How do I escape it, cities have their own natural sound by that nothing is natural in the sense of trees and creeks, they develop a certain wildness in the rushed footsteps of busy business men and the ramblings of a Vietnam veteran. But I’m not in a city; I wouldn’t call it that. I’m on an island. And there are more secluded parts of it, more forested places that I am not in. One might find all this humanity comforting, all the painted houses charming, but I want to go somewhere without the whine of a weed whacker, where I can here the trees sing. I am alone now, alone at home, or what home is for now, and if I cannot have company with other people than I should be completely alone, utterly isolated, as far away from this shit as possible. Soon…
Perhaps I have a goal now? Among many… My middleclass capitalist mind says that I should get a job, or learn a skill so that I don’t have to be stuck in a pizza hut kitchen, so that I can have a place to stay, move up the pyramid until I find somewhere comfortable clinging on the walls. But the larger part of me says “fuckit”
If asked what I want to do with my life, I should say I want to fuck it. I want to fuck it, and ride it, and enjoy it. I don’t just want to just fuck it though, not like some Christian car salesman father procreates with his wife in the missionary position with their clothes on, I should really fuck my life, violently, pervasively, relentlessly, until whatever foreseeable end there might be.
School is bullshit. A lot of fucking over goes on in schools. And if you don’t know that already look around, think about what useful things you’ve learned. If your like me, then most of what makes you what you are, intellectually and every other way, is not because of something you learned in a desk. Why would I want to continue, after quitting high school for “home schooling”, why would I want to spend four more years fucking myself? When I could be fucking life? Fucking life sideways, bareback, in the twat and the ass and the ear even, if it has and ear, for life most certainly has an ass.
Why should I make peanuts so that elephants can feast?
What else is there to do then what one wants?
What do I want?
Lets not go here again. Lets not let this be some rant on existentialism, the exclusivity of life and death, usual shit.
Because now there are two radios blasting, on the same sugary pop rock, and the other, Norah Jones or some shit, along with the weed whacker, cutting grass trying to save himself, but there is no savior, not even the messiah, Obama in his white castle can save you. All you can really do is grab life by its skinny crack head lovehandles and scream as you go down with the ship.

wow, cops are hypocrits.

Conscientious of pretentious melodies
Uptight rhythms pounding relentlessly
The swarm of carcinogens, do they cause disease? Even in these few?
But certainty could bring to thee, a cause of death or life for me, (really?)
For those without wish or want, what is to get? Or should we let it go, what dreams we have yet?
Let life flow, as I cannot write, right now it seems I am constricted. Pausing, thinking, this is too slow! The Earth does not really turn. I am too low to construct a bridge, yet the stream makes me wet, my suddenly sodden jeans distracts me.
I cannot escape my mind.
I am chased.
I cannot measure myself with time.
Life can only be estimated, I can only guess.
What is next for me, does it matter?
No ones next to me, figuratively.
Physically to be touched, felt, to feel, I can imagine, I am not real, I can only try, but I don’t.
Oh fuck!
Fuck me!(?)
Here I am again.
Stuck.
Pinned down by my own weight
a heavy load is self hate, should I wait?
Is there anything better?
I can’t change, I’m sure dying will make me.
Living will save me, but they are the same thing.
See I am hopeful!
Really I’m just speculating.
My brain is only masturbating.
So don’t tell me to fuck myself.

The heat beats down upon me. My head sweats onto my neck, hair sheltering it from the sun, who intern chokes with his heat. I look around. I see life tends to rhyme. The future is predictable and cliché, as technology evolves everyday…See what I mean!!! There is no need for time machines. Everything is what it seems, at least to me. Pointless, connecting worlds, joint less they collapse.
Fall.
Endless.
Bottomless.
Topless.
Walls of imagination, they are but our own creation, close your eyes and they are still there.
Where?
Here is home, my existence, or lack of which. It is comforting to forget.

Finally!

February 19th, 11:53
I took my pants off. Lying on my bed uprightly stretched over a pillow writing, typing. Its more comfortable this way, my legs can feel, move across the dirty fabric of my bed. My itching thigh once trapped beneath ill-fitting, faded black jeans can be scratched. Relief. I am relieved. I am given these small freedoms. I’d like to think I have taken them, stolen them from a tyrannous empire. But here I am given the freedom to be relieved.
I am alone in a room of some building, built, for some reason, I am a reason, not the reason, however there is some reason for me. Is there?
Can you verify that? Sir?
No you cannot.
Why cant you?
The absence of proof within lies the truth.
How can the truth lie?
…Many. There are many ways. That you will learn soon.
Nothing is completely anything, or truly something. I have never been sure of anything in my life, completely.
I stepped on and into the bus, walking to the back as the recorded voice always asks me to. There is a pretty girl, who was at the bus stop, and she smiled at me, towards me, or maybe she was just happy…
This happens sometimes. It is unusual for any girl at all to look at me, but not at all new to me. She stared at me as I sat down in the back, my sister sat down next to her, I wondered if since I was standing there when she looked up and smiled at me, was I supposed to sit there? Must there be intent in a smile? Must there be meaning in the odd stares she gave me as I sat on the uncomfortably warm seats at the back of the bus? Looking away as she stared at me, for a while. What the fuck?
Its ridiculous that two people can exist in such a large society and see each other for one moment one of them might realize something about the other, nothing large, just a small moment of concentrated thought. Two minds observe the two bodies that serve both, and never a word is spoken. It’s sad, that I can sit here alone, and be sorry that I cannot completely blame my single solitude on my natural born appearance. It is depressing that it is not socially acceptable to yell, “Id totally fuck you!” across the street. Or something.
There so many people, unloved, un-fucked, undone by the estrangement of an ocean of selfish beings swirling around in a colony of washing machines that clean us of unlawful sin so we can be worthy as servants to the corporate gods.
If you are confused to believe that I was saying that chick on the bus wanted to have nasty, sticky, bus sex with me, that is and was not what I was saying. Despite the current fantasy playing in my head inspired by that last thought, it is not her smile, or whatever beauty she possessed, that bothers me, but the possibility, all that disturbing, mind-fucking possibility in a smile, on a bus in a city, somewhere far away from my waking mind.