took lighter fluid into a tunnel & planned my viking funeral

if i killed myself, i think i’d go by way of somersaults across route 22.  or by putting my arm into a skip it rigged with a razor and rooting myself on..  not by gun, drowning or immolation, regardless of how immediately they sit before me.  they’re too serious.. too out of character for me and constituting a character i don’t want to kill.  is suicide still suicide if you aren’t yourself when you do yourself in?

muzak

did you feel your throat catch your stomach after the cables snapped and we plummeted?  could you translate the floor display despite its flickering like dying embers in a fire?  did the claws on your half of our still living, vivisected dachshund dig into your skin like my half’s did?  as the steel sides of the elevator peeled back, was it the scale or the imminence of the basement floor that stole your breath?  did you mind the muzak any more than the silence?

howd id prefer irl conversation

hey
whats up dude
nothin just eagel eagle eagel
huh?
sorry im just literally throwing dog shit at each other
lol..
computer xavier
you basically are the show xavier renegade angel right now
cant remember really wish eagel eagle

childs st.

so this is where im at: 

the only pictures im in

im in the background,

a passerby, maybe glancing

at the camera with an almost candid sun-

glass tilt/right brow raised

suave guy facial expression

as some graduates dad says

"wait lemme get another one."

so this is where im at:

the oak sapling in the middle

of your shrubbery 

whose shiny leaves

you mistake for poison ivy.

so this is where im at:

on the run, ill admit,

as the culprit in all

my friends murder investigations

running like i think 

the force of the wind against me

will wash clean my days-old stink

and make my legs stronger

so i can run as fast as i need to

when impulse and/or adrenaline demand it,

and where i want to be 

is a place that only exists inside me and

where i can never dwell physically

despite my hardest striving.

the fuck were my dreams last night part 1

some guys showed me a pig roaster that looked like an old coal furnace.  they pulled on a pipe sticking out from the side, which was way longer than couldve ever been expected by looking at the furnace.  it seemed like the point was to show me that, but then they figured theyd use it since they opened it up and shit.  so they got this pig, a dead completely dried out thing, and tossed it upside down into a tub of water repeating “guts fall, balls out.”  i tried to make sense of what they meant.  as i watched them shuffle the thing around in the tub and massage/punch its stomach, i figured must mean that they knew it was becoming hydrated when the skin in the stomach area separates from its intestines and shit.  so once that finally happened, they took the thing out and started cutting it up.  one big slice down its stomach.  guts heaped out while some sorta connective tissue stretches like a giant sheet of latex, then snaps and they toss the man-o-war like mess off to the side.  some dude eagerly scooped its balls out too somehow and made a big joke about it.  then the eviscerated pig got up and started running around, screaming.  they laughed and caught it pretty quick.  with the humour still in the air they chopped off its rear legs at the knee and continued prepping it.  they took off all the skin and it was starting to look like a bowl of thawing chicken pieces glued together in a vague undulating pig form.  as i inspected its horrible open mouthed face it sprung up again and tried running around, ultimately just screaming and scraping its halved hind legs on the concrete.

Have I said it before? I am learning to see. Yes, I am beginning. It’s still going badly. But I intend to make the most of my time.

For example, it never occurred to me before how many faces there are. There are multitudes of people, but there are many more faces, because each person has several of them. There are people who wear the same face for years; naturally it wears out, gets dirty, splits at the seams, stretches like gloves worn during a long journey. They are thrifty, uncomplicated people; they never change it, never even have it cleaned. It’s good enough, they say, and who can convince them of the contrary? Of course, since they have several faces, you might wonder what they do with the other ones. They keep them in storage. Their children will wear them. But sometimes it also happens that their dogs go out wearing them. And why not? A face is a face.

Other people change faces incredibly fast, put on one after another, and wear them out. At first, they think they have an unlimited supply; but when they are barely forty years old they come to their last one. There is, to be sure, something tragic about this. They are not accustomed to taking care of faces; their last one is worn through in a week, has holes in it, is in many places thin as paper, and then, little by little, the lining shows through, the non-face, and they walk around with that on.

But the woman, the woman: she has completely fallen into herself, forward into her hands. It was on the corner of the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. I began to walk quietly as soon as I saw her. When poor people are thinking, they shouldn’t be disturbed. Perhaps their idea will still occur to them.

The street was too empty; its emptiness had gotten bored and pulled my steps out from under my feet and clattered around in them, all over the street, as if they were wooden clogs. The woman sat up, frightened, she pulled out of herself, too quickly, too violently, so that her face was left in her two hands. I could see it lying there: its hollow form. It cost me an indescribable effort to stay with those two hands, not to look at what had been torn out of them. I shuddered to see a face from the inside, but I was much more afraid of that bare flayed head waiting there, faceless.

The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge

vengeance hardens into lead from the feet up,

into cataracts blinding him 

from the girl stumbling across the road

under the deadweight of her friends, 

himself included.

her eyes gape like letters bleeding off a stop sign,

after a blueballed black clouds soulcrushing rain.

shes petrified by the headlights 

                         of the trifling boy gone deranged.

he cant stop saying sorry while cursing her name.

new text document.txt

freckles like dabs from
the wet end of a red pen
too stubborn to be washed off/
little suns competing with
the brightness of her flesh

if some summer rain came
and stole her footing
i imagine no blood, but
rose petals dripping,
wilting and washing away

and its funny how the mystery isnt:

"has the wind ever been 
so gentle to man 
as the breeze that 
sailed such a precious seed 
and taught her lungs to breathe?"

instead:

"what the hell is her name?"