28 Feb 2007


doxylamine, personified potentate of succinate, tells me the only way i can write is if i stop caring. okay buddy, whatever you say. there's sufficient holes in these third hand pants to welcome apathy with an open crotch. they're nice pants, just full of holes. like the theory of attraction. i hate that theory. it's not attractive to me. there's something fundamentally ridiculous about everybody thinking they can be elite. that's why i listen to the succinate. he makes sense to me.

whispers, vespers, it's thrice synthetic, a strategy octavian could not make sense of. i've got the karma of a clobbered peasant, the genes of an aristocrat scribe, and the providence of an industry lieutenant who burned his cachet to light a cigar. it tasted good, rich tobacco flavour. now i'm coating my sores with menthol. diurnal combustion. am i sufficiently succinated to write this? never got to the ivy extract, let alone stodal, but i'm jonseying for seconal and thinking about barbital, somehow one hundred and fifty capsules, a real splurge, a real falloff a tree, maybe it could dilate past the predicted lids, into an urn, meeting adjourned, adjunct to the function of spurned converse affected schizo rosetta moss.

looks like i've not even made it to act ii of the morality play, haven't been presented with the metal edges to grate off feelings, still learning slow lessons, osmosis blockhead bruisers. the succinate tells me in this situation i go to cottonwood, like it's a quest, absorb some waterfall spray, close my eyes like they do in the first person profundis, forget the latin antecedents, slave to the web of associations, the malfunctioning fan rattles on the runon, yes, the intended effect affects all schizophrenic observers, a screaming head cut off the ephedra remains pilloried in a stock rut, trading day long done, in fact it's a shift that drags all seasons with it, a succinate slur, it's a doxymoron, supports all hypocrisy, enables all we've felt, parlez-vous?

must... finish... prayer... not that jupiter cares. oh snap, particulate shiver, translation with the scratch of a yellow pushpin, muscle memory converts flat surface to a series of scribblings en francais, it's modern magic, the aggregate of which is a bored and melancholic mind, consumed, possessed with petty ness, sick ness, ugly ness, a new shamanic gestalt of cold medication and fevered contemplation, a cool burst sensation as advertised.

it still isn't good enough, getting exponentially inadequate, errant syntax swimming in the grout of god's grimace, forming the edifice of a smile, what succinate likes to see in sicklight, not dead yet, cloned pheromones used to maneuver a picture-perfect painter into joining the "war to end all wars"... so divorced from any historical reality, twisted, looking at my sockets, caged-write, unable to define. let's call it tribute to apollo. if cachet is ashed. couldn't hurt.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

i'd like to steal this line

I've got the karma of a clobbered peasant, the genes of an aristocrat scribe, and the providence of an industry lieutenant who burned his cachet to light a cigar

damn that's good stuff


raynaud syndrome - albums left on the table - only the coldest toes to go - doesn't much matter - you've lost it - it's rick'...