massively exaggerated OPEC numbers

Citadel - some strength I can't see. Stately organ anchors an inexhorable melodic grave, a granite sculpted wafer-cookie contour, a wedge of sad century, let's keep it in context, the colt 45 made everyone equal. Citadel hum. Hum. Can you hear the hum? It's a fragment of a song, a word sung with robust melancholy. I'm trying to describe what this recalled fragment means for me. It's an aesthetic unit I guess, a little chip of something. Oh fuck this. I hate everything tonight, especially this writing. How I write. Slavishly adhering to old patterns. Horray, I've got a "voice" now. I've arrived.

I've got a headache now. Tequila isn't kind to me. Plus I'm sick. This stupid cold I thought was mild, tonight feels unbearable. It just hangs around, an obnoxious guest making everything unbearable. Able. I'm able though, I'll bear it, what else can I do? Suck off the power grid. Can't bother fighting addiction. I don't read the peak oil bloggers anymore. I'd rather act like everything's alright. Think about what cultural items today will be delightful vintage entertainment in 20 years, when I’m watching them on whatever youtube equivalent exists on the still lit internets. Haha, internets, plural, how hilarious, another opportunity to make fun of Bush. God. How tired. How tired everything is. I still sound so much like myself.

Build me a woman, make her ten feet tall. I don't care anymore. Except when I care. When I get so needy, needy, when nobody's trying to please me baby. Hey. Blow me. I'll buy you a ninety dollar hoodie. I'll share my disease. I'll allow myself bitterness. The bitter property on the monopoly board. How everything's been perfected, how there was a time in history when the million dollar chord progression was unwritten and that great combination of rock guitars was waiting for some hard-livin’ axe-men, they would stumble upon a crowd-thrilling combo while a creature of instinct would accidentally channel bowie with his whiny yet impossibly awesome voice, oh yes, it's possible, in fact mandatory, it wasn't actually a stumble, it was a swagger into inexorable rock perfection, it took a little of los angeles and a smattering of seattle, and all the bourbon-soaked roots, and half the cocaine in columbia, and it probably wouldn't end well, we'll see, when China gets democracy, and the appetite for destruction is a craving for creation, the creation of a bed and breakfast chain that makes slightly different scones in each location, from the Ozarks to the Kootenays, with a slight variance of chatter over pastries and decaf, a chat about hurricanes, and sugar cane, and raising caine, a bad pun marring a brilliant song. The perfect riff, the perfect melody, and now all that's left, for artists, is to pervert the perfection, discover an unUSED dissonance, contrive the chaos, sift noise into an ugly statement on artistic overdose - what a goddamned calling it is now. Hello? Do I want more minutes? Sure, pile them on. I know your voice, you're the Holy Grail's automated calling, you're still shooting down those vintage copper wires, you want me, I'm so lucky, you called me, Holy Shit.

This night sucks. It sucks the bag. It sucks like an electrolux. Which is why I'm writing. All there is to do. It's all so unfair. The things I can't say. The excess flesh. What the fuck is it doing here? And I thought there was no more room for self-loathing. Yeah, just keep packing them in, Seymour. We'll roll another educational film. Then we'll swallow tripe. Hopefully we'll chew it up first. We'll kill another cow. Tomorrow's mills and processing facilities. I am not proud.

It's gotta get worse before it gets better. Maybe the naproxies kicked in. Headache ebbed slightly. Just slightly. But it almost makes me feel better - opens the door a crack, the sicklight spills out. The hint of a chill on the back of my hand. Teflon slip off the sensual. So aware how sick I am. Mmm, that thinkin thang. All I got is samples. That's my pocket change, mixed with lint. I'll buy you a coffee. You will give me charity by pondering the aggregate, even a little, maybe even writing about your impression of the aggregate, this dirty aggregate, this sickly gestalt, a twenty dollar bill in my space case, case o space, but don't advertise, it's not that impressive, it's inflation.

Can't savour the candy taste of casually bandied about apocalypse, a cutesy end theme, game over in a square wave cadence. It's not guilty but it's not innocent. Tell me it's just my head. Tell me it's just my head. Ugh, oh no, that didn't work like I thought it would. Distract me. Distract me. Take my hand. No, no. No. I'm not worthy. Don't do that, I'll infect you. Do you know where the flowers are? Do you know the names? I need to know the names, you must tell me.

I've lived 25 years now. When I converse with people, it seems all re-hash. Even strange and interesting new people. And yet I'm uneducated and inexperienced. Still, it's all re-hash. I made my prison. I didn't stretch. I atrophied. I, I, I, oh God. Shut the fuck up. Wishing for that great break-out that will change my style. But wishing won't make it so. I WANT to be motivated. I want it on a silver platter. Rogers and Hammerstein. Give me my freedom. Give me my dreamcoat. Delirium is something. The curdled substantial.

I wonder why meth_maker keeps the moniker. Maybe because it's so disgusting. If there's a sentiment, I can't see it. But I could imagine it, sort of. The glammer of making meth. Glammer, that cheap magic that is found art, amicably gamical, the kind you find at the red barn, the kind you strip matchheads off to synthesize in a homemade lab, if you can call that junkfuck a home, a tornado would be a mercy wind. Phosphorus precursor poetry. This sulfuric smell is my every day is a birthday bed, it's as far as I got, it's Blaine, Missouri, we make stools, we ship them all over the country. Making hash from the split sensual post-acid haze. It's admirable to express that in poetics, despite the heaviness. I hesitate to describe what meth has made, I called him "ascetic with a cigarette", that seems enough, that's my poetic contribution to the Enigma. When I try and paraphrase the maddening fragments of his condition, I get corrected or negated, generally. But that's as it should be, as he adheres to honesty, despite the confusion, the contradictions. I think there's still potential for novelty in delirium and delusion, I could go back there, get further... but... but... I don't know. Oh. Here comes a kind of rage. Frustration.