read my lips, no new narcotics

ugh, i feel like utter shit

the mind fuck is over
but the body fuck is just beginning

i wish i could explain what it feels like
mentally i'm utterly drained, total lack of enthusiasm
can't even care enough to even attempt to make this artistic
can't even take any joy in some self-pitying lament
i'm only writing because i've tried every other thing
to distract myself, or dullen myself
can't shut my mind off
even though my mind and body are utterly exhausted
in an exhausted world
total lack of meaning and purpose
saying utterly exhausted things

every nerve ending feels like it's being painfully stretched
a tension, constantly pulling on me, everywhere
tugging at me, trying to get me to go every which way at once
when i can go nowhere, can do nothing
utterly useless

dull aches everywhere, especially in joints
but everywhere, especially extremities
but everywhere, anywhere it's possible to hurt
i hurt, anything it's possible to loathe, i loathe
feel like i'm as low as i can go, everything i've ever
done, said, is utterly worthless, everything i'll ever
do and say will be pointless, dull pain
radiating all over my face, skull
body rejecting bones
teeth complaining
hyper sensitive body or tactile hallucinations?
whatever it is, it won't stop, hour after hour, can't sleep
sore, tired eyes, tired muscles, can't sleep
can't even clench anymore
i must look like a zombie, almost a sleep walker
and yet i FEEL clenched everywhere, i'm
trying to relax, i think i am relaxing physically
but no matter how little effort i expend to do and think anything
i still feel clenched and tense, when i relax my body and mind
my thoughts and physique radiate outward in pain and strain and tension
and everything feels pointless and every thought articulates
that pointlessness with what feels like utter clarity
hyper articulation of how every joy is a fleeting moment of delusion
a moment of successfully blocking out the ugly and tired truth
of a world that died a long time ago
and i could go on
and i will
because, i dunno
because writing is the path of least resistance right now
and even that is painful and disgusting and hideous
and my neck is so sore

i don't have any good medication
the standard drugs, thc, caffeine, and alcohol are just exacerbating the problem
creating a perfect storm of psycho-physical maladaption and discontent
i don't have any good downers, although dram might be good enough
in a brute force way, to knock me down, so i don't have to keep
thinking about this shit, and even if i'm able to put myself out, i'll still probably feel it
in a semi-conscious way, but i'll be able to avoid the extra ugliness of my mind
articulating it for me, and pondering the implications, for life, the universe, and everything

there seems no solution, this is a position of utter negation, and even negation doesn't offer anything - it could be worse, it's not intense pain, just a lame strain, a brain drain, and it rhymes with itself, an endless riff on itself, self-similar feelings, fractal discomfort, an itch that is an ache that is a pang of futility and despair - but no guilt, it could be worse, i don't feel like there's a moral component to it, yes i feel like i'm a bad person, but i also feel like the unavoidable product of a bad world, it's all bad and couldn't be any other way, and the pangs continue, radiation, decay felt infinitely, regressing and progressing, a long half-life, decay felt infinitely, regressing and progressing, a long half-life, zeno's paradox is just a never-ending itch, and i keep scratching at decimals, they keep burrowing deeper under my skin, i can never get at them and their blunt logic, their truth is spread over my body, elusive, when i think i've pinned it down, in my stinging fingertip, or my sore spine, it becomes a thought, it shifts to the mental, then i try and reason my way out of it, it's not that bad, i can transcend by shifting my thought-context, but then the baseline reality seems to be that my head aches, the unignorable, yeah, unattainable, et cetera...

and i hear hughey lewis in my head, i need a new drug, or whoever sang that, it sounds professional in my head, i can hear every note of the articulated sax solo, precisely what sold albums in the 80s, but probably more consumer products via commercials, than albums. I'd say what I did today, but it doesn't seem worth bothering, all my sketched out brain and body can be bothered to do is write about the pain it's in, it's not tragic, it's just ugly and pointless and that feels profound, and it's ugly and pointless that it feels profound, actually it "is" nothing that i've said it is, it just feels, it feels and feels and feels, it feels like everything i've said it feels like, and writing makes it feel even moreso like it feels like everything i've said it feels like, and i guess i feel like if i push the feel pedal to the floor, i'll somehow get to the root of it, and be able to transcend the feeling, but it's seeming like there is no root, it's like trying to catch a river, and the pain continues to flow through me

ugh, it sucks

and i itch again, back of the head, my skin feels like it burnt off, my mind feels like it rusted out, an itch in the foot that turns into a pang in the instep, a pain that spreads in a two second bolt through my leg somehow setting off a stab in my side, makes me think how some christ reference here would be cliche, and fitting, fit right in to my tired niche in the tired universe, and one thing that is uniquely mine is how often i talk about cliche, and drugs, that's my niche, the master of my own drug cliches, i have succeeded brilliantly in sounding like myself, itch, and something about the mind, isn't it so rewarding to write visceral? A weak attempt at sarcasm, subverted the disgusted sincerity, oh well.

Well I finally popped a soma to prove I'm not on some self-torturing sado-masochistic trip, on a blackboard to an apathetic and aching student body of quantum metaphor observers, affecting analogies through channel surfing algorithms that turn out to be tediously patterned, not random enough to be surreal, and the distilled essence of jungian symbolism, in the mono-context of duochrome subject object agreement. Although sleep seems like weak tea mixed with rancid milk, no solution. But hopefully when I wake up, if I ever get to sleep, I will have regained some sense of self worth.