flat

distorted figures walk the streets
it’s 1999

the woman who hates everything i like
when i like anything
does she even like anything
except her own sense of superiority?
virtually every time she opens her mouth
some obnoxious, arrogant, condescending
pseudo-sophisticated bullshit spills out
but why should i care?

novelty waves make me sea-sick
seem merely dense folds of habit
and twitching externally, i accidentally
brush up against a body, a stranger's hand
or a strange friend's hand
or i don't know what

anyway, i don't feel like posting any music
it's either depression or mania
or labour, if i can work for something
when there's nothing to spend
maybe that's a third way

it's good to sink
in a reliable manner
the guilt fades, mostly
along with any possibility of respect
comfort in mediocrity
and lack of responsibility
beholden to nothing but gravity
why am i writing this? i don't know
because i want to bury the mania, i guess
back to the flat plane of no possibility

the drug obsession
is not in good taste, i will be the first to admit that
but life is an ugly thing that doesn’t
pay homage to human aesthetics when it sprouts
between sculpted stone cracks
and dogs eat their own shit
and then vomit, and as far as nature is concerned
everything’s working fine, the gag reflex
kicked in before toxification
and zooming in on a certain layer of life
that is as intricate, important and vital as any other
in its bio-chemical perturbations and machinations
is as valid
as a predilection toward ecological metaphors
or the writer’s feedback loop
or whatever