love was too plebian - part deux

"Forget it Kelsey, I don't even care about my stuff anymore," I tell her, from across town. As far as I know, no wires are involved, nor satellites. I'm telepathic, in a half-assed way. She'll get the gist, in her half-assed comprehension – once she tries to stop "reading me" like she does her clients, and just fucking listens.

"Props on the physical threat though, you really do know how to prey on my insecurities. And by all means, send your 'super pissed' douchebag over. I'd super love to meet him. But better tell him to come heavy, you cunt. Sorry to be super crude, but there's no other word that fits. You know accuracy is a priority for me."

It's not my fault, it's telepathy. Yeah, I chose this life, if you can call it life, but it got out of my hands. I can't help but think, and send. I suspect she can't help but hear, but she will have the option of denying it to herself. I figure. She'll distract any unwanted thoughts with a boyfriend-girlfriend carpentry project. Ahaha. How cute.

I'm vile and bitter and childish. And justified, I think. I'm a child when it comes to these ugly mind games played in the dark corners of the Casino Licentious. I think licentious is a better word than love. Love is so fucking good, man, but it's corruption. And it makes me a juvenile delinquent, what I've wanted to be since I was eight. So I suppose I should be thankful to those mean girls who pried open my rusty heart with a chisel for kicks and allowed me to enjoy anger. Especially the latest one, the last one. I'm through with this game, I'm taking my ball and I'm going home. But not before vandalizing the playground.

The worst part is that she's not even that evil. She's come a long way from when she complained to her server friend that it "fucking sucks, doing someone else's job", ie, "my" job, the cutlery, that all the other servers are happy to help me with - then later that evening, yelling to her pathetic non-associate tag-along, eager to present her some hand-crafted birthday gift, that "I'm on the fucking phone!" while having a smoke break outside.

No, Kelsey's not that evil. Just her nose-ring - that's her evil jewel, the seat of her shiny happy power. But the rest of her is fairly decent, even under the hair dye, has she gone back to black? I haven't seen, except in my head, where she's still blond, and I couldn't bare her being back to black, it's too dark, too catholic, and now her school-girl skirt is taut in my head between two legs that were straddling me that one time, or was it two? I honestly don't think about it much anymore. I couldn't if I tried.

So, the super-pissed boyfriend. I guess he's coming. I just sent out an official invite. I told him to come heavy. Fair warning I guess. Although I never get fair warnings, especially from those sweet-voiced bitches. And I'm likely to be the light-weight in this fight. I can picture him hulking over me. Hulking over her, hulking inside her, skulking up the stairs to my house. Kelsey was the first girl I've been with that I could pick up and throw on the bed. Imagine what he could do with her, the douchebag. And he's such a douchebag that he would. Do all kinds of crazy things, just to prove he can. And when's the last time I've even been in a fight?

But I've got something he hasn't got: the power of delirium. I'm the meta-me master's marionette. I don't even remember what I did to cause this delirium. I have a few theories, but there's too much noise to signal. The meta-me master will take care of me - pull some strings. It'll dispassionately appraise the situation and force me to do things I would never dare try on my own. Oh, he's a partner in crime, and though I've never heard anyone agree with me that he's a good friend, I love the bastard. Good friend? What's a good friend? There are no good friends anyway, it's silly criteria. Just friends. And he's the deepest of them all.

I trip over a pile of bedroom debris stumbling for the "stabbing knife" I think is in the closet when I hear a knock on the door. Panic strikes. Did I lock it? Oh god, I hope I locked it, because I know my roommates are gonna try and come in, I've broke the unspoken inconceivable covenant of this sacred house and now I have no right to privacy. They'll come in and find the motherload, mounds of used medical supplies! Another burst of knocking, fuck, how long before they open the airlock and blast me into space? I creep up to the door, spindly off-kilter maneuvers over debauched debris. Quietly, I squat under the door handle, reach up, and TWIST in a sudden spasm. Locked, haha! Too late for you, mate!

I expect pounding, maybe a battering ram or whatever techno-tronic equivalent exists in this house, maybe Ninova with a jasmine-scented crowbar smashing the handle. Silence there, and nothing more. Fuck. Okay. Fucking with my head, are you? Well, whatever, I have my delirium to go back to. So I will.

Did I grab my stabbing knife? No, I don't have it, unless it's sticking out of an inaccessible organ. It's in the drawer though, right? I stumble back to the desk chair, stubbing my toe and stepping on my good pair of Sennheisers. Seems like fate, more broken headphones, Void's plan. I open the drawer to find no stabbing knife, but something I hadn't expected. A little baggie. I was hunting for that baggie for hours earlier, I remember. And here it is in my top drawer, the one I checked two hundred times. But there's no kootenay crystals in it. Instead there are two lavender colored pills. I don't remember buying them, but I guess I must have. Somehow, I'm sure they're E. But I'm so delirious, is it worth taking E at this point? Yeah. I'll just take one. Then another.

Wait a second. Aren't those the diphenhydrinate pills I'm tripping on right now? Uh, yeah, that's right. And these brain zaps are getting worse. I thought it was because I forgot to take my sertraline, but then I remember that diphens cause that too. Except ten times worse. It's like an electric shock that passes from the back of my head, to the right hemisphere, then the left. Then I feel like I'm passing out, my vision dims, and for two or three seconds, I'm convinced that I'm dying and life's a big nothing - my final thoughts will be a dry haze of phase out. Then I come back to full consciousness, gritting my teeth. I'm alive, but I'm dreading the next shock. Will it come in ten seconds, or twenty? Maybe it's slowing down. But of course it's not. Fifteen seconds pass and then it all happens again. I know why they use electricity to torture people - there's something about it that's just so hard to tolerate. I'd rather be scourged till I bleed to death. I should take my sertraline but I can't find it. Shit, and I just took another two pills thinking they were E. I wish I could sleep, but if I somehow manage to, I think it'll be the last one I ever take. They call it "the big sleep", but it seems small to me. It's a doll sleep.

That reminds me, I'm in a dollhouse bedroom. I guess I took DXM too, sometime during my blackout last night. I see four bottles of Robitussion liquigels and several empty packets with their crinkled foil. And then I feel the march of pills in my stomach, one after another, slowly passing through the protesting intestine like a clogged chunnel, and me, the traffic controller, prostrate. Four bottles, fuck! Plus whatever else. Oh, I can taste the toxins in the back of my throat and in my stomach. It's methamphetamine, ammonia, and bleach. Somehow I have stomach consciousness, the most gross form of internal telepathy. And the little voice, the leader of a busy bio-hazard crew, ripples clear through my fogged head. It's not words exactly, but the message is: You must throw up. You idiot, you must throw up, right now. If you don't hurl in the next thirty seconds, you will die. The toxins will pass, barely, but there is also a parasite, a horrible monster transmission dweller. It just flew by me. If you think you feel bad now, just wait till that bug digs into your DNA. You have twenty seconds. Do it, idiot, or we're all dead.

Oh no. I'd better do it. This is body gnosis, I can't pretend it's not real. I guess I'd better purge, even though I'm so scared that it'll get stuck in my closed throat, or I'll start puking and not be able to stop and start dribbling liquefied organs out of my mouth. But I must, or I'll die. The little voice doesn't lie.

I stumble to the door again and scrabble at the handle but it won't budge. I remember it's locked and twist the other way, but it's still stuck somehow. I grab and pull and twist every which way, left and right, forward and back, inside and out, in a senseless frenzy, fretting about roommates again. Somehow it opens, and I robo-swing out like a wrecking ball, from bedroom doorway to adjacent bathroom. But I smack into the door - it rattles loudly. I open the door automatically, but my sense of left and right are inverted, so I'm twisting the knob the wrong way, and my axis of gravity is ninety degrees relative to the hallway. This fucking house, it's going perpendicular JUST to fuck with me.

I'm still trying to come to grips with the doorway, when the door opens in front of me. The light is bright in the bathroom and Ian is in there, startled and staring at me. The washing machine and dryer are humming. Fuck. Uh, nevermind, I think, or say. Ian is doing his laundry in my bathroom. So no puking. I'll just let whatever bug is in my gut kill me. Whatever.

I robo-swing back into my room and shut the door, forgetting to lock. Something pokes into my foot through my sock. Oh a needle. One of those. It's funny, somehow. It gets funnier every time.

"You idiot, you're dead now," says the little voice, and I'm so ashamed. But I think I can hold the puke in. If I'm going to die, I'm going to die dry.

But my body feels like liquid mercury. Now I remember, I'm a T-1000. Not the famous one. I'm not a bad terminator, I don't care about John Conner. And John Conner doesn't care about me. If I can keep out of human detection, maybe I can co-exist with humanity, somehow, in a dark corner. I've been sent on a mission of some kind, maybe sent myself as a sleeper agent. But I still can't remember what -

ZAP! Oh fuck, please let the zaps stop. I can't take it. I'm going to jump out the window, bash my head in, do something crazy, anything crazy. What can I do, what could distract? For some reason, I'm playing Super Mario Kart and thinking about game-melody collecting woodsprites. My thoughts are so flexible and so locked down. That's what it's like on this theme park ride.

Faking seizures... so convincingly. Why why why? Why does this exist? Why not? Silly human questions, as silly as a rock talking to me. Silly answers, but I'm serious on this radioactive test-isle.

a duke's nixie

"harmonica" frank floyd never played a harp, nor this, nor that - but he did play a duke's nixie, more or less - a little bit of rock n roll, a little bit of hillbilly, maybe some rockabilly - maybe some comedy, but in a deadpan falter that only lazy scholars from centuries to come would recognize - the rest, well, they didn't recognize, and they laughed

meanwhile, the self-styled acidic jew decided it was time for a cut - it was kosher, he decided, self-styled - not that that mattered - but it was anyway, it was that way, it was the way - the hair made it to the floor, severed - facial, follicle - the bald spot is young, it makes him yet more acerbic - he lowers himself through the manhole, parts the sewer waters to let the chuds through - pimps hold their tongues above - a window blows outward beside, a bedside crackpipe ground zero - new ways of copulation are being invented - and there's enough tin under the ground to justify a salvage operation

tin fucks grit, not gritty - pink powder, relatively pleasant in the cavities - michael albert used the word "odious" again, in telling an anti-capitalist anecdote the same way as the last seventy-seven lectures - stalin never dreamed of having power over workers, such that they would ask to go to the bathroom, albert says - i would say he dreamed bigger than that - in the neighborhood, you can hear len belzer interviewing a still living legend, who gets paid for holding a sign on forty second street, but he only endorses products that lead to a specific geographical location

he's a blade runner, he runs blades, and he gets paid when he works hard, which he rarely does, but sometimes, for whatever that's worth - some blades he keeps for himself, for the best dissection, the unconventional dissection, to remove organic gifts, fedex presents for the UNconvent, the sisterhood of satanic blond runaways - those girls interviewed in a guitarist's parents' bedroom eight years after sweet girlhood - one of the sisters said "what a freak-a"... a couple of them were briefly overcome with a response that was intended by the sign holder, something no digger could get to - not a freak-a, but a freak - and not a mutation, but a figure, no longer obscured in marble

there was a woman there, a self-styled woman - she's been indexed and cross-referenced in the surviving grey towers of brittanica, crumbled but in tact like the white man's projects, taxed and supported, institutional substitute for gaia, motherly substrate - she figured she could make something from words, certain words, but she never made anything of that figure

kelsey couldn't make it to the story, but the story made it work, made it to work and from work with only sixty car accidents, and two fatalities - a ratio that mirrored the nasdaq, an upswing

metabolites are ripe tonight but it won't do the hungry ghost any good - only provide a picture of personable purpose to a pack of jackals - there's a summer camp game played in the dead of winter: the winner is the one who can wander the furthest from the university and still hold on to his algebra - it's played by boys who will study trees when they move into the valley and become mid-level players in the ponzi scheme

i like the acidic jew because he likes me - but if he didn't like me, i'd still be required to like him - and if i wasn't required to like him, i still would - but in a moment of weakness, i would assert will, and choose to dislike him, and subsequently lose a little bit of respect, seeing him in an unflattering light, a dim set my mind can easily devise, following the waypoints of metabolites, iron filings

it's usually snickers - they don't satisfy on a conscious level, but i'd be worse off, and so would he - he hopes he's not getting political, how could he be, when he's getting into pabst? just kicking back and bullshitting - he could go on like this all day, and possibly long into the night, if the local super-walmart hasn't put his name on the sudafed red flag list yet - hapscomb sets the odds at fifty-fifty:

"fifty-fifty?" whines stuart, "what can you do with that? ain't no good for bettin'"

he be runnin' his mouth like a all-night bus - and the area waitress has a hell of a nice ass on her, he can tell you - i've heard all about it, and it's not a lie - helen keller would vouch for me - and i doubt she'd vouch for you, but i wouldn't hold it against her - you might, and i might cut you some slack

The hardworking part-time dishwasher’s manual for sublightenment: The sublight is only found without. The deadlight is merely found within. Stephen King thinks he’s got a copyright on the word, from his 1981 novel “It”, but I’ve got a copyleft on the singularized variant.

Was working in the kitchen, and randomly flushed back to one of those hippie dippie convos we used to have at lakeside park. You said something about the number three representing or being infinity – oh, and here’s the beauty part: for HUMAN consciousness. At the time, I think I kind of nodded my head and pretended like I understood, but I didn’t really. Almost thought it meant nothing at all. Now, just now, I get what you were getting at.

Was smoking a cig and reading “The Lazy Man’s Guide to Enlightenment” on the porch this morning. Wasn’t feeling as guilty about it as I normally do, cause the guide said it’s okay. Being, being vibrations, duality, it’s all duality. And it’s so perfect and beautiful and true – but is that all there is? Feels eerily limited, makes me claustrophobic. A dull and dour cosmos. It’s a creepy feeling I get. Limited for US, as humans, anyway. Strange situation. Anyway, it just hit me what you were saying, about the number three. Humbling to think that what you had a handle on, way back then, is something I just figured out.

closing up shop

liquidation sale

shutters, dust, junk

the phonelines are dead
and fuck pet semetary stupidity
i say, as i betray, my pedestrian sensibility
a line i only leave in to portray
the indulgence of this leap year
of lack of sleep, but i'm not all that deprived
no, my waking time is too sane, too wakeful
never enough dreams, never ever

how bout this? opt out
a reverse payday loan

placebo

i wish i could just go away

go away, go away, out of everyone's reach

nothing is beautiful

beautiful is nothing

placebo - need more be said?

more wants to be felt - even in the morning sunlight

in the comfy space

i need to go away

oh, wouldn't everyone love that luxury

those who've really dug deep into the game

bought in, or sold out, or just played real hard

they'd love to go away

well, i'm just expressing your love

which is my need, i'll call it

i want to go away, out to the pasture

that place, take me all the way

i have no shortcuts, here, only a love

a reverie, a wanting, a need

like michael albert needed a helicopter

i need sleep - any way

i need pills - sleeping pills

i have some garden variety soil

it'll suffice, for tonight, i guess

i need dreams

or that oblivion, that part i don't remember, that maybe didn't happen

and an OCD schizo cuts in like a corvette, not chasing, straight, down the desert highway

i would do anything for drugs

i would do anything for love

they're pretty similar

but better, morally, or in some strange sense, perverted along with the rest of this fabric, is the quotidian babymakers and their relevant relics... their traditions, even though i may acknowledge it's beauty and truth, and something more obviously something that i won't mention for fear of bringing it down with my empty words

like i can see it as god and the devil, what i may use of those words, blunt as they are - but positively charged with, well, whatever you call meaning when you don't want to cop to pale and narrow semantic stuff - guess it's stuff and nothing, from the bathtub where the baby is born, to the bathtub, where you slip into your last coma, the big sleep to be stupidly hep about it

yeah, i'm crawling on my hands and kneepads... for oblivion, i mean even given the saturated fats i live in, all calories marked on the guide, to whatever we want, we, god, i gotta reign in these all inclusive arms of mine, but like i was saying, even given that, it still counts for something, COUNTS, that word i keep using lately, using, and if you can use it, then you can abuse it, and if you can abuse it, i USE it, and that counts for something, it's gotta, right? even given the...

oh, i'm good at slapping fritzy TVs on the head, but i can't really give myself that paroxysm, and i guess that i just don't know, like that guy said - but i can still amble on and off, into the woods, and take comfort in writing about taking comfort in writing, and the peripherals, that trail off the words, in tear tracks from the compound eye, compounded with guilt and a gestalt of sin - i guess it's about time to borrow christian symbolism, and make an insincere obeisance to, well, good, it's a tree now, like it was then, like in that so overdone photo album, on a mantlepiece, the rifle, the mount

just a chewing exercise in, not even writing, not even typing, it's kinda a cause and effect thing, and i don't think i have to believe in free will, but i do anyway, sorta, like it's my choice, but well, i don't "believe" in it, for fuck's sake, i just bend to that free will, that free floating will, as it inhabits tyrants and evil geniuses and free spirits, and occasionally, often on a certain frequency, works out to my benefit, if you can call it that, if de construct is everything

good lord, it's ethereal up on this joker trail, but not enough to make me bond with oblivion, but that will come, it always does, it always does, it always does, doesn't it?

and i won't demand a rhythmic cadence to end whatever, good god, i worship the word now that i see it in the serotonin -- yeah, Sarah Tonin is a harsh mistress, but she's not the only game in town - just the best, yeah, she runs the best brothel, and it'll leaving you feeling clean and next to godliness, beside the marquee that says, nelson sucks donkey dicks - kids playing, riffing, and wisdom is a footprint on the mini golf course, like we were saying when you weren't paying attention, also similar to the crackhead who was looking over his shoulder, clenching up in pointless paranoia, heart-taxing claptrap he was perfectly aware was a chemical consequence, and post traumatic bullshit stories, and real places that i still say i saw in her face, and heard in her voice, and nevermind memory, hey?

nevermind memory

cute republican

cute republican

cute republican
cute little republican cutie

with your mop-head
and your straight-edge locks
and your phone sex allusions
and your precocious arch
and your artistic sense
and your unconscious telepathy
doing satanic things to me

with your saintly asyncronized swimming

i’ll say hi to you in heaven from hell

cute republican
cute little republican cocktease

of course i never whipped it out
of course, i never buttoned up
and it's par for the course
and it's mini golf on astro turf
and it's poetry between sawmill blades

cute little republican
twenty-four years old
sorry bout romney - but you're still happy go lucky
when you're not botching suicide
you've got a firm-handed family
don't let them take you for a ride
and don't let me be your guide
just keep falling for all those stupid guys
and keep bringing them down with you
and bounce back again, bouncy cutie

cute little republican
and i'm not happy, why would i be?
cute little republican
with your webcam shotput

of course, it's par for the course
somewhere over fort knox

did you use them
or did they use you
i think you're both clots in a scab
a leaky bloodvessel, but you're getting air-time
somewhere over fort knox, i can't see
i've got cataracts, but
i can still see some
little flush cheek of you, cutie

;| 

Hi.

"Hi," she says back, ice cold, wanting to communicate, for a very specific purpose.

"Zoe found it."

Did he? And he told on me. He tattled. Well, good on you, whistleblower, you're so loyal to your family in law. You remember when I shared all my drugs with you? And now you cast me out, exile, scumfuck. I guess I do blame you. I guess I figure, I would do better, if I was in your place. But morality is tiring. You felt healthy and energetic, and thought you would give me a piece of your mind. You know, you're asking me, ignorantly, unknowingly, to reach inside myself, and see if I have any ethics or morality. I won't even talk about soul. Soul what? So I will. And I'm still fumbling around. Tickling glistening entrails. I got guts.

But I don't know yet, if I would sell my soul, or if i already have. Maybe I want to. Maybe I will. Maybe I have. Maybe money is my God. Maybe it's a very simple algebraic equation. Maybe I just want a needle in my arm all the time, maybe it doesn't matter what's in it. That's why I use the word sick. Because it is sick. But I haven't evolved fully yet. I still have perspective, morality, ethics. I feel guilty, and I try to atone for my sins. But I'm moving out shortly. Maybe I will skip the breakdown stage and go straight to - well, it would be so uncouth to, is a proposition. Come is a verb.

Lou Reed was accurate. When you put a spike into your vein, it does make you feel like a man. It's my substitute, for losing my women. I'm hirsute, at least, as Rose says, and I love that she loves it. She was one of three godesses I met on my journey - not bad for one walk. But I was left by two of them, and it emasculated me. I feel weak, and impotent, and lacking. So I embrace drugs - they substitute - it's a bourgiouse supplement. It's my war, my struggle, self-imposed. It's goth-schlock, although I subsumed it into my own alien homeworld aesthetic. It's not a justification, merely an explanation, as to how I've arrived here.

When I wrap up the tie, slap the crook, and prep the veins, I start feeling the rush already. Then I clean the site. Then I poise the spike. Then comes the sweetest part of all, the contact, the injection. Gingerly, but kind of roughly, I stick myself, I hit the vein, I hit my mark, I've become a good marksman, I go by feel, not by sight. I draw a bit of blood into the syringe, when I see the red, that beautiful dark crimson tainting the clarity of that sterile H2O I know I've hit the bullseye. Then I plunge. I push the plunger down, slowly, not too fast, but not TOO slow. I love the sight, but I don't linger. It's business. There's a hit and it's time to load it, time to put it directly in my system, cut to the chase. So I push and push, it's not too painful, just a little sting to know I'm in. And in a few seconds, I finish, immediately release the tie, and stretch out my arm. If I've really hit the vein good, then a river of blood pours out the site, down rightey, spills over the crook of the arm, and that is the sweetest sight in the world, so beautiful it brings tears to my eyes.

And then - split seconds later, comes the rush, what I live for. Ketamine, passing the blood brain barrier and hitting my synapses, close to a gram, a monster hit for a monster. A cotton fuzz, a feeling of safety and accomplishment, shelter sought. A painful awkward compromised exterior to zero, numb, in less than one thousand milliseconds. Herein lies the hook. And it's beautiful. It's unusual. It's off the beaten path, but there are many who know. It's sick and it's sublime. It's this:

It feels like I got away with something, the ultimate bank heist. All the drama about injection, about hiding away like a scumfuck, a weak disgusting drug addict, it's over, it don't matter no more, I did what had to be done. I'm driving the getaway car, full speed, past the limit, to oblivion, the coolest club in the neighborhood. SO LONG, SUCKERS! It's a fix. It patches over the cracks - and there's so many these days - the Chinese curse, may you live in interesting times. It's so old, and I feel like an old soul, and it's not all that cool, but it will be, when the oil runs out. You know.

how DOES a man take it, exactly?

one thing i've noticed:

people you think are nice and personable and enlightened
will completely write you off, and treat you like dead meat
if they catch an inkling, that you use needles
i don't blame them, but i don't take it well
i don't think it's entirely fair - i'm not dead meat
if you were a little observant, you could tell

anyway, i'm kicked out of my house
i told her, i don't blame her
she's going through a drama

another thing i've noticed:
a lot of things don't get resolved
she's another girl i will never be on good terms with again
i gave my goodbye, respectfully
and that's it

well then

Well, I was gonna eat. And I was gonna sleep. And I was gonna fulfill other needs by methods described poetically being writerly and non-red-lined.

Things from yesterday are still fairly relevant. I think I've earned my sleeping pill. Benedryl. I won't say what happened to get me here, or that I feel nausea, a kind of sickness that a puke won't dislodge. And it's not "society", or this, or that.

I've lapsed, yes, let it be said. Let it also be said that this lapse doesn't count. You know I'm not one to bullshit, so you can count on me when I say this doesn't count. Honestly though, I'd have saved a lot of vigor and money if I'd gone to a meeting instead of snifflin the crystals. And. Then. So.

Enso. I can't ignore its existence and the splaterns of evil and angelic bliss swirling around that hair studio, as if I didn't know, and I don't. Pay no mind. Pay no mind atall. Hallucinations, nothing more. Nothing less. I just wanted to say, post-break-down-tune-up-pre-apocalypse-reverse-jinx: there's something about that girl and that scene and that house and that studio and her friends, the taberfucks, and whatnot, that makes me re-evaluate things - what the fuck is health, do you think? I'm not taking solicitations, unless they're sexual. As per usual. You know.

bloodless

bloodless
never painless
stimulated nerves

i played with dollface on the porch yesterday, i made her more vivid than she was - i put a ribbon in her hair and brought her out in shades of gray, it was good practice for a career in sexual frustration

oh, i have no religion and my god is the void, but i practice -x but what i heard of god from someone i was willing and able to listen to, so long ago, before i lost my soul, was that she is black - and she's really the head of the quik-e-mart x- daphney's riding an anonymous cock, it never gets old - it's immortal fragments, like dustmites blinding the scorcerer's apprentice -x and even the apprentice exchanged a few furtive glances, and some bodily fluids, with the magician's doll

five days ago, i gingerly removed my gas mask and my canisters -o the poison is no longer neutralizing fairy dust wafting out from quantum vents o- and my possessions are going missing, one by one, sometimes two by four -o the fairy dust is fair to middling, it's something, anyway o- and those canisters aren't disappearing from the market anytime soon

after playing with dollface i phase into metaphor, the fairy dust won't cancel that, won't encourage it either - consistency is in canisters, there's a pork flavored canister, a mango flavored canister - there's directions on the back of the can, but they're in lebanese - there's a good view from the edge of the suspension bridge, i can look down and see the river running with faces - the cokehead killer is in eighties jail having an electrode wake, americans do water torture better than the chinese, and i'm still connecting contours to bodies to souls, but it's all dollface, and genetic exchange is a card game, and the pot rattles with loose change thrown in by tightwads

dollface threw my words back at me, i love her when she does that, it's cute and curt and crimson, a scalpel wet with saliva, it's that shade of deep red that makes me want to cut myself, it's utilitarian, pro/con, and always nullspace, when dollface throws my words back at me, when my works are in retirement:

"sterile neurotic with beady-eyed delirium and an electrode-wrecked brain, clothes wet with night sweats, whacking off to daphney, not worthy for eternity or at least a less grandiose stretch of time, like a non-respectable shrug-life -- and so, so many toxins to blame it on, so much bile produced by those poor organs fulfilling their function, and such, such saintly parents, such that there's no adjective that won't sound sarcastic, and what's more, nothing to flesh out, except the cryptic garb of a half-naked figurine

'ney -*- she inspired one more session - then several more hallucinations - here's hoping, opening:

well i don’t hate charlie
all that much today
you know, the sun is shining
and chuck seems okay
if i can just find him
i know he’ll treat me good for a while
i know he’ll treat me good for a while
that’s why i smile, today
because i know i’ll feel good in a while
and there’s nothing to say
and i forgot how to pray
but it’s okay, for today
because i know i’ll feel good in a while

i know he’ll treat me better than anyone
i know he’ll give me that shit-eating grin
i know he’ll treat me good for a while
till he smacks me right on my chin

well it’s hard to remember
all the mean things he does to me
all i can think of
is the candy he brings to me
he takes it out of my head
and puts it into my hand
and it feels grand
so grand, to be damned, damn