My chi is zero. Now, there's solemnity to pursue. Maybe it's already here. Maybe I can feel it forever, attained.
Well, if sex ever gets boring, I'll ask you some questions, try to find out some real shit. Acupuncture isn't my thing, but I'll grant that it works better then trepanation. I won't poke holes in you, but I'll poke your holes, that's something I can do. I could poke holes in myself, I have, I would under a variety of circumstances.
I had solemn thoughts about drugs, about how it stopped being fun, and it's solemnly good to be getting off them, a solemn streak going, and then I thought, I've never banged substance d, like I should've fucked ohwhatshername, and that would be fun, a ledge below the edge, a carefree willie coyote chasing the roadrunner off a cliff, and well, here we go down the mullberry bush, but no. I refuse.
My will is strong to have a better quality of fun than I've had for quite a while, or even a better quality of life than “having fun”, maybe there's some kind of solemn duty in my destiny, maybe I could live for something other than myself.
Solemnity, my chi is gone, when I get it back I'll get horny, and frustrated, but I'll still be leading a better quality of life until I run off the cliff. Maybe if I stay on the road for a while, I'll learn what frustration is for. I hope there's more nuance to it than the simple arithmetical fact I hate, that big fucking wall that shadows my will to live, to REALLY live, the equation: no pain no gain. That's why I looked for escapes in holes in my arm. Fantasize, or realize a coma, honest phoniness fuck this.
I want to tear poetry to frayed and jagged fibers, scatter them over the ground, forget them, leave them to the night janitor in his groucho mask, entertaining no one. That's a good Rilke quote, though. I don't really know what to say, maybe I want to bang my head on another wall, sacrifice another midget, the latest regeneration of self, dance like a cripple, build railroads like a chinaman. Pre-apocalyptic electrical substation party at the edge of the housing development, I have access to the entirely of irrelevant information and so does everyone else, now slice into my excess flesh with a serrated steak knife, I can't be bothered to do it myself.
Her, I assume, a mindfuck of artistic stature in any case, turns and burns, the ellipse river letting me fill space with all kinds of crazy notions. I have no more courage as an artist than as a man, I hide like a packrat amidst junk of no meaning or consequence the second anything hard to reveal comes up, and you know, that's mostly emotional and sexual and, well, mostly those two, the things I really haven't got a handle on, and they mean so much more than I've ever granted them, even now, the elephant and the whale in the aquarium, in a 3d rendered fictional city of exquisite planning, within the aesthetic unit I'll call the duke nukem idiom.
So I have that rendered sort of taste, that tastes like smoky rooms with dextromethorphan being filtered from cough medicine in a closet in the bedroom, and dusty borrowed speakers, and plastic wrap and gelcaps, and fresh ejaculate, and the impossible sense of everything being alright that never really existed even as a sense, but did curl through the room, invisibly, hovering for a second in front of tired eyes, white wine fumes, that rendered sort of taste that guides me, through instinct, not to mention the basic facts of frustrations that are the result of primate-coded biological imperatives that drove me to this evolutionary niche, silly primate itch that feels so profound, that seems to have such implications for me as an ego, an ego that writes poetry and looks with sub-informed but hyperjaded eyes at a thing beyond the ego, that is “my” body, that writes and pretends to be the author, that writes hymns to itself as God, that’s not particularly “Good”, many “Directions”, and quite “Orderly”, yes.
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