fucking ruined ruined fucking

don't know why a crumble of visions leads nowhere
unbiased unpacked pain clusters at the extra sensory fringes, caked with old blood'n'money, i dunno - missing swoon... better walk lightly paranoid territory insect enemies reptile whatever, i'm okay, why should i mind? cause, of two minds, too trapped in both of them... etcetera sentences, hey candle, is the candle worth the game? hey, game, you're too fuzzy, too noisy, oh horrible line noise, oh bitwrecked, oh fuck, i'm aligned with a shade of the plural thing of too much line in disappointment, not knowing or caring why anything, nah

fuckin diamon games, when i dint fackin care, definite very conscious of having lost something, fuck, like the void took a bite out of me in a big way to add to the negative ledger and null space, where a fuckin fracture of a thought of some body says, wait, what? certain pragmatic stylistic feature bugs to keep the thing going, to keep frowning and playing some game.

an exercise in style, a smear of cirrus content, for what format? for invasions of glasses of water or the appearance of pestilence, or a healthy if poisoned system of cell clusters - regarding ambassador of nature, which is silliness ridiculous pieces of oh my god, wait, well, what? not nevermind, just crazy thoughts of polluted subconscious and struggle to stay wedged or hedged or invested in a g h bripping bouncy mix of languages, why couldn't it foster and fester into some adventure worth having? because, the part about being lousy at that, i guess, i don't know, not taking dictation but writing cliche-ridden needlessly-hyphenated bouts of squeezebox geometry for a masterclass in funk-

ouch, aw, raw, fuck, fading out, failing, fainting, out of here, but not really, mind's not blotted enough with heavy solvents, could use a blotting out, a blotto, might self-medicate with heavy sleep meds to keep me covered, covered up in a pre-grave, a pseudo-coffin, a sleep i guess, and let it lie, let go while tightly gripping the illusion of control, like it's needed, possible, suppress, what? nothing but a line in a song, abstraction, a persistent illusion, on the edge of hallucination, paranoid response mechanical conditioned, canned, border

feeling ridiculous shifts things

a moment of weirdness - rusty gears, fucking fusty musty RUSTY gears, oh man, grinding - the ridiculous cycles, paralysis, grinding giggling noise of nothing but...

now thinking about not having the strength for this and that, and failing so miserably as an addict, and dawning awareness that maybe i should be offended, deeply offended, and react aggressively, aggressively commit slow but accelerating suicide... but nah, whether fake or real, there's a better way to live and cultivate appropriate things to be proud of

ugh, what's this shit, journaling? poetry? nah, not quite, neither fish nor fowl, more like soliloquy but less Shakespearean - a bland steady pulse-pattern of cardboard noise in semiquavers under experimentation with polonaise, the plastic version - gold dust in a puddle, runon rivulets of melodic fragments - and then covers, reflections, refraction

swiss cheese

yeah, and that sort of thing, and pointless runon, and giving not taking advice... giving advice like a maimed hydrant, piping up, not down

what was that artificial flow that just flowed like magically-functioning plumbing back in those old days?
state-bound-in-twine cardiac arrest moments

and spiritual program energy lattice forming which an addict mind bores holes in, tenacious, one little thought and allowance at a time, acidic and acerbic frantic clawing for a way out of the simple solution bound to current moment thinking feeling cell

running low on words, trying to ignite three-quarter vapourized gasoline puddles with a random spark generator, blunted and burned off flint, fuzzy edges, nothing to grab hold of

but outside the haze cloud iron sharps iron, and i took that to heart and will have to go on faith that it was a reality of mutual support

cause, poetry puddle dry mud introvision low definition

i never bothered to write much when i had important seeming stuff going on

omniparanoia

passive anxiety dread and sweet-turned-sour, soul-shucked shell

don't want to close my eyes

attention

-

i think i have a lot to say, and then i get a good look at the void

-

investing in words returns a negative

the trans-atlantic garbage patch

the oil sands

applied geochemistry

self-circuit surplus lap

too many dreams and drughouses

maybe all i can write at this point is fragments suitable for dnb stock, ministry of sound radio
vowelize every consonant, ford every stream
and pitch shift that bar and drop out everything but the drums why don't you?
don't you wanna try my crazy idea?

and napalm the reference hedge, ember to ash
pretend i'm not ahead of every curve, including the curve
that's supposed to preserve mathematical balance

stepping shaking over the gutter below those focused with wobbly vision on unstern, chasing the dragons up and down, more synthetic than organic, but it's too twisted together to tell the exact percentages

when you buy the synthetic, at least you know you're getting crap

you don't have to fret about organic scams and schemes

when you join facebook, at least you know you're opening your vein

to corporate-industrial-military datamine bloodbank central

just accept it's out of your hands, embrace convenience that balloons

to a plague of locusts that're so alluring, they're features, not glitches

they were glitches yesterday, but today they're smoothed over

even more finely filtered than before

precise cross-platform pollination for steadily sterilized interaction

purpose sharpened to the nanometer, surface turned to atomic dust

yeah, and a vowelized cross rhythm wubbing in my left channel

dust banger, web scrubber, for the sake of - 

what they called flow ten years ago - what i called precise detritus

seven years ago - 

never been more estranged

even from my best friend, even in death, whatever that is

is it gonna turn me full bore atheist? i don't think so

just getting more or less what i expect from the universe

no answer, no clue, nothing paranormal

but i'll make it up to him

somehow, at some time

when i'm a little more human and whole

indecent and imprecise distance from emotions that should be processing -

so now i can't sleep, so now what should i do now that i can't dream, and

too many dreams and drughouses

sleep surplus, elvescircuits

excess lappage, self-lappage

leavings of the blunt chemical experiment

trails of particles in tensor equations

it could be miraculous that it feels mundane