the stupidest scar will only feed malaisey substrate, a paste on moldy bread, to sustain me in the submarine, green things growing on spoiled things

mashed up my face, got blood all over the floor, what for? blood on the bedsheets, computer monitors, desk, mouse, keyboards - a good look, i'll say - from what? a stupid slip, not intended but self-imposed, the chaos is attractive like when i heard stravinsky transposed for two pianos, those black clusters of notes

no need for any sanguine talk of blood, it's just a mess, served cold - haven't bothered to punch up the epic post i wrote while travelling - this is the only truth - my nose and forehead are swollen, i've got stitches in my face, bruised body too tired to clean up the blood for day two now - i wish i had some good story for the scar, but it will be a reminder not to take up smoking again after finally getting clean, then falling so violently losing complete control, even the primal urge to protect the face - i'm still trying to give it a legacy by writing cagely to allow multiple meanings - if i thought i could get away with it, i'd claim a brain injury to explain away everything i will henceforth think and say and do, but guess i'm back in the land of deluded lucidity

Dream of Luc and Relapse [prayer style]

red-shift shamanicide

one day they'll find you, the rainbow cartel: the lovers... the dreamers... abusers... of self, shamanicized... to... abusers of others

turned around, calculated possibilities of abusing others, let's euphemize "using others", turn an inconvenient bag lady to a useful trashcan like the "better town" in Globex Corporation's video brochure, see it flap timidly under the cold wind thrashing a lonely snowscape, subtly beckoning negative space

surveyed possibilities of "using" others by turning on sociopathy like a tap, turning off strategically, to make a warm bed of insecurity, for us to cuddle up in each other, drop the confidence game, face confusing canopies of spreading-parting nebulae... and comment together at night in her designer's mood-lit interior, and trade humiliations, and pull up a positive sum, curl up a comfort so provisional, like a chanukkah candelabra

the rainbow cartel have smudged brains that care for no other until it's convenient - maybe one of them will find you convenient, take no for no answer - could find the bliss in that power trip, animal spirit you could bottle and sell to a man one indignity away from a mass shooting - but it's not open to full spectrum paranoia of a stable of others to use and abuse, the worst thing she could do to me, given carte-blanche, use me too then---leukocyte comets streak under my-eye-balls in a burn of cynic bliss, later-cuddle-playlist when i want to talk about it with you, only you, forget abstractions, rub shoulder, decide to believe, even at the risk of being seen to buying in to what i want to hear, because it's so open to interpredatory ratios... later, calendrical, bury denials inside implausible inverted pyramids laid bare, it's fucked up, that's okay, it's beautiful when torrents drown tornadoes

watching nintendo treehouse - why make it fragmentary? - longing - why fragments of longing - snipper clippers - is a game - just leave a lot of fragments on the frozen table of fun, removed, seen through a screen, googled, accessible sans tactile

can't do it fucked up, can't do it sober - can't do it fecund, can't do it sterile - throw me in the meat-grinder, cleanse me of zen - forget about the afterlife - forget there was a word for life

games, nintendo games, new nintendo systems - watching nintendo games on youtube, self-imposed exile, cause the social life makes myself take poisons

now i want to find her name, sam from nintendo treehouse from youtube e3 video streams, but i won't go that far, i'll only go so far as to strip-mine audio for asmr material, leave the video on the table, but the audio will meld with the loved visual assocation, the kind that's just on the edge of sexual, but mostly in the land of good vibes and pleasant sub-sleep drowsy where something happens with the meridian, whatever that is, pseudo-scientific discipline for curious lack of curiosity in the vast pool of analytical phenoms i'd've figured would've studied everything

my relationship to words ain't so sacred anymore, but i'll put some pronouns in there, to fragment less, and i can still feel there's a sutra in and around those words, above and below my spine

haveth childers everywhere

still got that vital force
still putting it to no use
lot of effort for nothing productive

if it is a sterile vitality, i should not succumb to depression and self-hating because of old artificial morality and superstitious nonsense - the irony is, i would, after all this time, coming from feeling so rational, no-nonsense, penetrating clarity of thinking, to seeing why nonsensical things exist, to contracting stockholm syndrome from a cruel and irrational world - it's not all cruelty, sometimes irrationality is the only salvation, but it's a sometimes salvation, gets to seem insufficient, makes me feel the malnutrician i can normally ignore

i'm still creating an apocalypse for myself every week or so - pushing back any kind of redemption, again and again, kicking it far into the future - some day i might kick it so far it falls off the edge of the earth - relapse, but no recovery, none left in me

still, no, i won't do it - won't bring a child into it to save my own soul

still i can just lean on the one time i had reason to buy plan b