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