i like to sharpen my figurative knife
lucky it's not a literal knife fight
but it's a figurative knife fight
so i sharpen my figurative knife
to get ready to fight dirty, literally
there'll be an end, in mud and blood,
the figurations eventually tabulate to
my own blood spilling, medic, morphine
a more meaningful ending than i'd plan
that's a man, a plan, a canal of death
too early, no, still trying to sell myself
the comforting idea that it's ok, somehow
okay, somehow, it's all okay, somehow

I like to pretend like I'm an invalid, always in bed
and all I can do is watch youtube and write references to the tube
the colon of the internet, squeeze slowly over a life
the media gets higher res, the dopamine gets managed to a finer degree
a degree that forms feynman diagrams in the neural net

i like to put things in lower case, to make them small d discovery planes
so open to connotation, not Capital B Brand Name Bullshit
Everybody lies, so why don't I? No reason not to.
Except I know some people who are more sincere and earnest than me
so I can't say I really know that everybody lies
- maybe I'm lying to myself -
refusing to accept things
a sub-basement protected cell for body-melting revelations
an arc of the covenant warehouse
lost in the boxes and shelves
til they invent a search engine
and start mutation of the information age
"meta-electrical speculations on culture", haha
see what I did there? Of course not, how would you know?
the quote is a book title that terence mckenna made fun of himself for crafting
during a month of not smoking pot, turned his judgement to dogshit

i like to soliloquizing about why I lie, who am I lying to? I don't believe in such childish concepts like "you're only cheating yourself", this is a primordial stage of selling out to a mirage of adulthood and status, i'm now at the point where I feel everyone cheats, but I'm still INFJudging, with my withering INFJ stare, except it's only my reflection, INFJ-staring back at me, to me.

i like to write about hate, i can still do that
feel hate to fuel writing
a good mixture of hate and love
a sea of black with a dove, stars above, cornball songs, singin' along, apostrophizing to gild the lilly of dialect. Like Sam Clemens. This is the media of the moment. No silver star cheerleader to offer me a delusion of self-worth I could get myself to believe in.