If it was a little more butyraceous, maybe there'd be some use in it... maybe it'd taste better anyway. Certain words have lost all magic for me. Even worse, certain words that had none to begin with, now charmed with an inverse sort of magic. Bacon zombies.
There's a whole tangent on waffles in the crack between the rug and exposed insulation. I care too much to compose a daft draft with a limp wrist and lame-duck dick. There's words I can write if I can manage it, a new style prior to inspiration.
Misery. Miserable times for no reason. Maybe things just got all zombified, but it doesn't feel like that, only looks like it, doesn't seem to deserve the zing of a word that begins with a Z.
I could spin straw into gold, by writing as if... acting as if, going against the flow and spinning lies from whole cloth that turn into the truth for existing in a Cartesian way, the way he would argue for the truth of God, because God must exist, because a perfect being would have to exist rather than not exist, existing being part and parcel of said perfection, the whole kit and kaboodle, like if there are unicorns, you're damn sure they have the one horn, otherwise they wouldn't be unicorns, but if, and hey, wait a second, I'm reaching back that far, for, what? Almost not a tautology? I missed something terribly important.
Missed the boat, lost a chromosome, pretended I didn't need to catch that train. Novelty is habitual, another stripe on the lolly, everything's so sweet and bone-corroding, mimicking carpal-tunnel and fibromyalgia - two-hundred flavours of dishsoap on one aisle, clever extracts, facsimiles from flowers and fruits I didn't know existed with florid latin taxonomy.
How's this for an aside, I'm so atrophied, even though I thought I expressed so hard, tonight, well, I did. But this is different, it's a lost art, tantamount to tautological corpse-fucking nostalgia abuse. I could clean it up, but whath the point? When the world'tho full of crap.
The best comedy sped to me through feeding tubes, a depraved density. I got all laughed out. Never been so free of chemicals but still filled with other kinds of synthetic. So what do I expect?
Misery. For a moldy crumb of reason. Not horror. Been here and there before though. Texan and Mexican decorated tiles polished with stainglass subterranean xenonic light. Cause that could just about mean something. Well that's not the point, it's that I created that image in my head, but that's not the point either, it's that it made that sound, describing the image, pretty words standing around on the fringes of a social situation, a wingding with drunk F Scott and caricature Hemingway and wisecracking Joyce and an illuminated salad bar glass cover of commentators.
Might as well say some things straight out, but, nah. Where's the fun in that? There's some fun to be had trying to keep it all under cover of circus tents. That's not it either. It's the late late after ramble coming ghostly after what was assumed to be the last ramble, after such an out of the blue pall of silence and no scaffolding, no technique, and why would anything ever be read? When you got your Plato and Aristotle and Vice columnists and the crowd source for list-based click-bait articles. And colleagues who are mostly theoretical, albeit being a click away.
So, synthesizing a connective tissue with weldbond, here I am on Latimer street in a new place, and it's never been a shabbier novelty. I blinked, I blunk, opened my eyes and had a personal best beard, just about. That's how you get one of those, you've gotta care so hard about not caring, until itchy stubble smoothly transforms into an oblivious chin-mane. Caring all the while, not allowed to have a breakdown. This is the habit of staying sober, and being lucky to have work, and not caring to spend money on anything, nothing to buy, nothing will buy me out of this pointless purgatory, there's no purging, only becoming one with ammonium chloride. That sounds about right.