12 Mar 2019

Don't Stop Me Now

I need some kinda cry therapy maybe. Nothing can permeate my armor of medication. Enlightenment, cursement, ecstasy, robust depression - you get to miss robust depression, even then, you can still sing: I'm in love with my car. It's a good running joke, that "I'm in love with my car is a second-rate song" joke, that joke's got legs, runs at hundreds of horses.

Even if something could penetrate my armor of medication, there'd be a kevlar underbelly, a scab lattice of cynicism. Except for this depiction of a Live Aid concert in 1985, the movie cuts through me, leaves eyes misty, brings to mind the elegiac cliche "that [recently dead performer] taught me how to be weird" or is it "taught me it's okay to be weird". The weird okayness is a syringe, pricks through my scabs, pumps me full of that chemical I hardly ever feel anymore so it grabs my attention, the chemical that precedes crying, the cry-chem that only throbs for a second. But watching that movie, I was getting those pangs on the regs. Rami Malek had something to do with it too. How to be weird. Except I was watching smurfs when Freddie was teaching, but I appreciate retrospectively. Can I nostalgize about times I wasn't born? I dunno but fuck it, I will anyway. There's all kinds of manifestations of weirdness. There's the monday morning kind, let's fuck it up business-like, it's time for business! The show must go on, isn't that another Queen song? Civilization's too big to fail - in the shadow of the mushroom cloud. It's okay if it reminds me of an Abba song, that's the water I'm swimming in, a mystic droning in, drowning?

I'm teetering on the edge of becoming Jeremiah, the cult leader, reaching such a pure level of self-righteous entitled rage as to tap into some demonic Jovian source. Except I wouldn't tap into that power, if I even knew how to sell out in an alien language. They accept venetian latin as an interchange, but I don't travel through time the same way I travel in space, so that's not an easy requirement for me. I'm not like them but I can pretend. I'm not even drunk but I'm quoting song lyrics constantly, they're in everything, like cancer. Maybe I'll partner with Cancer, Candace Cancer, we'll be workmates with benefits, she's like Fry's alien worms from that vending machine sandwich expired in antiquity, Cancer will be my manager, she'll improve everything about me, focus me into an emission of precision and get results! Like Freddie Mercury, ready? Pure, crystallized abortionist on a glass focal point. Rapidly changing minerals in rocks, dynamite with a laser beam, guaranteed to blow your mind.

Good enough for Now.

Don't you see, don't you see, don't you see? Don't... you... see? My name is not Jeremiah, I would never want a name like that. It's a cursed name, circa 1670 something... Don't you see, don't you see what's coming to me, what's got... to come... to me? Or am I looking into a mirror and bashing my head into the mirror asking "tell me what to do, tell me what to do," crying: "tell me what to do". I'm telling my reflection to tell me what to do, my bloody headed rejection, that pretty hair getting bloody, but it's dark hair so the blood is just an extended silhouette, hair clumps bobbing in peripherals, popping in and out of frame of jagged glass: TELL ME WHAT TO DO!

And I see a smile on the other side, and I start taking instruction, cause I'm learning high venetian latin, a second century dialect, I know what to do! What that is, I'll tell you... sometime... I promise... you forget things... I already paid you, remember? You don't remember? You don't see?

Wishful thinking, continue the gaslighting, keep the fire burning. Keep the windshield wipers going. It won't matter. We're all circling the drain. I looking forward to saying that again - years from now.

This is gonna be another descriptive post, in the posting wars, you see me now a veteran, a missive from a passive consumer of lite conspiracy theory. Not heavy, just low grade acid.

It's great, I'm not accountable to anyone. I'm trying to talk myself into positivity, that's all. Don't hold me to account on that front. With heavy head. Don't know where my heart is. Am I gonna start talking about that now? Better to just cry with no object. Or a doppelganger object. The object was replaced, and I have capgras delusion, my limbic system doesn't work right, I can't attach emotion to the object, the ticker, the organ that more than any other keeps me alive, or is that the brain?  Distracted by tits. Clits. Porn. Tawdriness, objectifying. But it's pure art. Well, it's an art form. But the beauty is a tangent off that, a crazy angle I can't crick my head to see.

Don't you see, what's got, to come, to me, come to me, come to me. Come hither.

If nothing else, if all is lost, I'll still be cynical, so cynical, blackly cynical, that's what I'll clutch in my cold dead fingers.

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