Wednesday, January 29, 2014

slowly killing myself

slowly being less sad
slowly being more pissed off

slowly fuck you.

Friday, January 24, 2014

death requests

When I die, I want to be buried with my headphones on, my ipod fully charged, with the album Disintegration playing on loop. Charge my ipod during the viewing and touch my cold, dead hand. I won't hear a eulogy because I'd be slappin so damn hard also I'd be dead so. If it's not open casket, stick me in a fucking laundry bin then. Before I get incinerated, make sure my ipod is still alive. Or if I change my mind and decide to be buried, make sure my ipod is still alive. Put charger in my pocket just in case. Make sure the volume is on max. If you say your goodbye to my corpse and I'm not slappin hard, rest assured I'll haunt your ass. Fuck a rest in peace.

Much thanks to Mikal. That demon.

RUN, slowly

My fear pertaining to sleep is dreaming about my friends encouraging me to be in a turkey farm, reassuring that things will be alright, then being attacked by the said malicious fucking turkeys. I'd wake up shaking and sweating, clenching my teeth cold.

My primary fear pertaining to waking up is pissing all over myself and also having to pretend to be alive that day. My secondary fear is not being in my own bed and also failing to fake it enough through the day.

A turkey can run on an average of 25 mph. An average human averages on 10 mph. 6 mph if distance/endurance are expected. I average one crawl per mile. The fucking things could eat me alive. Imagine being chased by a turkey. Occasionally, I imagine being chased by a turkey, and I'm typically snacking on a turkey leg (specifically from Disneyland) while taunting the fucking thing. But that's probably on a good day. Most days I drown in my own imaginary and inane irrational fears.

Maybe my fear of turkeys is the best exemplary metaphor to describe my being's relationship with existing. My person vs my life. I always just have to take this fucking turn. I don't know. I can't get this shit out of my head.

RUN, slowly

My fear pertaining to sleep is dreaming about my friends encouraging me to be in a turkey farm, reassuring that things will be alright, then being attacked by the said malicious fucking turkeys. I'd wake up shaking and sweatig, clenching my teeth cold.

My primary fear pertaining to waking up is pissing all over myself and also having to pretend to be alive that day. My secondary fear is not being in my own bed and also failing to fake it enough through the day.

A turkey can run on an average of 25 mph. An average human averages on 10 mph. 6 mph if distance/endurance is expected. I average one crawl per mile. The fucking things could eat me alive. Imagine being chased by a turkey. Occasionally, I imagine being chased by a turkey, and I'm typically snacking on a turkey leg (specifically from Disneyland) while taunting the fucking thing. But that's probably on a good day. Most days I drown in my own imaginary and inane irrational fears.

Maybe my fear of turkeys is the best exemplary metaphor to describe my being's relationship with existing. My person vs my life. I always just have to take this fucking turn. I don't know. I can't get this shit out of my head.

"I'd like to make a toast..."

You'd soak your toast in your drink then raise your glass to whatever was to be toasted for. That's what they used to do. Trillions of years ago. Tonight I made toasts to the mundane shit of my day, in pretense to their commemorative factors. 
I'd like to make a toast for the beer and the wine and the cigarettes I purchased. And to the few week old left over beverages in my room to finish the job. 

Cheers. 

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Is this about the coffee I stopped drinking?

I used to be the nicest nigga I know. I used to be the friendliest nigga I know. Charm through pleasantries and kindness. Making friends because I liked them all.

Sometimes you get burned, though, and your eyebrows get caught up. I got myself some bitch brows and the ghosts of a few bitches that fucked me. Then I sought vengeance to the stupid because it was that easy. It was more seamless than I anticipated so I ate it all up. Fattened me up.

I don't know when I stopped being the nicest nigga I know.  I don't know when I started shitting on my life and everyone in it. It's pretty sad to think about the decline of my being. But I was also just a kid. Is this what happens when you take up drinking coffee then try to quit all of a sudden? I got burned so I wanna burn them all too. Caught in my own quieted frenzy, I clutch on to these baleful regrets and grudges, and I swear I'll choose them every time. Like I'm hungry for hell.

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

semi-clever writer with no voice

So give me a massage.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

buck up

now that I got that out of my system, I can finally quit being a little bitch.
no soft serve
no soft serve

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

I dont like sunlight or warm weather. hot weather is the worst. i melt but I dont evaporate. i just solidify again. that's really irritating.

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

i feel as if i am physically enslaved by this. i will never let this happen again. i will never do this again. i will never. i will never. 

wouldnt it be nice

not to be reliant on anything including oxygen?
I might live underwater. I could get over my fear of drowning. And my fear of not being able to swim. I know how to swim. Why would I fear that? But I could live underwater
and never have to breathe in any of you ever again. No matter how much I might adore you.

xoxo

Monday, January 13, 2014

passed the doorway stabbed burnt scales or burnt shells, condensed and defiant and free. i gambled silence with emptiness but found them asleep and busy. where im alone, the ceiling-high closet door mirrors marked black curved lines on my face. intently marked, to be frank, the lines weren't lectures. the lines were suggestions. the lines werent even lines. the lines were traces of my unnerved disposition, annoyed and disappointed, like the shape of my brows. 'steady,' id whisper, 'it wont be too long.' i grimaced anyway. im sad to say i wont change a thing. dirty birds were calling for me.

Saturday, January 11, 2014

Sunday, January 5, 2014

i'm usually a liar, but not right now

i never much dealt with it. like the sort of splinter i stare at in the lull of things. the sort i gave up on because the pinching and the squeezing didn't make too much sense, and i'd been so ashamed of having it. i don't know why i should be ashamed, but i have always been. like denial to my humility. like cruelty eases me better. loves me better. i couldn't even say your name aloud. not like the pain was so overwhelming, nor was it pain at all. it just didn't taste right in my mouth. i salivated it without actually uttering anything. without enunciating anything. no sound, no lisp, no inhale, and no exhale. i felt incapacitated at the thought of it. the few letters that i believed were so awkward together. so odd and almost silly. something i didn't much take pride in at the time, but i'd said innumerably anyway. it was the safest name i knew, but how tragically troublesome it was. to me at least, your name is set on a podium in the corner in the dark. i set it there, marked my place, and walked away. oftentimes, it feels like a mistake having swallowed you. ingesting what i have of you just so i could relieve myself of you in the end. i'm trying. at least i think i'm trying. i write about you furtively inside pages i cower under. i never finish my thought in every entry because i don't know how. i begin with the beginning, just a simple reminiscence, without actually getting to the lurch i have in my throat. the animal i silenced. in a petting zoo at best. everything i have of you, i'd turned into metaphors. i'd turned them into things so not to make them seem as they actually are. i manipulated them. disguised them. doused them in such charming cynicism. but that's mostly because i couldn't bare plainly saying them. plainly looking at them. or thinking of them. that very well includes the letters of your name. it's almost as if i'm using them for my own benefit. so i can write something. so i have something to write about. and i feel i've concealed enough not to have to give credit. i'm using you as a flint. it's easier when the sun's out because the translation seems relatable. it seems easier not to stutter. but in the dark i fumble with myself. i blubber and i end up having to shake it. probably because i mostly saw you in the dark. i had you in the dark. you and me and the grasp we had on each other. it's most when i whispered your name and you immediately responded. immediately, every time. you really had me. it seems stupid to need a flint when the sun's out but everything i do that has to do with you is very stupid to me. i'm stupid to me for doing what i did with you. and i know they all think i'm passed you, or maybe i'm the only who makes myself believe i'm passed you just because i refuse terribly to speak of you. but my god, i just want them to know you really had me. i need it to be known that i really held on. and it's awful this way sometimes. but i just can't keep straining my neck to see if it's really your car that i'm passing on the streets. i can't keep at it right now. 

ARCHIVE, FUCKERS (for Ace-like purposes)