The traffic is terrible. It seems there may be an accident on Broadway. I crawl, shouting a desire to kill, yelling about wanting to grind heads beneath my wheels, back and forth, over and over, splashing brain matter around my wells.
Cars honk as I walk past them.
It feels like my teeth are falling out, the back ones, my molars.
I return to the store to pick up more boxes. They must be delivered by 7.
A car stops right in the middle of the f****** street! I have to go around. They’re always waiting for some part of their life to move itself around them, like we’re all fruit flies and they’re the fruit!
I cleaned the bathroom yesterday and let loose hundreds of them that had been breeding in yeasty old beer.
I’m trying to get to Wizz up on Whinehelms, but I just can’t, because traffic is so bad. It’s like I’m right back where I started from.
The classical music station moves to a new building. Magical Fairies in the Devil House of the Lords is the next song. I’m crossing rivers of Twitter updates with my brake lights shining in the eyes of that crazy Channing Tatum, who tells me all about television football games.
My network was turned into internet discovery, where it’s possible to go to school, without making money. What makes me so happy is just the way it’s always been. All the same, I’m still a street fighting man, or a cowboy of the road. Not that I’ve ever raised my fists into somebody, or kicked them while they were down. I just swim in a grittier sea. Thinking the devil’s leg might not be in the celestial kingdom.
The guy’s on the phone as I come into my destination. He says, oh nevermind he just showed up. Friendly. Obviously you are happier than others. Just trying to keep going and create. I know you know what I mean when I say they’re beautiful.
“Thank you. Can I just see you take a little poop right there, please. Paint me a picture following that flow I keep moving her ass around. It’s going to show up great on the grave digger’s forehead forever. At some point, eventually, we all get to where we’re going: the place you can’t put a body. Who is this medium company come see figuring out how to live like its always just 10 minutes away, the song playing, with a reason for it being there. Because we have sweet things out the stone. A form of alchemy. Turning lead into gold. A hunk of rock gone at ‘til it becomes the angel or muse, glitched into the very well of not existing. Paul, that beautiful creature, our song, what you call it, out enough to realize. Any manager inside myself always tells me. Done dude got home play I said Dada hey talking like that nobody to specially not your son. Talking that way then I don’t want to call you my son in the first place you keep talking like that keep talking. Laugh out loud he brought my mother before. Black my mouth a lot of stuff got no problem I know but not for alpha and you’ll come now it is a major pain in your ass. Have you got to piss 45? You talk with a lisp then you might as well take yourself not talking too much longer. Down your throat so deep your face just swallowed God, what is it that you don’t really need but that ain’t no excuse for not being the most loving father in possession of the divine secret.
Find that hitting the angel inside of the stove Muse. Because she good god. If you don’t hear her call, feel bad, for you give yourself over to the half Hamptons, but contra mi you gotta be conquering Everest those changes come through the world we’re alive to literature work you gotta see that girl before you can pull her out of nowhere cuz in reality she may not exist outside of her artist or somewhere another phase of artistry had called in sick
The secret to new modernism is that not one of these human sperm has gone on to happy birthday of the next faze of humanity.
Damian said strip clubs are dens of iniquity, the lowest of the low, the worst of all places to work. But what does he know? I’m having a hard time respecting his opinion since he left the bathroom to me. Money or the points to keep the people playing the game. If it wasn’t for money most would just sit around all day. That’s what the bad inside my head always says anyways.
What I realized is that I’m fond of sitting around trying to telepathically force technicality to be the way I want it to be. There is great joy in massive honesty. It gives the fire tiger air to breath.