death sex is the best sex
this is something i wrote while inebriated (sp?) on sleep deprivation early octoberish. while i was writing this some kid who was either retarted or obsessive compulsive kept walking in a loop that passed me every 30 seconds. it was really odd. i could tell that he was counting each of his steps as he did this and he was making sure he didnt step on any cracks. i asked him if he was ok and he said that he was just "rehearsing for a class". he said it with shifty eyes and like he had said it in his head a million times in case some asked. i could tell that me talking to him had made him uncomforatable and he tryed to keep doing the loop but it didnt feel right because i had disturbed him. so he left to undoubtedly walk in an obsessive loop and count his steps while not stepping on cracks somewhere else. just thought i would share that.
"in transit"
the heat had seemed sudden but im sure it was just me in my dreary haze of pin prickles, covered by an unecesary amount of clothes which kept me feeling safe and hidden. my mood adapted and i calmed my static undercaptions. i found myself the most surreal flashback of clear warmth. the kind of place where you had to whisper and everything felt heavy with no actual strain. my eyes had been open watching the geography change. the weathered statue of a day had left me with the ability to view deeper things. i saw that you all had the faces of wolves. the devil showed me his perception through images that faded in and out like the state run radio transmission. do you hear the party's crackled voices comrade? you are superior by design and they should just kill themselves. the four corners of thier land should be decorated with reminders that found objects are just that. the new capitol over a mass grave. free of vengeful spirits because you lack one. your bodies set aflame to keep our skies bright and our streets safe. beutiful silver towers rising over the uniform clockwork. we could give you a factory birth with factory friends talking in factory drones. doing lines of ash when the steam whistle blows, we off bread, water and wine on sundays. just please come home with a clean face and clean clothes. please come home.
"in transit"
the heat had seemed sudden but im sure it was just me in my dreary haze of pin prickles, covered by an unecesary amount of clothes which kept me feeling safe and hidden. my mood adapted and i calmed my static undercaptions. i found myself the most surreal flashback of clear warmth. the kind of place where you had to whisper and everything felt heavy with no actual strain. my eyes had been open watching the geography change. the weathered statue of a day had left me with the ability to view deeper things. i saw that you all had the faces of wolves. the devil showed me his perception through images that faded in and out like the state run radio transmission. do you hear the party's crackled voices comrade? you are superior by design and they should just kill themselves. the four corners of thier land should be decorated with reminders that found objects are just that. the new capitol over a mass grave. free of vengeful spirits because you lack one. your bodies set aflame to keep our skies bright and our streets safe. beutiful silver towers rising over the uniform clockwork. we could give you a factory birth with factory friends talking in factory drones. doing lines of ash when the steam whistle blows, we off bread, water and wine on sundays. just please come home with a clean face and clean clothes. please come home.