(no subject)
and i'll sing you strings of sea green pearls between drunken bar fights and satiated lust. my soul is rotting in the upstairs room, underneath the swollen floorboards. it's a great day for the damaged, their paperweight hearts collide in cardboard boxes of childhood and adolescence. gilded strumpets and bearded puppeteers, waiting for the dance. the jewelry box glitters and the gears are turning. tin metal fingerprints embedded into the seams, to capture your fingertips and melt them into bullets. my limbs are swinging and my eyes hurt to close. open breathing scatter-grams of connect the dot puzzles across my torso. my head throbs. my fingers twitch.
I hate writing. It never turns out the way I'd like it to. There is no plot. It sounds pretty for a while. It looks alright on the page for a while. yeah, Imagery. A fool's hope is all it ever was. If you think about how much waste product a single person can produce in the span of 24 hours, you're dealing with a lot of shit. And by waste product, I don't literally mean intestinal excretions. I mean complaints, compliments, intellect, ignorance, casual snide remarks. It's all a waste in rings of deviation, of monochrome devotchkas. A work of art for the porcelain shitter. To be blind, to be mute, to stop caring and to be like everyone else? All things I'll have to get used to. No more wasting paint, pens, papers, space. I'm not going to go to an art college. I'm not going to go to a liberal arts college. In all reality, I'll probably get a job at some odd assorted fast food drive-thru and go to college part-time getting a nonsensical degree in absolutely nothing, waste money, and end up typing up other people's tax returns for the rest of my life. You want to call that art, be my guest.