pewfj;lwhfjqljq;lwfj
this carnival ride of an existence trip im on is quite the excursion. i am finding myself to be divergent. inexcusably out to lunch as the other bask in their specific hands dealt. i'm not here. im in another place. im thinking about art but art is a luxury and i need a trade.
the winds are all encompassing and my journey is half naked, scattered about old roads... dangling off of the edges and just so delicious to onlookers. they ghasp, shock shock horror. im a cranium warp twist, my brain in a cajumbles.
and so i listen to KID A like its the year 2000 or something, like its the past... and the past is just so furtive, just so sneaky it makes like its the future. the future is past.
kurt cobain would have been 46. today.
my eyes are melting from the insides outward, and im getting jittery and not focusing too hard on all of the soft spots spurting about us in a casual way. i am not here in this place.
the people in this town liked me until they got to know me.
and i suppose thats how i happen upon everyone, and everyplace.
my cat is doing crazy dashes all along the carpet.
i am torn to shreds and no one wants to read my book or dig in deep enough to understand my utter remnants.
i should have known.
and perhaps no one ever will.
i write poetry from a shelf as i expell and expunge the mess. i take photographs of atmosphere,
I AM NOT HERE.
the winds are all encompassing and my journey is half naked, scattered about old roads... dangling off of the edges and just so delicious to onlookers. they ghasp, shock shock horror. im a cranium warp twist, my brain in a cajumbles.
and so i listen to KID A like its the year 2000 or something, like its the past... and the past is just so furtive, just so sneaky it makes like its the future. the future is past.
kurt cobain would have been 46. today.
my eyes are melting from the insides outward, and im getting jittery and not focusing too hard on all of the soft spots spurting about us in a casual way. i am not here in this place.
the people in this town liked me until they got to know me.
and i suppose thats how i happen upon everyone, and everyplace.
my cat is doing crazy dashes all along the carpet.
i am torn to shreds and no one wants to read my book or dig in deep enough to understand my utter remnants.
i should have known.
and perhaps no one ever will.
i write poetry from a shelf as i expell and expunge the mess. i take photographs of atmosphere,
I AM NOT HERE.