my poem that you shouldn't read.
okay this poem is fucked up. i wrote it last night. i had a fever. it was one in the morning. i wrote it in a couple minutes so it's wierd as shit.
DOPAMINE
i might like you better if we slept together
fast forward the man in the horse drawn cart.
make way for the blurred demands that you constantly consume
as a double entendre.
everything is.
it's unescapable.
he's walking throught the room
and there is
too
much
dopamine
i might like you well for your clarity
slow down: play by play
the desparate, prying from the unesteemed.
welcome to the age of the double entendre.
no one wants
rather means
the same thing
and no one
seems
to care.
the dopamine leaking through the homemade, lifeless, and fucking bodies.
and no one notices.
i want to understand but they all want the fog to stay.
and so it does
when one bird sits
rahter perches
on a telephone wire
the rest of hte kinky porn stars come to chirp.
rather the fog is never lifted,
rather thickened,
and we are given glasses
flashy goggles
to see through it.
but they go out of style because a murderous lover discovered
rather knew
that the five-minutes-of-fame, and fashionably late-i-like
goggles showed nothing
but a quarter rolling down the street.
as we all go to pick up the quarter
visible behind the curtain of fog we use
to make ourselves wanted
harmless
and feared,
they gouge a needle through our brian and extract the dopamine
so that everybody does crack,
but it has no effect
and now it's like a vitamin, and we are all dead.
because of too much
or too little
dopamine.
it's all my fault.
i killed you all.
with my assuming words
and my triumphant laughter
i took off your glasses
and now you're fucking assholes in the fog of confusion
that i am slam dancing brilliantly to,
as my mirror tell me to put down the dopamine
and go fuck something.
because the cosmic horn's got a hold of me now.
and there's no coming back.
i broke the law.
and all i wanted was that moment
or moments?
or clarity,
as i question my bedclothes,
but they sent me dry ice
instead of the ice water
i was looking forward
to drowning in.
and the song remains the same
as i hold no quarter
recieving only your dial tone
and i just keep on mouth fucking
like the kinky porno
with bodies smashing into the walls
bloodied with dopamine.
this is the one you watch
while you eat your stale cereal in the morning.
i told anybody anything.
and nobody everything.
and everyone knows everything
about me.
now i cna't tell tem any more
because the man that invented the zipper
was told by my mutti to sew it all around
my sleeping bag
and the only thing i have a lock to
is killing me
and i don't even have the goddamned
key.
so i sit,
suffocating a dopamine od death.
pleasurable at worst,
i am hating and missing every one of you whores.
and you will know me as pimp daddy sallinger, the hermit.
or rather holden caulfield,
celebrated celebate celebutante of nonexistent fame
which i didn't want anyway.
i'm much too cynical for that.
to contradict is to truly love
the dopamine
in your
brain.
sesquipedallians,
you and me,
will be chucked in the looney bin
never to glance and the murdering sun
in a perfect world.
and they will track us by the trail of painfully enlightened
those driven criminally insane
or suicidal fuck.
and politics and the rest of the world
and the fake and offending
are hidden with the fog
and the loonies are the only ones that know it.
driving us entirely crazy
for their satisfaction
and ours from the dopamine
in a perfect world.
and you must kill them
by following the trail of the happily dim
and satisfyingly careless and pleasured.
as they take away anything that isn't pleasure
so that all we live on
off of
need
have
want
crave
is dopamine.
in a perfect world.
and the caulfields and the enids and the charlies
will contradict their suicidal emotions
until they land themselves
in the looney bin
and go insane
so they skillfully escape.
only to learn
that they crave
and hate
the same thing.
dopamine.
and all the wallflowers will get up and dance
in a perfect world.
rich
with
dopamine.
DOPAMINE
i might like you better if we slept together
fast forward the man in the horse drawn cart.
make way for the blurred demands that you constantly consume
as a double entendre.
everything is.
it's unescapable.
he's walking throught the room
and there is
too
much
dopamine
i might like you well for your clarity
slow down: play by play
the desparate, prying from the unesteemed.
welcome to the age of the double entendre.
no one wants
rather means
the same thing
and no one
seems
to care.
the dopamine leaking through the homemade, lifeless, and fucking bodies.
and no one notices.
i want to understand but they all want the fog to stay.
and so it does
when one bird sits
rahter perches
on a telephone wire
the rest of hte kinky porn stars come to chirp.
rather the fog is never lifted,
rather thickened,
and we are given glasses
flashy goggles
to see through it.
but they go out of style because a murderous lover discovered
rather knew
that the five-minutes-of-fame, and fashionably late-i-like
goggles showed nothing
but a quarter rolling down the street.
as we all go to pick up the quarter
visible behind the curtain of fog we use
to make ourselves wanted
harmless
and feared,
they gouge a needle through our brian and extract the dopamine
so that everybody does crack,
but it has no effect
and now it's like a vitamin, and we are all dead.
because of too much
or too little
dopamine.
it's all my fault.
i killed you all.
with my assuming words
and my triumphant laughter
i took off your glasses
and now you're fucking assholes in the fog of confusion
that i am slam dancing brilliantly to,
as my mirror tell me to put down the dopamine
and go fuck something.
because the cosmic horn's got a hold of me now.
and there's no coming back.
i broke the law.
and all i wanted was that moment
or moments?
or clarity,
as i question my bedclothes,
but they sent me dry ice
instead of the ice water
i was looking forward
to drowning in.
and the song remains the same
as i hold no quarter
recieving only your dial tone
and i just keep on mouth fucking
like the kinky porno
with bodies smashing into the walls
bloodied with dopamine.
this is the one you watch
while you eat your stale cereal in the morning.
i told anybody anything.
and nobody everything.
and everyone knows everything
about me.
now i cna't tell tem any more
because the man that invented the zipper
was told by my mutti to sew it all around
my sleeping bag
and the only thing i have a lock to
is killing me
and i don't even have the goddamned
key.
so i sit,
suffocating a dopamine od death.
pleasurable at worst,
i am hating and missing every one of you whores.
and you will know me as pimp daddy sallinger, the hermit.
or rather holden caulfield,
celebrated celebate celebutante of nonexistent fame
which i didn't want anyway.
i'm much too cynical for that.
to contradict is to truly love
the dopamine
in your
brain.
sesquipedallians,
you and me,
will be chucked in the looney bin
never to glance and the murdering sun
in a perfect world.
and they will track us by the trail of painfully enlightened
those driven criminally insane
or suicidal fuck.
and politics and the rest of the world
and the fake and offending
are hidden with the fog
and the loonies are the only ones that know it.
driving us entirely crazy
for their satisfaction
and ours from the dopamine
in a perfect world.
and you must kill them
by following the trail of the happily dim
and satisfyingly careless and pleasured.
as they take away anything that isn't pleasure
so that all we live on
off of
need
have
want
crave
is dopamine.
in a perfect world.
and the caulfields and the enids and the charlies
will contradict their suicidal emotions
until they land themselves
in the looney bin
and go insane
so they skillfully escape.
only to learn
that they crave
and hate
the same thing.
dopamine.
and all the wallflowers will get up and dance
in a perfect world.
rich
with
dopamine.