(no subject)
time encapsulated in the friction rustling between moments or motion to stay on an even plane or some other such bull shit. i've noticed that if you give your thoughts freedom they will start to demand it. the term poetic injustice just sprung to mind and i'm wondering which pop culture rip off i just purged from my brain. some movie i never saw perhaps. serve it on a platter beside a fish sandwich and sweet salome's gem stone. we all harbor a home land. right. a gem stone to covet when feeling lonely or just distance. quite possible just alive. just just just. the question of ratios will leave you boggled. leave the bad writing to me and in ten years we might just have something. go fuck yourself with your atom bomb. i don't feel good. don't bother me. a too familiar chorus. can't sleep in the loudness? too fucking loud for you. the birds head will fall off eventually. canary in a dali - cage. dolly folly don't hurt polly. i'm typing because i won't write. my scriblle lost it's legibility earlier this week. would save under word if it were possible. worried about the snoops. not the red baron for sure. not charlie's wonderful dog. just the fucking snuuppsssss. printing pisses off polly only shelby doesn't mind. placid little puff ball. i had till friday to send them out and i haven't. so is this my compensation. my sacrafice to an apathetic muse. scribbling across keys constructing monuments out of alphabet blocks to salvage later in revision. my rubble. the mattress that sagged in the middle. the next poem i left somewhere in the car. and the dead dog. the best summer of my life was the summer i saw a dead dog in the road. when i am gone this city will forget me but remember the corpse of that dog and the 7 days it spent there before my ghost car and tar tracks. rotting. sacredness. good writing is building the sacredness from the everyday. creating characters imperfect and vague so your readers can see themselves. reading is an obsession with mirrors. writing an obsession with smoke. any art is a trick. good art is a show. love. if you've read this and likely you will don't worry. i've been writing like this for a month. throwing thoughts onto paper and weeding later. scrounging around for mustards seeds or craving speed.icarus.i can't trust the words to be saved to moms computer. so i trust the apathy of the few who know i have this account. and annonymous school computer labs. the dank and white wash wall of it. the omphalus. a thunder head