tonight i simply exist / just another..
movie. To keep me busy from 1:45am 'til 4:00am. To keep my mind from wandering, to keep it void of any attempt at complex thought and from any conclusions. Nothing has a conclusion anymore, it just cuts away to a very handy commercial break, right? Same old plot, smirks, fights, drama. That same old knowing gaze and the same old black screen with scrolling white text when you snap back to reality. blargh.
bowl. To keep me contented, to keep me comfortably sedated and enveloped in a cloud until the sun rises again. More smoke in my lungs, more ink on my hands, more thought ignored. More instict and less give a shit. Me and now and who really gives a shit about then? Oh, great. I do. puffcoughpuffcough
mess. Everywhere around me, crap, trash, cans, apathy. If my dead skin glowed neonish, maybe I'd clean up just to play with the dust. But as it is I have counterstrike. ashtrashdirtdust.
game. One more round of counterstrike, fifteen more footsteps to the ladder, up onto the roof buying weapons and ammo and hopping onto the box, checking your ass when the way ahead of you is clear only to eat some hotshot's .50ae as he hops out of view and forgets you. More disconnection from the thought of killing and more on an objective. More blood, more ammo, faster reflexes. Learn. Callous. Be programmed. bangbangheadshotBOOM
song. To keep my head bobbing and my thoughts distracted between what I want them to cover and what I do not. I am in control of my brain. Some pretty melody to melt away the pain and idiocy and filth and me- where we spiral and turn down the drain, together one last time. Dilute me. Less you and more me. Less me and more that. The new thing on the shelf, still under the cerin wrap, untouched and perfect? I used to glisten like that. beepboopbeepboop.
me. Another teenager with more teenage bullshit for an age of bullshitting & gasoline, caught between the gears and their clattering motions. Another hackjob writer. Another goodfornothing going nowhere special with nothing but a paper trail and frowns in his wake. Love me. Fuck me. Hate me. Hug me. Shoot me. Somethingsomethingsomething..
other
than
this
every night it's the same shit. The same routine. Gross and stale, I cram the sordid nothings down my gullet to sedate the hunger- send that gotcha! message and make me think I'm all fueled up. Chips and ketchup. Food for thought. Pickles and peanut butter. Caffeine Free Dr. Pepper because we wouldn't want to stay awake, away from those dreams any longer. Life is different there, life is disconnected. Life is what I remember or invent or some combination of the two. It is perfect because it is random, because it is a moment in which you simply exist. It is an orgasm. It is the vocal solo. It's a perfect headshot. Etc.. It's whatever this isn't.
great something(s) haunts me. :-x
i wish they would figure themselves out, let me apologize, go away, improve, work themselves out, do whatever.
any of them, any solution.
something else.
someone else.
can i wake up as someone else?
better yet, can i wake up as something inanimate and friendly? like a joint or a remote control. maybe sarin gas or a bullet. ink in an artists pen or a pebble in a kids shoe. somethingsomethingsomething...
other
than
me
bowl. To keep me contented, to keep me comfortably sedated and enveloped in a cloud until the sun rises again. More smoke in my lungs, more ink on my hands, more thought ignored. More instict and less give a shit. Me and now and who really gives a shit about then? Oh, great. I do. puffcoughpuffcough
mess. Everywhere around me, crap, trash, cans, apathy. If my dead skin glowed neonish, maybe I'd clean up just to play with the dust. But as it is I have counterstrike. ashtrashdirtdust.
game. One more round of counterstrike, fifteen more footsteps to the ladder, up onto the roof buying weapons and ammo and hopping onto the box, checking your ass when the way ahead of you is clear only to eat some hotshot's .50ae as he hops out of view and forgets you. More disconnection from the thought of killing and more on an objective. More blood, more ammo, faster reflexes. Learn. Callous. Be programmed. bangbangheadshotBOOM
song. To keep my head bobbing and my thoughts distracted between what I want them to cover and what I do not. I am in control of my brain. Some pretty melody to melt away the pain and idiocy and filth and me- where we spiral and turn down the drain, together one last time. Dilute me. Less you and more me. Less me and more that. The new thing on the shelf, still under the cerin wrap, untouched and perfect? I used to glisten like that. beepboopbeepboop.
me. Another teenager with more teenage bullshit for an age of bullshitting & gasoline, caught between the gears and their clattering motions. Another hackjob writer. Another goodfornothing going nowhere special with nothing but a paper trail and frowns in his wake. Love me. Fuck me. Hate me. Hug me. Shoot me. Somethingsomethingsomething..
other
than
this
every night it's the same shit. The same routine. Gross and stale, I cram the sordid nothings down my gullet to sedate the hunger- send that gotcha! message and make me think I'm all fueled up. Chips and ketchup. Food for thought. Pickles and peanut butter. Caffeine Free Dr. Pepper because we wouldn't want to stay awake, away from those dreams any longer. Life is different there, life is disconnected. Life is what I remember or invent or some combination of the two. It is perfect because it is random, because it is a moment in which you simply exist. It is an orgasm. It is the vocal solo. It's a perfect headshot. Etc.. It's whatever this isn't.
great something(s) haunts me. :-x
i wish they would figure themselves out, let me apologize, go away, improve, work themselves out, do whatever.
any of them, any solution.
something else.
someone else.
can i wake up as someone else?
better yet, can i wake up as something inanimate and friendly? like a joint or a remote control. maybe sarin gas or a bullet. ink in an artists pen or a pebble in a kids shoe. somethingsomethingsomething...
other
than
me