exit, stage leftrightcenter,nowhere

self inflicted, why?
the thought of never, is a long, long forever
and it floods my thoughts like rolling waves on the surf.
300 months. The counter hasn't stopped.

rite of passage

No cure for this malady.
Prevention ain't fun,
but when the sickness creeps up on us,
underneath the wrinkles on my face,
wide-eyed naivety still?
And the fading remnants of a smile,
clenched teeth.
I fear regret; at what cost though?

bleeps of sonic indulgence

nobody no one nothing else just me.
it's a simple equation dividing subtracting dividing
a factor percentage of me.
always a simple conclusion the ending,
beginning an ending embarks on a journey;
a destination; me.
monkeys on my back i'm opening a circus
with nuts and chimps and nuts and me.
crunchy, all natural, primal primates, their(they're??) nuts, nuttier, nutty not.
chewing on bark, and sticking sticks through the ground;
chimpy chimpanzee.
fuck. monkey. not apes. monkeys are fucked.
we watched the chimp beat a monkeys brains to death.
We taped it and showed it. we watched it.

you were here

They tell me change is good.
But when you get left behind, all you can taste and feel is the dust and the smoke.
Clogging your lungs, and leaving a sting in your eyes.
Remnants of a better past.
I try to touch what was once there, your hand your hair.
All is air.

with you for a 10th of a second. feels like forever. wish it would last

end it. You haven't even started.
Nothing to start with.
Can't find it, lost it.
Been dumb.
still am.
and what is lacking.
everything.
and why.
i let it slip away.
underneath this exterior, behind the smile,
is a puddle of tears and rotting flesh.
time stopped but not for me.

insidious.

part1:
unconditional.
it's how it should be.

pleasures, beguiling in the negative definition.
beware. Can't keep on stumbling.
babysitting duties featured heavily for 4 weeks.

part 2:
nylon cords and cable ties.
this synthetic noose.
natural fibres don't work.
a million innoculations, can't and won't.
it stings still.
the hurt's gone.
it's the itch of the scar etched on this chest.
self inflicted.
i get off on my pain.

and the cure?
a robert smith catterwaul would fit nicely,
and...
you?

shift

I'm tired and it seems like it's all for naught hun.
Maybe I shouldn't anymore huh?
Skinned knuckles. Bruised.
It's all for you.