Monday, June 14, 2010


blue spit, psychic spit, over you on to your
she says many things i wonder why
into this bed again
your pretty pony's not mattering

i'm trying to do this thing, they're visiting me. all of the pennies turned bad with rust. the water won't go down anymore, is five minutes worth it
rate of the heart. the cars sound like a tide, i'm convinced that its worth it i know that its not

ok, not sure. go or stay home - which is which - who are you -
weird weekends,
ways to do it

there are indeterminable numbers of uncertainties, this is the same for all things, how often do we assess every single existing angle, not once
i have found the pockets are limitless. there's never an end. this is extraordinary to observe yet entirely different to partake in. thus is born the role of the watcher
and player, and those in between, what an astonishing spectrum

this manic-depression is predominantly comprised of a seemingly adrenaline-fueled state of heightened awareness and alertness. the rest is a coin toss. every diagnosis will be different; no two doctors will be the same. there will be disagreements; there will be references to a christian god or the way it first felt to get high, to get off, to be in high school; there will be notes

tiring of the constant archetype, yet developing it as more experience is accumulated. instead of going to the party

america, is it darwin or jesus, my question is does it matter- is there anywhere left to go? the pockets keep breeding like rabbits, or pigs. kept giving me names and phone numbers.

slows down. hits hard
metal hand
on spine
black machine eyes
dark flash of a
raven's wing pupils
the obstacle
warm teeth