The Killer's Dead Part

“’I don’t know, Bob,’ I said, ‘there’s a couple kinds of laziness.  The don’t-want-to-do-nothin’ and the stick-in-the-rut brand.  You take a job figuring you’ll just keep it a little while, and that while keeps stretchin’ on and on and on.  You need a little more money before you can make a jump. You can’t quite make up your mind about what you want to jump to. And then maybe you make a stab at it, you send off a few letters, and the people want to know what experience you’ve had—what you’ve been doin’. And probably they don’t even want to bother with you, and if they do you’ve got to start right at the bottom, because you don’t know anything. So you stay where you are, you just about got it, and you work pretty hard because you know it. You ain’t young anymore and it’s all you’ve got.’”

Thompson, The Killer Inside Me, pg 129.

The autopsy report showed the lines of worry scrawled all about his youth, a shadow index of all kinds of perplexity…and as he aged, in a generalized sort of way, they seemed to coalesce and send rigors straight from his forehead through to his sternum, shorting out what bit of heart he had pickled because he needed to save face at the regular assembly of his peers he secretly hated.  Those men who stupidly listened to, and accepted all of his spiteful, lying diatribes on just about anything current events had to offer, to the extent that his belittling intelligence trusted no one but the unknown experts he believed weren’t just toying with their own ideas about nothing.  Those thoroughly practiced individuals from some region just East of L.A. who popularized such great notions from bunkers in TV land, complete with historical histrionics reenacting parts from grander stages when battles were fought and things that a man did were real in the eyes of hedge fund managers.  With a bit of spunk and derring-do, just about any man with good sense could glean private property from the hands of Native extraterrestrials with plenty of good, clean land for the flagging.

A Festival for the Herded

Another day, hot as spit, full of long, drawn-out complexities not to be aroused.  Talking all night about feelings gives me an example of how numb it feels to reach out towards somebody who pulls away, takes the wind out of my sails, and makes me feel disgusting.  So now, of course, I don’t want to talk to anyone about anything.  When so much attention and focus has been directed towards the topic of lying about feelings, making believe they’re all good, or at least attempting to convey a good feeling, because it takes a little bit of effort to feel good around you.  Patience, persistence, and determination slowly pulls me to pieces as I attempt to get in on a piece of the action.  We’re all attached, just not at the hip, as shadows and light interplay, alterations’ skullduggery and the scene’s emotional mosquitoes make it more and more difficult to coalesce, and makes you more and more loatheable. 

Like a skinny girl who is getting way too drunk for her cool-headed boyfriend who knows from experience that the responsibility will eventually fall undesirably on his shoulders and that her parents will inevitably blame him for eventualities that he wittingly tried to prevent, to no avail, wise words wasted on honorless she, pain to her parents, a grinning fucktard.

The pain is palpable, in the air, fifty shades of coercion.  What a reduced rush!  A noxious exchange of gases <smolt> spoken words like a shed of feathers plucked out for quills, anticipating the end of Bic®.

Bickering.

 Overhearing what you have to say about our lack of chemistry, like chiral racemates debating handedness of relative polarity cold extracted to combat systems of belief from bombshelters, crucibles, or bucketseats.

Because I want to get to know you forever by asking how you feel right now…

Tired, hungry, and pitiless.

+(/_\)+ Four Others, Connected

?

Socratic
Semi-
Circles
Break
off to a
Radical
Point,
Tangential
to origins
with space
to fill with
substitutes,
replacements,
or breaks in
the action for
a drink or a
cup of coffee
to be specific,
a beer
to be honest,
or simultaneous
with consideration to
the system as a
whole, variable for
a moment, second,
minute, hour, month
year, decade, century,
or two sideways eights
depending on how you slice it,
a flower,
a pinwheel,
or a blastula?

seven-two seven-one

Second-hand afterthoughts leave me used, in the borrowing
business, at the library, smoken for by a shmo’.

Control yourself, big man, the Devil’s at your wheel, driving
me to shame.  First you create for yourself a reputation,
and then, like a man, blow it.  Vitriol sets me off
on a tangent’s tangent, wrestling with vocabulary.

Nothing seems to quench the demon.  A bright idea?
Insanity’s gist.  Until I run the syrup through my system
a smoker’s coffers go up in flames. (An activity nobody can afford.)

The thing that gives me confidence is the thing that gets me by…
make my feet stink.  I must go for that reason alone.

--

To make matters matter, mountains must first be made of flowers.
Beauty behave, Powers overpowers the man in my likeness with
aspect and attributes all the same.  There’s no easy way to say this,
so I’ll let my representative speak on my behalf:  Discursive politics talks
me to boredom as receive a sit-me-down lecture for parental scorn.

The simplex is herpes, Vaccix is the commercial.  Vestigial
anthropomorphized appendages that do the business no good
must be cut off and cauterized to avoid a bleed-out.

Craven god ost darapture, take me to that place
overliver where mistakes are not made and health
is not important.  Vice me beanie non necesse est.

It’s a crazy kinda life, don’t lead me, leave me,
talk to me, make me do.  A warden always
captures the part of me that needs
to be locked up in the cell that holds the soul captive
in the mind, that perpetual awareness that is aware of constant
imperfection, that needs to be force feeding everywhere
in a deranged funk, transmogrified to ideal endings
of shit and piss, regular anal fixations, analyzed
for blood and sweat, a condition of dark force and
shady concentration, idealizing horrors that make me feel
weak in the knees and young again, full of spunk.

Sassy butthole, shit on me speaking in a cold voice,
that, “all that you do you are good at.”
It’s a compliment, get over it, you son-of-a-bitch
in fire-linked chains giving me a flurby.
How can I resist?  You’re making my hot dog tinkle with
excitement on the parquet floor paneling.

Breathe with me, that’s it…
synchronize with my circular-circular technique.
Sex everywhere!!  Guttural metaphors exist and
the fruits of my labor are rotting without upkeep,
waxing tomatoes for a review of hungry criticism…
the empty can’t afford to hurt, so they don’t.  
 

American legs are out awhoring;
nothing strange, just the same old, angles and curves with struts
vagging about bitches for attitude, can you believe it?
How she got into this mess, just be being near me?
Proximity possesses those who seize easily, blacking out
for confusion, distrusting for safe-keeping, because
you can never be too careful when it comes to dispelling
elements you worked hardly for and I’m describing the way
you do it, blockhead.  At ease, soldier, permission to speak fluently?
I do it because I can tangle.

Untangle, poor slinky, do me away from these steppes
high-beaming, blinding me with your brights, take care,
there, in the dark with the light of the world by your side.
It’s not so suspicious after all.  An empire of deserved getting
compensation for severe dearth or lack thereof, for
when the super-rich get together with the ultra-poor for prayer
and thanksgiving shall be the day I choose to die for
happiness, just can’t take it anymore, it’s too good...
for emphasis on rhetorical free-speech, not free bull-
shit because you have to pay for manure to grow on.

I’d rather not be here when the hit shits the fan,
“o my god, o my god, o my Christ, would you listen to this?!”
A whistle or a xylophone, blissed out, simply.