spinally tapped lubricant all out all in. fucking momo. you was right lisa. anyways. death to mark.

hurts like it's supposed to. everyone disgusts me in that light pain is my hexagonally scabbed forehead. it hurts like hell. i need to wear a hat starting now. weather unconcerned. can't change these clothes my forhead has been stricken with... what in the fuck are you talking about? you can't handle your drugs man and you are seriously boring.

sometimes i think i write simply because i don't have a camera to take a picture of what i did to my forterhaed because my friend sveno decided to be a fucking psycho. anyways never seen a scab like this b4 i am fucked but he, he is a fucking psycho. i don't like him.
nothing has scabs like my forehead. and i am vomit inside my shoes walking home after a few days of squishing it. i hate life.

i hate this forever. i suck and it don't work. talk to me talk to you talk to someone that thinks they're talking truth.

fuck this fucking spell check in the box, in the box im the only one who talks. if i look up it's to look right it's to look to you to keep you up all night. fuck you talk to me. TALK TO ME. talk to me, please.

fuck you fuck all of this fuck the tea stained yellow of faded bliss fuck the recorrections fuckthis



and what to say yah you wdere were right all along yuo never wanted to touch me and yes now that i'm dying you're right there. and yes no one cares, no one ever did, they stop oh they stop but all they can do is stare, and sit there, and wish there was some other way that they could pay we've all done paid and still the air stifles us and still we continue to care. fuck you the most because i love you and it ain't helping none of this will. what do i look like? do i look like what i have come to compare.

different mess, different time.
same damn thing, always mine

the shallow breathing and the sickness,
the sallow flesh as it's leaving
the monstrous mockery and it's mistress:
life, and you the victim.

nothing at all and a keyboard that shimmers as if it's looking at you.

the same bleep and haw of the fading fanfare on to
some other ridiculous county submerged in clots
of congealing air.

stuff to stick to you and smear

tired jaunts back and forth through escapes,
others end.

notions of some self caste formed by others hands.

lines of rhyming poetry without mates.


the pureness of the entirely ritualistic performance given to the separation of the artist in the quiet method required to continue, in the cutting and pasting of the original material from one little white box to another.

frozen and

nothing more.
a common cold cocked whore
in the moment b4 your brains hit the back
of your skull. all steal and gleaming virtue
out the back of your head.
over and over a picture of penetration avoiding
suffocation
by riding the spray out of your own futile existence.

one and the same and the same one without, never.