men are the fuckin pits.

monolith.

This isn't a specific space, a particular place, an exact time.

It's the abyss that fills this indistinguishable cavity.

lackluster.

the lament can hardly be characterized as a cause

or as, causing,

the constant disillusionment

of the colour of the walls,

or the transaction of salutations.

the mechanical ploy of love.

the automated existence can be a cogent argument

for what, are, actual desires.

and what is,

actually, existing.

the meticulous procedure,

of the lid opening to expose the iris

is laborious enough

to make one give up.

the persistence.
the quest to fill the abyss, the cavity

with something, one could assume, 

is more then irresolute gesture,
in whichever direction.

ONE of the SAME.

"please?"

"well, of course, ideally,

I'd like to"

swan.

Currently, quartered inside the death of Queen West.

The cause of, the uproar of, 

The artists of the early Nineties 

being cast aside for Yuppies to glamorize, 

Downtown living.

If every day, were as elating

as the Eggs Benedict-Smoked Trout, 

Curried Potatoes,

Americano,

Almond Croissant,

That I consumed, this afternoon,

then, I'd sell my precious soul, 

to live inside the walls of this million dollar stranger,

with a record constantly 

spinning.

hitting an all time low.

self educating, self medicating.
trying to teach myself to design, from a designers perspective.
in other words, his.
he's a vision, he's a talent.
he's a depressive.
too much David Bowie on vinyl,
too much howling at the moon.
break the bottle
& rye besmears the hardwood.
then,
I'm too tired to fuck
& feel.
The thick fur coats my lungs
christ, I think this place is killing us.
why should lovers compete with such divergent ideals?
I'm inspired.  My abhor is driving me to write,
to read,
to leave.
I've listen to Ashes to Ashes 9 times this morning.


Time and again I tell myself
I'll stay clean tonight
But the little green wheels are following me
Oh no, not again
I'm stuck with a valuable friend
"I'm happy, hope you're happy too"
One flash of light but no smoking pistol

I never done good things
I never done bad things
I never did anything out of the blue, woh-o-oh
Want an axe to break the ice
Wanna come down right now

Ashes to ashes, funk to funky
We know Major Tom's a junkie
Strung out in heaven's high
Hitting an all-time low

the snot.
I could never imagine ignoring the drip from your nostrils, coating your lips in a warm film of mucus.
the terror, the tin cans you bend.
the collection of walls you've shoved your head through.
the blood.
the indifference, the confusion.
the cats purring at your bedside.
the fur, the hair.
the unrequited itch.
the warm glow of 5:00 am on fake glass in your friends home.
the awake.
the sex I pretend not to feel.
coming in the sheets, washing the sheets, sleeping in the sheets, weeping in the sheets.
the stares I get for drinking J.D. and coffee with only a book for company.
the warmth I feel in empty, the warmth I feel in alone.
the girl at the table beside me with the awful hair and the awful boyfriend.
the pitty.
the sadness,
the sadness, my brother, my friends,
the sadness is lingering.
the unshaved legs.
the busted teeth.
the vacation.
the city.
"this city, is eating me, alive"
he screams.
and all I can do is watch.

saturday night.

SENTENCES MEAN NOTHING TO ME ON THIS machine.

czech mate.

please, monopolize me.
wishing I could stop reminiscing,
concentrating
thinking about, the mystery.


If I had the money, I'd visit a place as good as his.

face.

less can be, more.
hiding, from you,
what I'd rather not show,
this year.