Sunday, August 8, 2010



It's 10.30 and I'm writing from home, which means I'm drunk.

My mind is like a cracked filament and I have nothing of use to write.

There's the usual demons hording around me with blood falling from their lips like they're on some perverse cherry binge.

I suppose I'm "nuts," but it does keep a pulse.

I begin to imagine the chemicals in me:

Long strands of barbed wire intermingling and surrounding the brain, then attacking in formation causing synapses to collapse in painful anxieties.


It's remarkable that my brain hasn't gone full-blown tumor.

If there ever was an organ to be ground, it is the brain of the insane.

I wish I was special in this special kind of rot, but I know you too suffer these same palsies. Otherwise, you wouldn't be rubbing your genitals every night in the hopes of some rest.

The chemical dependent relies on their own and there is no force stronger than an ego slapping against itself for temporary peace.

The insane are only those who bitch.

How many purple dragons has Laura Bush seen today?

We won't know until she cries "uncle."

Oh, bless the fallen for they fell.

Suddenly night falls.

In the night we dream of random memories mixed with vague associations and come up with something to entertain us as the brain drips what's left of our youth into our mouths, down the esophagus and into the stomach. A slow batter is brewed and seeps down the intestines, and into the colon out through the anus and comes splattering like mud balls onto the clean, smooth white porcelain as we sigh in relief.

What's left in the brain by age 26 is a large block of feta that assigns working, fucking, and "dealing with others" tasks out to the nervous system.

And we all fall down.

The globe of stinking feta becomes self-aware and smells its own stench.

In place of guilt it assigns regions, governments, social and racial classes to explain it's own stench.

None of this makes the slightest of sense and the feta devours itself to cover up the evidence that it is a pile of steaming, stinky feta.

The mind is now empty, but open.

In sheer panic it plugs itself full of possibilities and chokes on possible failures.

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