losing ground i never realized i'd gained until it was canyons deep below, words erroding like steady water dripping and conversations are merely noise to take up space ... lines to believe in something ... days to confuse the years, clocks to categorize emptiness ... fix this it's broken when it's not together ...

i drank from a fountain a few days ago and it's green tinted mouth reminded me of a decaying orifice, pursing out of porcelain: it's lie of clarity and ease of subsistence evermore an insult to injury ... there's no warm skin or blushing warm brook to heed my inner romanticism in ... it's hard and cold, a rubber nipple from an unyeilding plastic bottle ... a mother's hurried substitution for contact and affection ... again this sterility reminds me of my childhood television babysitter ... mommy pay attention to me ... i want your words in my head, not ronald mcdonald's and a herion dream of a mouse named mickey

we named our dog after that horrid cartoon rodent

i need to leave here, but the nagging questions of pragmatism make fertile fields of unknown frontiers desolate and grasp me by the pubic hairs, screeching at my libido that it was only molecules moving anyway ... no money, no free time, no one interesting enough to call that can ... yes, i am prime for a good needy meaningless fuck to split this widening abyss of a blue collar life a little deeper

maybe some african tribe will take me in as a long lost albino human puppy ... pet her and she squeeks and wines like a newborn with pink skin and blind as a brat ...
i've been told i look african and i have an african name minus one "n" / i always despised personal redundancy ... sorta like my initials AMS one and only one letter away from being a complete ASS ... these lips curl over in abundance and these features are plump and spread in that particular widening of the skull and nostril and eyelid stretch, except for the whole blond haired/blued-eyed visual, a stereotypical blasphemy to my personality in any case. i like to exploit it when i can all the same (the stereotype, i mean) ... beauty is for sale and i am sooooo, sooo tired of fighting myself, the inevitable within any self ... using principle and chastity to sterilize this beauty disease because i do not want to give in to the decadence i could so easily dip my fingers into, or not because personal integrity is a prison in itself ... as i've said humanity here is at a point where it is only fighting against itself and i am not as original or separate as i'd like to entertain my ego to believe ... i'm just more bothered than most ...


fuck adam and his orginal sin bullshit, too, his snakeskin is uncoiling ... i'm left with only sexual suppression, a tongue flicker of interest ... as in, he's like food to me now and i'm free of my past inhibitions, cautious hesitations that this might have been, you know, "something of significance" ... principle is a rape victim thrown helplessly on the wayside of this interstate highway of human need ... substantiation seems like an illusion evermore everyday ... i wanted to care but it seems a useless effort more and more and i'm still left with this ache in my chest for something more from people ... would you care for once past obligation and needy fumblings to cool the heat of past apparitions: ghosts with swinging talons ... my glaring self-sustained empathy a carrion for the vultures of life's empty promises ... caring must be mutual or it only turns into expendibility and support systems ... myself would rather be entertained with myself's own conversational antics ... playing guitar has been refreshingly self-indulgent as well ... i had my taste with self-destruction and "the boy of my delusional dreams" phase ... please offer something else, thank you ... commonalities are boring, perfection is boring, you are boring ...

i hate to be "adored for what i merely represent to you."

i hate being able to see through people, yet being fearful enough of their actions and my own to be constantly guarded as well ... this hyper-sensitive vision is crippling ... it just makes me an exclusive, sensitive fuckhead ... walking away as the sirens in my head go off ... everyone's an island on to themselves and i'm still swimming to reach the main continent ... hopefully someone will lend me a hand soon, feed me speared fish, while telling me, grunting and sniffing in an endearingly genuine, intelligent-enough-to-not-give-a-fuck-about-how-you-smell-in-the-morning kind of comaraderie, "well, me dear, was that swim a good pounding for you. you'll appreciate this home much better now when you find it."