casper the friendly ghost with rocket feet
bad associations
in everything
especially facebook
that sinking feeling upon opening
the cesspool, all these people
i sort of know, know too well
playing in their own filth
open sewers
disappointments arranged in pretty patterns
a vast swathe of write-off
my circumstances get better
and my head gets worse
coming home from work to my new house
with a whine to end the night
like every other night
what’s wrong?
how can i say it in a way that doesn’t betray
what an awful person i am?
let’s say poisoned, sick
can you believe a self-diagnosis?
strawberry river syndrome, the symptoms
of which include syringe-hugging self-portraits
where is my medicine?
i’ve self-medicated with opiates
sent love letters, lust letters
the righteous theme
playing in the relative major of D minor
woke up and worried
life confirmed the dread
said i’d be better off dead
cause my methods don’t work
and i have no function
every day several people at work ask me how's it going?
how’re you doing?
i say not bad
pretty good
doesn't feel right to actually answer the question
today i used less sugar
and said mediocre
and got a weird look, like
tmi or something
she wanted a definition
i said absense of greatness
and got a weirder look
nothing feels right
except feeling wrong
feeling wrong feels right
like it's the only way to feel
when i talk to people it stings
it’s so contrived
after it’s over i ache
it’s so empty
the things it could be, almost was
almost, always almost
i watched my friend descend
into a paranoid hell of his own making
now i watch myself do the same
entropy, health was anomaly
seeing the downward spiral
and spiraling down anyway
like emotions will always overpower intellect
that useless autistic weakling
neuroses grow like cancer
synthetic matter, synthetic thought
a cure for cancer? we are cancer
okay, i’m cancer, you’re fairy dust
i’ll grant you that, and you’ll grant me
as many wishes as i want
wishes in and of themselves
a resource that will last a lifetime
a resource i’ll burn through like
a pack of matinees, a wishpack a day
and when i’ve reached my last wish
when i don’t care enough to wish anymore
that will be my death
glorious apathy
the death gnosis
knowledge that there is nothing worth
wishing for anyway, when reality
has constricted to the narrow cataract perception
of this long-survived tumour
one for the almanac
rendered redundant in the next edition
just another double octogenarian
hushed senile struldbrug
someone’s gotta be cancer
otherwise how would you know that you’re fairy dust?
it's so horrible to think
anybody owes me anything
yeah, look at me
bringing so much sunshine into everyone's life
well i tried, i did try, oh i wanted to
but cancer has no function
and i'm an endorphin addict with no connection, okay?
that's why i'm so pathetic
because i can’t subsist on table scraps
still on the floor of the opium den
watching thin hallucinations
the ones i’ve seen before
running low on synonyms
recycling urine
apathy is malicious, to me
i require some sort of respect
as the magic of the past fades further into memory
like it was some lucky charm that wore off
microcosm of a petroleum-addicted society
divine death of a canary in a cage
sublime to save the miners
hacking coal cough, how noble
emperor norton incarnate
with my own currency, that no one will recognize
infuriating and depressing, what gives? what changed?
is it me or the world?
is it endorphins, is that what changed?
cause i know it would be so different
if i had those, the real ones, nature’s
prime mover
prime numbers make me sad
i’m divisible by thirteen
Ф