Friday, September 26, 2003

Leftovers.

the moon was the color of piss. i noticed this from the corner of my eye which had all but been ripped from it's socket, as i invouluntarily gazed into the dark blue sky.

i had fallen off the concrete platform hours ago. maybe i was pushed. maybe i was distracted by a beautiful woman. maybe i'm just a clumsy fuck. the train shot towards me like a 10 ton bullet with windows and cables. i quickly asked the question "who is going to hit me first? the tracks or the train". it doesn't really matter now.

the only bones that hadn't been reduced to dust or paste protruded out of my skin like action figure parts stuck in a dark pink clay. the lower half of my jaw had been relocated to my left cheek, and a pack conisisting of some fingers and some teeth had dug into my chest like wolves descending on a doe. i knew i should have trimmed my nails this morning.

the only light i see is the urine shaded one being given off by the moon, which colors my blood into a shade of black that is simultaneuosly etheiral and vomituotous. the kind of violent sexuality that would make even the most jaded goth poet laurette recoil in horror. the ciggarette smoke colored clouds slowly cut through the sky, as if they had seen enough.

there are no big breasted angels stradling and seductively licking the pearly gates, nor are there any half burnt demons readying tourture chambers. ther is only what i am forced to see. the horrified faces holding back the vomit, the aggrevated faces who are going to be getting home too late. i can't hear them, because pieces my brains and shards of my skull are jammed in my ears, blood oozing out of any available hole or crack, no matter how tight a squeeze it may be.

the next train, like a giant vulture on speed, is here for the leftovers.

Wednesday, September 24, 2003

what i wish was NP:Tears for Fears-Head Over Heals

i'm sleepy.

school is for hopeless douchebags who are too afraid to follow their dreams, so they go to this robot factory where they crush them for you and tell you what's a "sure thing".

i wanna be a bohemian. not one of them lame ass late 80s wannabe hippie type of bohemians, who talked about being "one with the earth" while they sold the music and the ideas of the 60s to iced tea companies and car commercials and tie died their indivituality away while listening to Tracy Chapman and John Cougar Mellencamp. fuck those prick toungers. i'm talking about Charles Bukowski. an artsy nihilist with severe liver damage and a morbid sense of humor. Lydia Lunch. Tom Waits. Patti Smith. people who honestly loved art, music, and literature. not hollow womanizing idiots who only purpose in life is to exploit their "relationship woes" so nieve girls with black nail polish and no self esteem will give them blowjobs while fucking themselves with a curling iron while their roadies throw bologna on her ass, and SUPRISE! the drum tech taped the whole thing and now it's on the internet.

if the world was an asshole, i'd fuck it without lube.