I’m completely and utterly disillusioned by my overwhelming sense of self, in that I masturbate over the written page and vague fantasies of spouting spoken word over the masses with just my lone pair of glasses to set me off from every other too-thick ass with an opinion to broadcast.
I’m consumed and ravaged by my inability to place my misshapen face back unto the shelf that’s spilling over with the names of people I meet every day on the street and forget as soon as I thumb to what I need and shut them closed like hollow-books hiding weed. Allegorically, I’m the proverbial camel that breaks their backs without due notice or due diligence or prior concern of the chemical burns I caustically claim and spritz down their spines without care, unaware of the odious breeze that I breathe through their splintered teeth with the ease of a complacent minge-bag.
It’s true, I’m you too, not U2, but a quasi-modo sized lack of comprehension for when my skin stops and your head starts, so I’ll treat you like I treat myself which is horribly so and with scabs left after a conversation like I picked at your brain with drawn-out finger nails with fecal matter residue neglected.
And I erect monuments to myself in the break of night under the guise of the moon who I slipped a five to during his lunch hour. Chiseled, tone, fit, without care, an icon to myself in the brief interval of time between a jaunt and a leap into the air and I just stand there looking out into a sea of eyes appreciating me and all that I’ve done for the world, in the dream that’s a lot, in real life just enough to qualify for college and progress through an infinitesimal stairway that shrinks with each step like a cheap beggar’s trap.
Reading this when you’re alone and cuddling yourself because no one else appreciates a goat’s cheese sense of smell, well you’re right in the nook of my brain, amygdala to be exact, I’m standing right next to you giggling as you chuckle and massaging cellulose stricken thighs as I watch your eyes flicker from pixel to pixel in an overtly animated method of saying, “I get it!” or “You can come to terms with accepting me back into your life”.
I’m sorry, but I can’t do that for you, and I can’t do it yet without giving my endocrine system time to sweat out the toxins that shake me dead when I shoot up from bed and all the blood rings right to the center of my male-pattern-baldness head that’s beaded with sweat from nightmares of you and George Bush dodging shoes thrown from a chorus of Ringo Starr constellations.
I stumble along bio-connected sentences weaved with the practiced grace of someone who hates himself and begins almost every paragraph with a personal pronoun pronouncement of his desire to fellatiate himself (that’s me!). And I’d sing you the ave maria but I don’t have the chords or the time or the strength or the beard or the tears to divide between increments of I, because I only have enough me for me, sorry WE but that’s just how it is in the land of the Z.
I’ll stop chuckling when I’m dead, and I’ll stop chortling when I’m fine with where I am in life, so I guess I’ll be laughing until the end of time or the end of my heart’s beats of rhyme in the 4/4 position, as I accept derision from my typical muse of support and confidence in the 747 upright incision. Watch your neck, put up your tray, quit smoking today, eat a gallon of vegetables at the dispense of a salt-lick for your government, and remember what’s outside is inside, and if you’re true you’ll know that all doesn’t glow and all doesn’t shine, but in the end, that’s fine.
It really is.
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