All fucked up on Coke with nothin to wear
10/17/2004 4:33 AM
Yeah... I've ground my teeth down to a pate. If Caldwell were around I could have sold it to him. Pay my rent and all that. But he's not.
With the exception of maybe three, it seems more than obvious that no one reads this. Which is probably for the better. Who are they I wonder? One: me. Two: FBI or CIA (Im guessing.) Three? Mystery person who sent me an e-mail once.
Lately Ive been working on a beast and its bitch: Two plays. One is about finding your home. The other... Well Im not sure yet but Im pretty sure itll suck the marrow from your thighs and spit it down your lovers throat. At which point youll both thank some kind of a Christ for the life you have. (what ever it is.) Its entirely Post Coital. The cum shiver of a rape. A death twitch. Persephone is my sweet pomegranate. Sack of seeds in the frozen loam. Here I am talkin shit.
Hectors not around and its 3:45 am goin on 8:00 am. I have to be at work at eleven. A double. Yeah... Im fucked. Ive tried to write some poems but couldn't. Im all out of booze. Im all out of cigarettes. No drugs. Im not even horny. Cant sleep. Where are my distractions from this existence? Im too weak to meditate. So now what? Listen to the silence? The clock ticking. The feint air conditioner next door. Water in the pipes. The swish of your veins. The wind of your dreams that shush the trees and their secret embrace. I have no one to listen to. No one to talk to. No one to hold. No one to hold me. Sometimes I invent imaginary people. I do this in great detail down to the space between their teeth: Friends and girl friends etc. People who say wonderful things about me to others who dont even know I exist. Its a futile and exhausting exercise in magical thinking. If I could only funnel it into my art Id be a little healthier. I think. Is this true?
I fell in love with this girl who came into the restaurant today. She forgot to look at me. I bought her a drink but she didnt notice. Thats when it occurred to me that there really was no such thing as hospitality in Manhattan. All it was, was theft. I stole. She scored. Then I cleaned up after her. Stupid now that I think about. Caldwell would have shot me. Sued me. Then shot me again.
I cant wait till Uncle Ivesters gone. Hes here for another two weeks after all. I love him but he keeps waking me up with his bronchial coughing fits. Plus I can only work at night because he gets up so early: No painting. No music. And very little writing.
No word from Sleepy D. Or from D (thank god, if you believe in that shit.) Think Ill go stab my eyes out with a stick. See if I cant sleep then.
Peace.
C.
10/17/2004 4:33 AM
Yeah... I've ground my teeth down to a pate. If Caldwell were around I could have sold it to him. Pay my rent and all that. But he's not.
With the exception of maybe three, it seems more than obvious that no one reads this. Which is probably for the better. Who are they I wonder? One: me. Two: FBI or CIA (Im guessing.) Three? Mystery person who sent me an e-mail once.
Lately Ive been working on a beast and its bitch: Two plays. One is about finding your home. The other... Well Im not sure yet but Im pretty sure itll suck the marrow from your thighs and spit it down your lovers throat. At which point youll both thank some kind of a Christ for the life you have. (what ever it is.) Its entirely Post Coital. The cum shiver of a rape. A death twitch. Persephone is my sweet pomegranate. Sack of seeds in the frozen loam. Here I am talkin shit.
Hectors not around and its 3:45 am goin on 8:00 am. I have to be at work at eleven. A double. Yeah... Im fucked. Ive tried to write some poems but couldn't. Im all out of booze. Im all out of cigarettes. No drugs. Im not even horny. Cant sleep. Where are my distractions from this existence? Im too weak to meditate. So now what? Listen to the silence? The clock ticking. The feint air conditioner next door. Water in the pipes. The swish of your veins. The wind of your dreams that shush the trees and their secret embrace. I have no one to listen to. No one to talk to. No one to hold. No one to hold me. Sometimes I invent imaginary people. I do this in great detail down to the space between their teeth: Friends and girl friends etc. People who say wonderful things about me to others who dont even know I exist. Its a futile and exhausting exercise in magical thinking. If I could only funnel it into my art Id be a little healthier. I think. Is this true?
I fell in love with this girl who came into the restaurant today. She forgot to look at me. I bought her a drink but she didnt notice. Thats when it occurred to me that there really was no such thing as hospitality in Manhattan. All it was, was theft. I stole. She scored. Then I cleaned up after her. Stupid now that I think about. Caldwell would have shot me. Sued me. Then shot me again.
I cant wait till Uncle Ivesters gone. Hes here for another two weeks after all. I love him but he keeps waking me up with his bronchial coughing fits. Plus I can only work at night because he gets up so early: No painting. No music. And very little writing.
No word from Sleepy D. Or from D (thank god, if you believe in that shit.) Think Ill go stab my eyes out with a stick. See if I cant sleep then.
Peace.
C.