and then there were words

breathe in the heavy, turgid, capitalistic fumes, and let your eyes roll to the back of your head, where they’re designed to be anyway. allow your mind respite from the pressures of conformity. let your body overflow the aesthetic confines you imprison it into. nobody looks that good all the time. it’s filters and angles supported by likes and follows. its someting to pass the time, on our way to a slightly better grave.

and there are times when i feel original, smart, and amusing but then i see my ideas in the prose of a man who died in 1967 and i think why even try? it’s all been written, all been done, and by far better writers than ill ever be.

in my younger days I danced with words for three, four hours at a time. I'd load up on the bottom shelf stuff and bust out 15-20 poems a session before I'd call it quits and let the self-pats on the back commence. I reveled in the lengthy content. I felt like a king. sobriety grays the page these days. today I fiddled with a poem, just one, one poem, an old work, for two straight hours and it's still not right. it no longer bursts from me, it looks odd on the paper, I'm not sure why I wrote it to begin with. I thought I had developed a good system with the drinking and the writing drunk because so much shit poured out and I never questioned why it came, or if the tenses were good, or what the punch line should be. i just wrote shit down for the sake of writing shit down. it was great for everyone involved. I was young and full of life, vodka-fueled fires scorched existence, searing memories to pages, consuming all. the words waited for me back then. now, it seems that, I must wait for them.

you’ve got to learn a great many words. crack open the dictionary and memorize them all; the more obscure the better. you can’t write good before you know words like iconoclast or truculent, you can't make witty puns. your jokes will fall flat like rectal zephyrs. don't listen to the drunk fools who tell you to drink before you write. alcohol dulls the senses and clouds the mind fuels the erection but only half chubbed. dont gamble with your future poetry is like a puzzle - an equation with precise variables to be tuned: length, stanza, rhyme wit, humor, and nobody can do math drunk. with time you learn the formula and when you so do it will flow so easily. good poetry isn’t about suffering its just about discovering the formula. only a handfull ever have and whence they did they guard it with utmost fervor spewing garbage about how to be a writer to throw the plebs off track.

The last time she calls you and The last time she calls you drunk

with some there was a lot of talking not me talking just mostly them talking but little being said everything discussed had already happened and you had to be there to get it they liked to relive things this way the men talked of women and the women talked of women too everyone talked of drugs late times “dope things” bad hangovers and the people who never got them always talked the most. this is why, i think to myself, i’d rather stay at home the conversation was always good

there are days when all the wounds open simultaneously: when your favorite food tastes of cardboard and masturbation is just a pastime, when you want to leave the house but it’s twenty degrees outside and seamless exists, when you’d rather be six feet under than running on a treadmill, when the last drop of hope squeezed from stale future evaporates into nothingness. there are days when no netflix show will make you smile.

For me what works is simple: lean eggs in the morning, white, coke zero, toast, butter, home fries and onions, a little snuggle before exit. A good scent is of utmost - le labo. lunch optional. I believe in taking care of my liver. I do this by drinking wine, white and green, and rarely do I chase with meth, yet superior connection does consist of similar predilection to narcotics. a large clittoral hood helps; small egos and long legs do too. dinner always from the icos. and good cuddling: a must. it makes possible good sleep.

the only thing worse than too late is never tried and even worse than that is finding three white beard hairs

people use you and then throw you away and if something's wrong with you they pretend to care for you and feign aid but it's not anything more than that feeling you feel for a childhood pet that you've outgrown when you moved to college and left in care of your parents. no matter what it may seem like you're always on your own even when you're not.

bukowski said it best when he said “dont try” so many of you took it literally

a teenage shiba braces against taut leash. he wants to bask in the sun just a foot away, but his owner is being courted by a skinny-jeaned mouth breather and doesn't notice.