November 2010: Warm skin & a hot brain, lips with words

by maddrunkgenius

Dead birds smashed flat, gods pass this plane, lords of the shade, embellished or not. We must praise them.
Milk of the vine, swallowed & gulped, not beyond our capacity to understand or consume. Truly this is the most wonderful of days.
Ah, such a such-and-such, such a what’s-his-name, this being here and knowing people but never well only briefly.
Oh no, it’s all ending quickly. But not quickly enough.

——Everything is silly and wonderful.

In my ears, everything is ringing. And in my eyes, everything is buzzing, brimming, vibrating with uncertainty. Each blade of grass, there and not there every moment.

Oh my.

——He’s gone! And here I with many weeping things more to say.

  • The Journalist! His talent is exceeded only by his friendship, his friendship by his decency. Disciple of the Gospel of Truth, already the city feels empty, doesn’t it?

All vitality and synapses coated with complex chemical lubrication, but what bumpy bruisy phalanges I’m left with. And don’t care even slightly about.
What a marvelous hunger, without cessation, doubt or pity. What a fantastic thing.
Oh I love the whole world, it’s absolutely true, but I’m a man of moderation by excesses, too.

  • ‘Yes,’ he says,’but I like what benefits me.’
  • ——She laughed and rolled her eyes, but the worry poked through her corneas and twisted her cheeks just enough to see and give us chance to point out.
  • ——’I smell blood!’ the first shark yelled between his guffaw.
  • ——’Why so do I!’ the second chortled.
  • ——But it was just uterine lining.
  •  I too look forward to the day when we advance to the point where we cannibalize the dead. Meat will soon be too costly to raise and too expensive to buy except for the very rich. In the future we’ll all be vegan.
  • But at funerals, we’ll barbecue and get some good use out of our loved ones one last time, one last gift from them: dinner. Closure, you know. No need to mummify them; eat them. Carry a part of them with you. Shit out the corporeal corpse but draw out the same energy they made and power yourself with it.
  • ‘This is my body,’ and this is grandma’s thigh. Let’s crack the bone and suck out the marrow.
  • Because there are no superstitions left.
  • ——Reality is a bearded, burly man with longish hair hitting on a table of bleach/dyed housewives on the other side of prime while they listen on and smile with hints of get the fuck away and whispers of what a creep tho they eye the younger women’s vitality and curves with envy.

He: Monthly reminder to never put down the pen.

  • I’ll only put down the pen when I pick up the revolver, I suppose.

Oh the things I’d to to her if she were here.

  • Just a moment ago.
  • Emaciated, I gorge till my organ bursts.
  • I can’t stop transferring the feeling to different vessels.

Yes! Although it’s a shame we can’t all be happy.
I want wonderful things for everyone always. Why must circumstance & self-doubt ruin what surely is love, or good vibrations.

It’s a shame we can’t monologue as well as we masturbate.

  • My love for Her stretches the limits of my generosity. It’s OK to feel a little bit selfish but not if She is happy.
  • This of course is my Great Steadfast Rule. And usually it’s fine. But this is the exception that proves (i.e. tests) the rule.
  • Only when drunk do I have no misgivings.
  • But if She found someone else that Made Her Happy, wouldn’t I be? I just can’t stop telling myself, ‘She is miserable without you. You could make Her better.’ when She makes me happy.
  • Oh the many faces and Hers prettiest of all.

Life is too short to waste simulating death. (Don’t sleep; caffeinate).

  • ‘That’s a little redundant. Why don’t they just call it “museum”?’ — Friend on WASP Museum in Sweetwater, Texas.
  • ——’It was weird. We always had weed, we always had beer, but no one had a job.’

[@MadDrunkGenius] is at the strip club & unsatisfied (also unaroused).

  • Love should always be sincere.
  • H1: She’s only as good as the next one, she’ll only be around as long as the money is there. Such is life.
  • H2: Love is always sincere at the right price.
  • I have an overabundance of sincerity. And I care too much about the strippers to enjoy their nudity.
  • H1: Well, why are you there?
  • Because others are. But I have an o er abundance of sincerity.
  • H1: Don’t look all sad faced cause then they will want to ask you “why the sad face” and there is nothing worse then pitty from a good for nothing stripped.
  • Well, I love strippers. I just want them to be happy.

Oh how my left ventricle throbs & moans in agony.

  • Seriously, my heart.

The flesh is coming apart, oh but the spirit is willing, is spilling over, gushing out the eyes and mouth, pouring out the ears and nose, running out the anus and dribbling out the cock.
THE MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE ALTERNATIVES OF ONE LIFE ARE MADDENING AND COMPLETELY UNSATISFACTORY

——How I cross my legs or what jersey I wear affects the outcome of the game on the field or television by altering the calculations of universal feng shui.
——Electrons are tied with bands stretched across the universe.

  • Warm skin & a hot brain, lips with words. Someone to wake up with, roll over into & talk at, listen to.

Oh dear! How exposed I am tho I thot myself hidden in the darkness of recollection.

  • Yet nothing is shameful about generosity or the proper disposal of soiled nostalgia. Let fire & filth, spit & dead leaves make the image match the essence. Let nothing go to waste that wasn’t really already.
  • Wonderful nights, especially when black. Too wonderful for words or time or our bodies, even. I sigh knowing God has already drawn and measured the limits of our jubilation. He laughs because a day is a thousand years and we’ll all be dead by brunch.
  • What a waste! said the dungbeetle as it watched her pull the toilet’s handle.
  • (Isn’t it a pity?)

An injunction on life’s troubles is a 230-mile compromise & 13 hrs of fighting one big death with a few dozen little ones.

  • She she she. why, goddamn it. Why. WHY CAN’T I SLEEP. Why can’t I stop MULLING FANTASIES BASED ON PLEASANT SNATCHES OF REALITY. Why is it so awful that it’s so goddamned nice? Why do I want to spend five of the happiest years of my life with [Dec 2010]