Friday, September 12, 2014

notes: end of tiny yellow notebook (August)

Wow so easy to be v---------

Wow, so easy to be Violent.


I fucking hate that I retain the burden of charm and gregariousness at my depraved and devout lows. Wish I looked/spoke as miserable as I fucking feel. Want to be left alone.

So much to do, so much to do, so much to do, so much to do, so much to do, so much to do, so much to do, so much to do, so much to do.


If everyone on my Facebook friends-list would just give me $10, I could easily go away and not bother anyone anymore.

Dark time to be a "writer".

I would rather read/write than be intimate with another human being. The things I've turned away, boys, the things I've turned away.


As far as dating and being subsequently intimate with someone, reading good books is tantamount to fidelity. I absolutely cannot imagine sharing my heart and life with someone who doesn't willingly read read READ. You want me to get naked? Shit, you want me to pledge myself emotionally to another sick stupid lost soul? You better be ready to talk Faulkner or Hamsun, or at least Steinbeck or Delillo.

Can't wait to drop that line on someone. "You're so sweet, and such a babe, but you've never even heard of Delillo? Sorry, honey. You can keep your family money. We just ain't gettin' hitched."


Race to the finish line, who can be the more dramatic shitty lover; me or the junkie? Holding a strong second, at least.


Life is what feels good/what feels right, and choosing between the two as per situation.

Stole a shot of rum, barfed all over the backyard. Empty stomach. Boys telling fight stories now. Dumb.


Tore apart the greasy linen from the bottom of my couch to find change for smokes. Worked!

Very nice to see A last night, though she had yet to read any of the three books I had given her. I took my William Carlos Williams book back from her. I lose more books that way, I swear.


You who would choose to be my king, not considering I consider myself to be king myself, to be King of Myself.

Laws, written by those who plan to break them

*fingerbang: smell, before guilt

*schoolmates, now realtors, dealing in property, unaware they deal in blood


Long I've been carving at my angel face, swearing beneath lies who you seek, wanting to show you without doubt I am not he without but he within, the one you seek true with word and flash of eye, the one you will not want, the one the one who will not care as your tears dry on cheek the one who wishes to be far from you and all you offer.

I choose a lazy suicide, a coward's death, but I'd hate for you to mop up my mess.

Fear not for my oaths until I have a bottle of sleep, for the temptation would be too much to keep.

Gladly would I choose this end, on my terms, all to prove how much I mean it. Deadly serious.


I've given you
what you've been churning for,
my greedy guts,
I've given you
that which we both crave,
so why do you still complain?


Thanks for the donut, haircut.

You don't play chicken with an alcoholic.

Songs for warriors with flasks under their driver's seat.


What have I made
of myself,
death of shame
of accountability,
I so proud
and your finding myself
in their company,
staring at this soul-
sucking abyss, knowing
exactly what it is
blinking towards.

I daydream
of nothing healthy,
I seek not
that which water appeases.


I think, often and sincerely, of the peace that may finally come when I admit I am an evil man.

Two nights ago, I stripped naked and took to the roofs to announce my intention to the world and my wish to leave it. As horrified onlookers watched, I really nearly fell to a gruesome maims, instead only sliding down shingles, rough as shark-skin and leaving long sticky scrapes on my arms, back, and buttocks, flesh left upon the roof and blood soaking into yet another woman's bedsheets. I'm upset about police and the atom bomb.

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