Tuesday, February 9, 2016

Breakdown of a Breakdown, Anatomy of an Autopsy

1/3/15, 4:25 am

Get up again
a thousand thousand times
to piss
but when
you've pissed
the bed as I have
you can never be
too sure.

Three times was I drunk,
and tonight I am not.

Returning to my room,
it smells of my father;
smoke and farts.


Which want with which will,
will want with what
which witch?

>Things $$$$$$$$ past year I can never tell you about $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ all alone, by myself, awful yawning bloody things, desperate and ripping and shameful $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ and if we are ever to grow and surround each other in trunk, branch, and bough $$$$$$$$$$$$$$ for I am massively incapable without your knowing, and dangerously undefined thus without your love.<


Oceans of ink
usher from beneath my fingernails,
I finding finally
an ear which will listen
but me now lost
the heart to say.

1/3/15, 3:08 pm

Were there never a place left for me, where the doors shut in the dawn but the shades drawn in the twilight? I was allowed to wrap myself in olive skin and offer great slabs of myself, but fed only morsels tossed to a dog distant chained. I know it not to be true, or want to know it, but time again do I resign myself to angry haunches, as anger is so often poison and anodyne to an embarrassed and shrunken spirit.

What I carry for one else
is taken as something
to be held for me.
Such is love; unjust.


Have you ever felt, walking even in the wide open, that all the air were suddenly sucked from the room?

To think that I thought that there were no need for me to even love again. I see now that you never espoused such an idea of luxurious liberation from within another. Not a lie from a liar, but a cold and distant shoulder nonetheless.

The loving and living I once claimed wrote my pledge to you, love carved upon the canvas of my life, once more will be used for vengeance and spite. I've been here before. We are nothing new, we two.

Is it really any surprise that angels from afar be as villains when they speak? Harsh words as I write them bely only harsh nettles driven once more by bored hands.

I suppose I'll climb down from this cross now.


"a poem I've been trying to write for years (still sucks though):

There was a watercolor exhibit at the local museum,
and my mother and I
softly padded from canvas to canvas;
our voices were low and not without reverence.

We had differing likes of them all,
my mother and I;
I found no merit in the realism of Airstream teardrops.
them belonging only on walls of bad-food cafes
and above moth-lit hotel beds,
or maybe only thrown to a fire.

The figures, though, nude and haunting
or haunted and staring from frame;
I could not fathom, never,
and never will I fathom,
how these artists apart,
each by age or latitude,
all knew you, and held you a muse.

and so all each captured your hair and eye,
each differed and varied,
all you, all same, all muse,
all knew what I knew and know,
and each painted you
in watercolor.


taking out a Sun Kil Moon cd
to put in a Sun Kil Moon cd
hello, there I am


Thus far, the worst day of 2015. It was, I think, unfortunate; a series of "episodes", each stranger than the last. I am lost in a neurotic servitude. Have reached "hiding liquor in sock drawer" level of shame. Lord will me be a phoenix, please Lord. I am so small, and shrinking.

I will die burned alive after dragging my space heater too close to my bed, and catching aflame a book of fucking Stephen Crane short stories. Fuck. They will say, "[Andrew] knew [Crane] only as a journalist." Fucking hell.

Bradbury bradbury bradbury. Here's another episode.

1/4/15, 1:21 am

I am forgetting now which have been writ and which have been transcribed.



Do we all join hands
and understand
what waits my weight


"Leave some for yourself"

Trouble is, see?,
what is the difference?
Falling apart, together.
But some will not.
So we go,
falling apart before those better than us.
As a bluff,
I call each the same;
Bluff, bluff, bluff...
cuz you're all too scared.


ok: early morning now;

were cigarettes once a scandal?
And obviously nothing is my scandal
except those reported to me
by screaming fire and let blood,
by easy trips to the morgue or
a quest for a "Plan B" pill;
I offer not much;
my hands are spread and I am nailed so often.

But look!
How handsome!
In his coffin,
now sobbing, yes,
a fine tune with which to sing the mess;
whose tomb I borrow is ne'er; I's fancy,
but pharaoh's skin put cat aside,
never, doth he wish
w'in death reside.
Rather let him be a noodle,
or at very least a string unfound;
purposeless without a neck,
oft doth his cries fell days,
a satan's laff 'tween sultan's sleep.
Go to bed, our ringing numbers,
and let all once taught resound with slumber.


I love that I
write scritching verse
in free-hand something balanced vicious
and all eyes seek only the worst
punk among the glooming
Bitches bitches bitches


How often I end up at The Flea, alone with notepad. Come for the free wifi, stay for the crippling addiction. Don't bring it home with you. Leave demons at doorstep. "He's a worthless motherfucker," says a bearded old dude in coveralls.


Everyone is an apologist. Everyone has some stock in the future of the system. Trust no one. Death to those who wish for "better"... apparently

"We shall be allowed one tear an hour, hanging from some cave ceiling, stalactite tears." - Anais Nin, "Elena", Delta of Venus


bar notes:
Eavesdropping (accidentally) is painful. Balefully boring, all of it. Forced; listen to them perpetuate within the context of this their "first date". Terrible.

bar notes:
Now that I know better the relevant subject matter, "Delirium Tremens" is a most unfortunate and gross name for an alcoholic beverage.

bar notes:
This girl, woman, girl, once forced her tongue down my throat and up into my sinuses until my eyeballs threatened to pop from their sockets. Never trust a girl (woman) who spits. I don't care if this is perceived as some sort of patriarchal archaism. I just plain don't like it.

To be fair, if a man (boy) spit as much in front of me, I wouldn't trust him either.

1/8/15, 9:13 pm

(pipes froze in my netherworld bathroom, pipes burst in the cellar, flood and mud, all things blur and run and become shit in the end)

What a Castle of Shit I've built for and around myself. Little room for others' sympathy, not that they come in droves to offer me such, and besides I act disdainfully when they do, seeing falsely it as a sign of my own weakness.

I was wrong! I was, and am, wrong. What a Fortress of Shit I've built about myself! What vile treason I've borne kept even from myself, knowing these walls would crumble and agonizingly plodding on in willful ignorance. This is my fault! Everything, all, my fault!

The last warm water I know festers in a sink of scummed dishes, stained knives and rusting steel wool, rotting kale and sodden crumbs of bread uneaten.

And if I am scorned, or am evicted, or die, I will be scorned, evicted, and dead exactly as I am, as I have been deep backwards in a memory whose elasticity dries and weakens with each grinding hour.

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