i am nauseous.
my spittle tastes like ashtray cuz i broke down and had a syrian
cigarette last night. up at 2 am, reading bukowski and drunk. i had
to get into the spirit, as mines been crushed as of late. i worry too
much. i feel like a kid. i made a sandwich with new ingredients. i
smoked some more and felt a comfort in coating my insides.
maybe they last longer than my mind now.
i wish there were dog races. note to self* move someplace you can go to
the track year round. look at women. try and pick a winner on a 60
to 1 split, and get robbed. i've never been to the track, but i know
dykes and divorcee's who have. one hates me, and the other only loves
me. in that order. in that style. ala mode' for the sub-sets.
later, i'll have to leave the house. and i will almost certainly
spend money. you cant get by on trade anymore.
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come on in! - c. bukowski
ReplyDelete~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
welcome to my wormy hell.
the music grinds off-key.
fish eyes watch from the wall.
this is where the last happy shot was
fired.
the mind snaps closed
like a mind snapping
closed.
we need to discover a new will and a new
way.
we're stuck here now
listening to the laughter of the
gods.
my temples ache with the fact of
the facts.
i get up, move about, scratch
myself.
I'm a pawn.
I am a hungry prayer.
my wormy hell welcomes you.
hello. hello there. come in, come on in!
plenty of room here for us all,
sucker.
we can only blame ourselves so
come sit with me in the dark.
it's half-past
nowhere
everywhere.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
i am distracted by the words sometimes. and i have to dance dance
dance to forget.