6:20
The fragments of reality leave the drama disillusioned, like a beagle born to a lesser lifespan. All these fucking words, and spaces, places, times, leave me wondering what it's worth.
You might think you love someone. Do you? Or do you really love yourself because it's your needs met?
Did you ever think about it? Was it worth my sanity to do so? I can't believe the fight's still on while I'm checking out. Brautigan still haunts my head while the fabric of sanity slips into disrepair.
But my Buick still wants to fuck. And my 44 magnum Ruger still wants to shoot its load on the American dream. And the shadows of hope still linger in the mist on that western horizon - while Jesus fucks me blind, into callous indifference.
She was so beautiful as as she held my hand to hell - a dreamscape the artists imagined in reality. And I drank the coconut milk from a baby's bottle while Mother prayed for my soul.
Fucking words!
6:20 am
Sleep, wake up, dream, live...
The threaded needle passes through existence, like a beagle born to a lesser lifespan.
Fuck it! I'm going to get some heroin to take me to check out time before the maids come.
No I'm not. I'm going to buck up so I don't fuck up too much - maybe drive the Buick over the horizon of the American dream to nowhere
REACTIONSAscending | Descending
Fucking evanid!
I'm not what you think I am. It's a mask I've always worn so I fit some social mold I was born into. I can't kill a deer because the last one looked at me too hard before it fell. Maybe I killed Gandhi, but it seems more likely I kiiled myself.
It doesn't matter. I drive past the feedlots in that Western corridor, then dine on the products of death. Maybe those pathetic souls are dining on me.
Now it's The Doors (of perception). Everything in this glass house is shattered into shards of sanity, like words falling over fool's falls.
Now it's The End. The fragmentation grenade explodes in your head as a child screams in Iraq. The Bush didn't hear her. The pious people in their comfortable pews didnt' hear her, but Jesus did. I missed her cry because I'm too busy in my world.
Maybe next life
"He took a face from the ancient gallery..."
We're going where no one knows. Your friends will guide us to the other side. Van Gogh is there, waiting to talk to you.
You have to stop it. The screaming in your head will leave you lost and broken. Like it hasn't already.
Sanity is love
Like it meant something
Look at yourself. Have you been conditioned to seek the approval of others before you live. We all have.
I'm going to do whatever the fuck it is I want to do, within the confines of justice. Justice is a retraint (in myopinion) that guides us down a righteous path. It's the path I want to walk along. But sometimes I step aside.
You, the reader, are a monkey suffering delusions of grandeur. We all are (in my opinion).
I'm no better, or worse, than any of us
I know: why do you do what you do? Oh yes, it's because she/he must want to be rich. Fuck your money and the ideals that came with it! Take a look around and see what all that money did for people wh "made it." It's nothing.
Think about it. If you can buy the best house, with the best view, furnished with the best, can you see past the social injustice that robs us of everything we live for. Mayybe you don't live for social justice, but if we don't the mystery we call religion becomes more mysterious.
What if someone wrote a song, or spilled some words without gaining anything. I guess that ( by contemporary standards) would make them a fool. Don't think too much. Please remember, Mr. America, that I don't need you, or give a fuck what you think. Go stay at your five-star hotel and fuck that five-star whore you call a wife. I'll be sleeping
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