fart around

"Then I go outside and there is a mailbox. And i feed the pages to the giant blue bullfrog. And it says, 'Ribbit.'
And I go home. And i have had one hell of a good time.
Electronic communities build nothing. You wind up with nothing. We are dancing animals. How beautiful is it to get up and go out and do something. We are here on earth to fart around. Don't let anybody tell you any different."
-Kurt Vonnegut

The summer that stood. still.

lost in an evolution of self. sometimes it feels like ive done nothing so far but be. i exist for the sake of existence. and nothing else. im just a blob of blasphemous action and untapped potential.. sleeping soundly on a hell-bound greyhound. blah blah. ask for a third charm chance. the spare key was lost beneath a bluestone. life is liquid, smokescreens, and headphonesssss. fuck a phobia. this is the summer of sunday seances tallied on top of a nightshifted image. and that is exactly all for today. thank you very much.

if there's love...

if there's love... it must be three o'clock in the morning. because afternoon moods dismantle anniversary fevers sweating beneath apocalyptic ambitions. granted, the human mind is plainly limited in this contrived society of unbridled delusion. under the influence of institutionalized violence, finance, and dynasty. but worst case scenario...i wake up in a coma. socially awkward. walking towards infinity. the almighty trinity of instantly limitless faction. the fact is falsely fiction. this paragraph is in fact half assed blasphemy. and karma is impacting reaction to the most lucratively grisly degree. feeeed me.

please...

ok so i feel like doom. what exactly do you say at this time of day? besides goodbye, i guess. welcome to my world girlie. they say bartenders get mucho booty, but best believe i mix many more drinks than sensual juices. everyday is a new life to the wise man. perhaps that's exactly why i am twenty-one and a half years of age. still living this perfectly virgin existence. but every time i blink i dream and like every other manhattan bound commuter i bleed. freely. easily. and piece by piece i am indeed reaching combustion. which is exactly my fateful path.

that's why i laugh. 80's baby. 90's child. two-thousand something scumbag. i miss stick stickly, ninja turtles, and erckle. i think i got stung by a bee in my sleep. believe me. i breathe easy. live leisurely. and dock drama. leave it to lincoln. when one basement apartment is boxed up a block dies. for me, december is a long way off, but until then i'll ponder my portions and begin planning how the fuck i will afford life. but for now, i'm happy drying my socks on the cable box.

it's like that

indebted forever to doubleshots.. how else would i get through my day awake?? rather i would sleepwalk soundly.. simply getting by, if even. the owner is a racist fuck dickhead piece of shit. but i walked with 266 dollars cash yesterday so i'll be biting my lip at least for a bit longer.. the rent is soon due.

the illest look can say more than verbiage ever could possibly conjure. hate is a powerful pistol. strapped in the stomach of whitebread unreality television living. it's a damn shame that it's come to this. or perhaps it in fact never wasn't where it's actually at now. love some, the others can eat the pieces of poison supremacy leaking from blistering lips. i will love them for that at least. it's assholes like that who keep life relative.

aderol, alcohol, and rice crispy treats= raw synthetic emotion at 6 o'clock in the morning (the night owl's happy hour). welcome to the life of an individual immersed in amens, achoos, and god blessed sentences. I'm sick to my lungs. i breathe deeply and it turns out the vibe is polluted. Crushing my creative freedom. but that's why im in love with my headphones. i drown out noise with noise homie. pick your poison.

the truth of the matter is, i dont know how to slow down. i woke up on this friday afternoon foggy as fuck. birds chirping, trucks burping, children cursing, and bicycle bells jingling. everything may be bigger in texas, but everything is louder in brooklyn. i guess big things come in small packages.

forget the focus, i'm going to chew on the lyrics of a homegrown inspiration. isn't. it. bliss? her lips were like like like like like like like like like like that.

yea. it's like that.