Welcome to Garbage City

It was once beautiful here,
in the Vocal Age,
and bore a different name

City of rubbishy love,
   none tantalized by
   naught above

Baser Satanic joy-rides await
Bastard number 1 less 2
   gazes through into You
   searing through exactly like
   a spit piercing a living swine

Dirty diamond your suffering is mine

Sweetness faces the world,
bling spinning slowly
poised for present and future fuck

1 less 2 is not less True

We die at midnight. this death is a pun
The lungs are simply turning blue

FUNQ OF A WORD PROCESSOR THAT CAN BE TOGGLED

05:30, 12 July 16

My mind is a torrent. i cant remember the last time i awakened angry, and so early to boot.

A bird’s morning song, rising from some grey-blue shadow sure, cuts me down my middle line with surgical precision and uncanny finesse – i hadnt even noted the stillness until the mammoth a.c. box outside kicked on and destroyed it. An anger intertwined with unspeakable sorrow exacerbates and one hot tear escapes down my right cheek

This machine drums out every subtle sound

Just wondering when death will come – and if im urging it on – Tired, ugly i guess

Taking mental note of own signs of psychopathy. It’s the “~pathy” part that gets me

Relic, i c u | it must require outstanding fortitude to pierce and draw a blade therein across one’s belly

Will i dance without my legs? Will i be cursed without my eyes?

Great movie line: “Would it have mattered?”

HOW TO TELL WHEN YOU’VE OVERSTAYED YOUR WELCOME

In Mokabees, just coming back from a shit. this one kinda hurt butthole on the way out, but i really wanted it out — i think my mind wanted to ease itself some & i became eager at the prospect of potentially having ANY of that hot dog out of my body — when i had that super wiener i definitely had the feeling “this shouldnt be here [in my body]”

Washing hands, in the mirror – as oft has happened in vulnerable times or “low points” – i look at my face with the classic mild surprise–and in the same manner as one may irrationally turn to suicide in the mind, i think to myself “this sux”; not my haggard face (my east coast face), not the circles or bags, the pockmarks nor moles, not even that i can never seem to do a thing with my hair — i see this brown skin, and in a rush of a moment when it feels like all of society’s -isms and -ists lurch at and onto me, i think, “this sux”

which is ridiculous–i do not suck nor does my skin or my hay-like hair–It is the effect of outward perceptions(?)

Ive come from loathing my reflection in the teenage years, to something of a solemn apathy

Too Queer to be “black”, to “black” to be anywhere, still black enough to die – silent stranger, arrested in the inbetween