i will build a monument
of trash
so high
it will piss god off
and i'll spit in her eye
for getting this version
slightly less right
than the last few

take from me
things left out
for easy access
invariably theirs, i guess.
& all they must do is but appeal to me as human...
then commence the surruptitions-
little tricks
to take my sh*t
to beat from me
the propensity
for prolonging the inevitable
so my ka is taken
that I'VE accrued,
for MY mission
its piddled away
on good highs
and smooth-flow pick-up lines
and it is expected of me to endure
as though the trappings of my station.?

i hope those squares went down smooth, bra.
i could speak of straw and camels
but will, this once, dedicate myself to blatency:

do not f*ck with one who knows the favor of the void
steal my cigarrettes & remember me
at the first wheezing coughs of later years
the random chance,
the unknown trigger
that could have but saved thee the trouble
gone
as of this morning
just a warning
i'd stop smoking.

inanimant
i can't seem to sleep
my mind wont relinquish:
the part of me
-that breathes in this chill and knows its apathy
weeps for my kind.
watch me react

time goes by.
(tick tick, tick tock)

with a steady grin

even off-the-handles been done.
this permutation but takes up space
a slot-filler
until its (finally) all been done.
the epoch's been accounted for.

repeat for me
the things that make you sad and human
do you blame anyone for a bored and fickle tendency?
for wanting to be bound
trussed up by you
bacause i have this, at least, to feel
and that is more than some.
most get so jaded, so quick,
waiting for the thread to fritter
and a good excuse to cease struggling.
little's left of innocence
a mouth, a need
an earth that bites thee by assocaition.
at least fires of decline
are by default devine

down stream, so long, past memories of stars
the most tempered of the strain look back
-the last thats left
to pan the camera for a dying god.
maybe spend the last of it
to edit what was left for us.
and make the background serindipitous.
whatever might garner their attention.
-fickle.
cares what for feedback, lessons in vapor?
it gives solace to know the end (?)
that there are eyes to see
it turn a final cold?
a thin soup, dispersed and slow
i might not go into such a feast of frenzied remanants
when theres nothing of the body left
and addicts live vicariously
through me
reduse, reuse,
frittered to an art crowd unamused by gestures that postpone the ebb.
a pointy-toed shoe conspiracy
news @ 11.
take whats left of me
by minutia
so slow you might not think i'd notice
but ultimatly i know your nature
you are but bound to me, my flesh, that i control
(i do)
watch through me that which is denied by thy very substrate.
what do i care
i'd live in a glass house.