Warning: vulgar and runs like a rant.

I don't know where to put things anymore. I'm not sure, and I just don't care.

October 17, 2011


I can't be angry when I'm just

"In a slump"

I can't be happy,

I can't say the right words,

can't fucking process anything but

the goddamn headaches and the fucking aches in the morning.


Or, rather, the numbness.

I stopped feeling the pain when I elapsed into a slump

but it's not just the feeling

of existing only as

a body or corpse, slung over a dumpster.

No, not just that.


It's the way it consciously attacks you,

and you sit there and wait,

like some anaesthetized patient,

left laying on the operating table,

but I'm not even sick, just deceased.


Wish I could say I had someone or something to blame,

but it's just me, my-fucking-self and I.

Just me, perched atop a spiked pillar,

like bait awaiting gulls,

who'll want to digest my decomposing remnants.

But life is as life is.

It wouldn't be this fucking worthless,

if I hadn't made it that way.


One day, maybe in a few hours,

maybe in another week,

I'll wake up and convince myself,

remind myself what I'm doing,

and where I'm headed.


And for another little wasted fucking second,

I'll stand up and smile,

like that ignorant little beast,

and say "I'm fine. I know where

I'm fucking going."

and I think to myself,

because that's all I ever fucking do,

who else would want to hear dilapidated thoughts

of an aging, agelessly defined,

wrongly described, pills please be prescribed,

wantonly wasted, exacted and depraved

sinister, little adult,

like the devil incarnate

never a child, always a cynic.

Some middle fucking aged cynic,

who can't fucking die.

And I say to myself,

I think but not to me, I just think aloud

"I'm so goddamn sure,

that this is where I'll be,

and it'll be fine."

Cuz that's what faith is,

you stupid little cunt.



But then again,

I guess I knew the slump was coming.

Coming on, at least for a while,

because these things always happen like this.

I'm not a victim,

I'm the initiator, the villain,

the vaudeville saint with garters on their legs,

skins and shins played like broken violins,

a weapon painted over

with fishnet stockings,

for the cold of the winter.

I could play the part,

of that fucking whore.


I should have known it, though.

It came in the sickness,

came in the two weeks of pain,

but I never pay attention to ubiquitous things.

And, well, obviously, because it simply is.


And well, because I simply am.

I must have stopped caring a long time ago.