This One Time, On A Friday Night At Clifton Hall…

Photo
ph-oh-toh
photo, photo
tofu.

Lamppost
Lanyards
Paraplegic.
Paraplegic penguins.
Punting porcupines
blindly among the peristyle.

Kendragon:
full of shit.
Love her to death anyway.

Hey, Art College.
Fuck you
Fuck you.

Alora:
full of shit,
but hers doesn't sound quite as
pretty
as
Kendragon's.

Fuck you,
Fuck you.

Broken phone, dead pen.
Photo.

"I really dislike being picked up."

EXIT
You are
in. my. way.
Fuck you.
Fuck off.
Shut up.
You hurt me.
Asswipe.

"Well, it is a Friday night."

I have no idea what is going on.

Platypus.
Writing major cannot draw.
Shut up, Ian.

Epic poem,
epic poetry…
Homework.
Fuck, I have homework.

I feel like platypuses should do math.
a(squared) + b(squared) = c(squared)
Intellectual platypus.
Platypi are not that smart.

A pot
in the trash
because no one
wants to wash it.

Friends don't stay for long.
Dear Prudence,
I'll be back.

"Now what?"

The exposure is too short.

Let's go.
We can take pictures of cracks in the pavement.
Pictures
of unsubstantial things.

Easily excitable,
Easily bored to death.
Dear Prudence,

"I highly enjoy taking pictures of nothing."

Fuck, Fuck.
Camera, cooperate.
I want to get the exit sign.
Fuck you!
Never mind.

I need a fix 'cause I'm going down.

Poetry is bullshit.
If only I could bullshit well.
While my guitar gently weeps.

Well.
Drugs sure helped the Beatles.
They were so flirting.
Miss being wanted.
Want to be wanted.
Cliché.
Definition.

"I'm always the black person in the room."
"June, control your impulses."
"Control that."

EXIT
EXIT
EXIT

Doors open,
doors shut.
Hope it's him.
Blind fear if it is
Disappointment when it's not.
All while my guitar gently weeps.

We are Knights of the Round Table.
On second thoughts,
let's not go to Berkley.
It is a silly place.
We should get jumped and raped in East Oakland.
Bahaha…ha
No.

You should get your iPod.
Across the Universe?
Fuck yes.
While I wait, I'll pretend I'm not alone again.
Cliché, cliché, cliché.

I am,
this is,
every word
I spew.

It's all bullshit.
And it isn't close to good.

EXIT
EXIT
FIRE
F
I
R
E
EXIT

Can hear her all the way down the hallway:
Oh, Darling.

Hallway.
Doors.
Need a better fucking metaphor.
Cliché.

Oh, darlin'.

"Most people don't like Bright Eyes."
But I maintain Pete Wentz is a good writer too.
Fuck you, Fall Out Boy.
It was easier when it was
just
(you and me)
us
alone
together.
It was good.
And it sucked balls.

Like I sucked Zack's cock.
His tiny, bent cock.
Because I thought

He was an asshole.
I was an idiot.

I need a fix 'cause I'm going down.
Mother Superior jumped the
mother fucking gun.

EXIT

Whisper words
of wisdom…
Let it be
Let it be

EXIT (is greater than, points to, turns into) Cliché.
There will be an answer.
Let it be.

Fuck me.