Notebook 002

30.4.07

Waving. Shipping. Ebb and tide. Hedonistic post-modernism sure beats admitting that you're selfish. I can't feel anymore. Trapped. Cocooned into loves nest, I am spellbound. Sure this fairyland is good but is it real? Have my feet run away with my legs? Lost. What is Insanity like? Does it taste like blood in your mouth? Feel like a forever tilting bed? Sound like the light switch on and off and on and on and off? Does it look like a soft focus metal paranoia? Like glass? Like television? Like nothing is really affected so I can do what the fuck i want? I don't know. I know it's name. Time. It licks my back, greases my hair and calls my mother a whore. I always wanted a best friend and i got one that no one else can have. Space. I can't share her because she'll disappear. I call her; secret.

I want the paradoxical nature of this verbatim to spin spin spin, burn. Night flashes behind my eyes believe waxen-tongued deludes of this Mozart broken crack house. Feel the preach of a bracken claved vulture scum. Rape rape pillage and rape. Cervix your agenda to my face and i will scream your hollow pleasure. Scream it loud. Scream it clear. Scream it proud. Scream it here. Then leave. Your mother was a prostitute. I'd know. I'm burnt at the knees weak and bristling. Oh clean clean clean the gaps between the sand and polished flats. I cannot fucking take your bullshit lives.