hear my words.
You once belonged to her mother,
but now're free. You are free.
But please, don't let her forget me.
don't lie down
I wanna live good
so I sell dope,
(...all that them hoppers can't smoke)
like a draft the underground smiles;
my name is my name, I guess
if it echoes
I want to be crisp w/
my frontier
sure, she's cute
but once I trip,
it's unbecoming
Might as well give me the damn orange juice too, what is it, like 6 bucks here?
i ordered lamb and eggs but then i thought this is too depressing, sushi is where it's at there's people i can be among, so i held my phone on my ear as i was canceling my order because of an important call but she said the lamb is already on the grill snd I said, "Okay, you got me. This isn't even a phone."
"I wanted to go from A to B and somebody confronted me in between without any sign of welcome. B was Sanchez, to see how badly he was injured. Honestly, I don't listen to what [Mourinho] says."
Fuckin Arsene Wenger. He's French.
Live real madrid commentary
Ramos goes what did i do ref? And Pepe goes yea refwhat did he do? did you forgot to lock the door on your way out?
I'm Superman's drunken brother. You know that episode where Clarke Kent comes home dejected in his taxi because the staff chief called him the King of Passive Verbs and he sees his no-good brother on the steps and after biting small-talk Superman starts arguing about his TV Dinners, and they engage in an toothless ancient undermining, until his brother goes,
- Woa! Back the fuck up! Now, you may not respect me or where I'm coming from...
this is good, this is really good. I have food that I've been staring down at the bar for the last few hours like Oreo used to do because he thought i might steal it—i hurt Oreo fundamentally because i was young and so stupid. He bit my lip off on two occasions, one time he actually did and spit it out (my sister picked it up from the rug and brought it to zee hospital—she was like, gross"—
ohhh... He's doing Wild Horseses, this is very disrespectful on my part, blogging in the bathroom and locking the door like im doing drugs
and I noticed he was running back and forth with me in the living room when i realized I had no upper lip. I wish I could just kiss him for all all those times I thought it was funny to chase him strumming the guitar and all he could do was hide under the table, for him it was July 4 fireworks, and then I would make that kissy sound i make to all dogs and he would relieved come to me and then I would strum again! Or gradually I punked with him enough to make him subconsciously believe I always wanted to steal his food. He was such a softy with a quiet wrath. I love my lack of upper lip. That's my baby's hishatak. I think Punky assumed a lot of his traits after he died. She was actually very happy-go-lucky with Oreo, after his initial ...hmmm..let me try to kill her real quick. But she changed after he died.
ohhh... He's doing Wild Horseses, this is very disrespectful on my part, blogging in the bathroom and locking the door like im doing drugs
this guy's been playing radiohead on the bar stage when it was his turn, like covers, there's not much people here, so it's great for me, im all smiles, he even threw in morrissey "everyday is like sunday" ...psst between me and you, he's butchering em all—he tried mazzy star, there's no way he could pull it off. And if ur gonna do radiohead covers, skip the songs from the radio, i mean there's me and 4 Dodger Blue. Everybody knows that!
Honestly though, it was so cool. Him, right here in my heart. Oh, he's still inside playing, very good taste in music. If i didn't suspect he's gay, i'd slap him in the ass as he walked off stage.
you know when i took that picture, it was supposed to mean something, like look at my despair—damn can't get the pesky camera angle right—there! there! all this effort, this wasteland, down the toilet with you!
Big mistake. It was Qone of those many epiphanies like one drunk talking to another. Worst thing to do is only a little.. Eventually just ended up going back. So that one moment where fantasy and fetish were in my hands—like I fantasized, like my life's fruition had come to play—and it all just sounded so daunting, like running a marathon you have to race, I felt so miserable I couldn't do it and I ran through everything for it
I thought it was the chance out. I thought—well, I didn't understand, as even in that despair I was perplexed by the movement of this insanity. I thought maybe he got stuck with her and was trying to throw her on me—He was fucking her pretty good for awhile. But maybe she gets belligerent when she drinks, and he found himself in that untenable position where when they come for her, the ATF will also find him. He's in a gang, or runs in a network of people. It's not my business, but if that is the case, I can take a step back and quickly take action. I'm not fettered by that quiet wheezing breeze. I know what he does. He's always adding to his legacy, then starting again.
Sometimes I'll have these quick nightmares, that don't run like lines or shapes in a dream. They're not long enough to be nightmares. They have no form, but they reside on a plank in the cusp of a dream. They are more poignant than a breath of your heart shook out of sleep before you even reach...
They are not pleasant. They will not charm you because they are not ugly. (remember that one time I said it was a wounded fly by my feet but it was a piece of lint? Not it's the real thing.I don't know what to do. I mean I probably killed a fly a the other week when I was angry at the cable. Th long I talk the the more pain? I—yes! He just flew. That is just the result I could've wanted. I didn't want anything to do with that situation.). They are the ghost of the brute force of monsters unknowing; they are stronger than resenments and more collected than malice. They are straight undisputed panic no god-fearing citzen w/ a zero tolerance policy on dog-fighting—and to a lesser extent, cock-fighting—should endure. (Fuckin fly took the air out of my cock-fighting bit)
I don't know how to describe it. If it had a shape, it would be a foot. This foot's And in this foot there are oceans. Big oceans. This foot's so big there are so many spaces. In here there are things bigger than oceans. There are places to jump in these spaces. In here I'm a tiny foot, smaller than a fish. And I have to go all the way or else, and to get to places you have to walk, but im so small and and I know that it's giving me 1,2,3, when all there is is infinity.
I don't know how to describe it. All I've felt is the stretching futility as it dawns on me and won't let me go because there's only one way and I can't ever get there., i can't ever think about getting there because it's too big to think
think she's listening?
A) she has to be; im drunk
B) not if her proxy tells her about that last night
C) whats it matter, im just gonna shit on her again
my words cannot express regret
im just eating my hand, when i think im thinking—when I talk—i've just been chewing my arm this whole time
it's a never ending circus...my love
my love
my babe
my love
my babe
my love
my babe
my love
my babe
my love
my babe—you see that?
i say it enough i can say whatever i want to you, i can shit on you
Like, ok, babe, come here...
sit here—no, just sit here
...oh, i just shit on you again...
no, no! my calculations were off—
we just need to tweak it a bit...
cause Me and you are cute! and we're taking a trip to the La Brea tar pits where we bring our lunches, and when you show me your sandwich and say, "Here, take a bite!" my heart gets excited, and you don't realize it, because you're in grade school, but that was that most voracious bite I've ever taken.
A neverending circus for me.
I have spots all over my body. They are excessive. When I was younger they were slight, and alarming for when I grow up. I went to doctors a few times back then, but it was no big deal, yet it never went away, and I never got an explanation for it. We should get that looked at, it'll be embarassing growing up, it'll shake his confidence— a man needs his confidence. This boy in middle-school had a really bad case of cirriosis on his neck, like some heartless monster chewed it up every morning and sent him on his way. That was bad. This Asian boy had wrinkled fingers in elemantary school, like a drowned baby, it made me sick. We ate lunch together he often had the taco salad. He sometimes wanted a piece of our food and said we could have some of his taco salad. Taco salad is disgusting.
The ointments they gave didn't do anything.
i have so much to tell you, dear diary, about my day, this was a daywhen, like so much was happening, my thoughts were racing it was like Iwouldn't allow them to, stop, i went to the seven 11 with Justine,and ...Brenda Jr.
her mom is ironic,
and that cute boy, little Apu, he looks like a rock star, but God, how mamy times is Brenda Jr. Going to say that? Really, how many times is she going to say that? I said that one time when I first saw him cause he looked like that one soccer player from Spain that's always changing his hair, when it's usually that big ugly clerk who never wears shoes, you can see his feet, like no socks! One time Jenny goes,"Dorritos, yea no thanks." No! Not the player with the mohawk, No, Not them, diary....they don't exist... they're stupid. Like really, what does she even mean by that?
I mean he's cute...he's really dumb. The thought did cross my mind—that was an exciting week—that maybe he was different and dangerous, like Bruce Lee. But, he didn't do much but talk on his bluetooth while people were in line. I had to ask him to scan my chips, too, and one time Jenny just took her bag of Fritos. I don't know, diary, he didn't strike me as very ambitious. Jenny said there's always Patel: you know, the one that liked me in 3rd grade? He was going to be a Mechanical Engineer until they found out he was the one sending those charcoal drawings to the female teachers. Jenny said at least he has passion. Jenny did it once with that guy who drives his motorcycle around the school at 3. She probably took advantage of him.
But like, hold on, I'm sweating like a hog—I smell like fat Tiffany. I'm out of wipes. God, I'm horrible today. So Bredna Jr, goes again, "There he is, look!" Like, I'm right there, Brenda! She's sweet and all, but it's like there's nothing behind her eyes. I think I hate her. I mean, her mom is all weird and out there—and it's not because she's black, cause Brenda Jr.'s black too. Like one time, she's driving me and Brenda home and takes us to a Ralphs in Encino. At the bakery section she asked the workers which items were kosher cause she only eats kosher, then she grabbed a sandwich for herself and asked Juan Carlos what kind of free-range environment the tuna or chicken were raised?
lolita
As anything but bits
figments magic
a figment-dream made flesh
she's flesh right now I can
feel it, when she's loved,
like kisses in a porno scene
People grow fond of one another, people love
People want to be dominated,
she cries like she met the Virgin Mary
and doesn't blush, in this most inopportune...
— in that some men are weak,
and women inscrutable,
people grow fond of one another, people love.
Her skin is home to him.
His body is what she wants him to be.
Mind my hyperbole, dear reader
it serves neither of us,
not me and nor you, motherfucker,
and I have grown.
I just want to be your friend.
I'm on the outside breathing in.
is it merely cynicism,
(on this great big raft,
and what, but soft)
but for that profound undertow
A bloated insecurity,
like underminings,
loving beaver dams
there goes lethargy, atrophy,
That I may scoff or smirk,
willy-nilly
My temple, my soothsayer, my soverignty,
that I was a whore
and riches were my instincts
an enemy is in relentless pursuit
an enemy is in relentless pursuit
will pummel your head for his greed
and blood and gums and numb teeth
an enemy will get sentimental and take a break
love you like he raped you
(every other day)
a lion doesn't eat all his prey;
the virgin moans an endless river,
like stars sacrificed and the sky is bare
an enemy will get sentimental and take a break
love you like he fucked you
hold your head like he cherished your dreams
then pummel you again
rip your clit and make you eat shit
Had a dream I was with a group of various family members in a car, some have passed on. I noticed we couldn't fit in the car as we were all inside. It was a small European or South American street—I imagine—or village, where many people were walking around. The police told us we all had to get out and stand back with all the others. Apparently, something was going down. I was very frustated and annoyed because I was late for work, and I went around a group of people to argue with the police, when we all realized war was about to break out.
They sent everyone into a small decrepit warehouse with old wooden tables, while they guarded the street. Through some windows I could see the African insurgents approaching, maybe Somalians, some teenagers and kids. Don't ask me why they were African kids.
In one alley there were three young African insurgents near a couple subarban trash cans with AK-47s. A shoot-out ensued with them vs. the police in front of our shady warehouse, and in two shots, I saw one policeman take out the tallest boy in front of the trash. It was the first time I'd seen someone shot. The sound he made as the first bullet hit his chest then dropped dead. They took out that small group. To the right, a crowd of insurgents were approaching from the street, but all of a sudden a helicopter approached and dropped low, and took out that crowd, then made some real nimble manuevers within the buildings and street, and I was impressed. Then the helicopter was swerving and spinning too erratically, like an out of control ice-skater, and I heard someone say, You gotta be kidding me! and the helicopter crashed into our warehouse.
Things started falling from the ceiling and I didn't know if I should get under those tables.
After a while, we heard the gunshots cease, and things appeared to calm down. I was lying on my side, next to the table with my arm supporting my head like I was lounging, and there was a security guard who's not a cop, like for a department store in a ghetto part of town. He was sitting near me with his arms across his knees and he tossed a grenade to his female partner, who was standing over him, like he was ashamed. She tossed it back but he didn't reach for it, and it came to me.
I picked it up, but didn't know if it had its pin. I was fearful and anxious, and I went outside to the crowd of police to show them. I didn't know if it was going to blow, I thought they could handle it. Someone came up to examine it and took out a paperclip and started unfolding it.
What should I do? I beseeched the crowd, as they seemed to be shrinking back.
They go, Throw it!
What? Where? Over there? There might be people there!
They start counting down from ten, as if to warn me.
As they get to five, I start remembering dreams in which I'm anxious about throwing a ball or my arms or legs going out when in a physical altercation.
5...
4...
3...At 3, the grenade falls out of my hands, and I look at it and quickly look back and wait for impact.
2,
1!
I open my eyes and kind of smile. Then sigh. What the fuck!
Look,
Sometimes, I sees a girl.
I should hit on her.
Wait a minute—I'm going to hit on her!
So I quickly run through the pick-up lines I wrote the previous night
that I stayed up memorizing.
I start psyching myself up.
She looks over and she sees me slapping my chest,
multiple times
I'm about to do it.
I'm about to hit her with it.
She's going to go home and dunk her head in water.
As I'm about to speak, I start crying.
My lips are trembling, in a sad clown face.
She goes, "Okay, let me hear it."
"No!" I pout.
"Come on," she encourages me.
"Okay, " I finally ____. "What are you looking at! This isn't a dance show." I says, disgruntled, sniveling.
"Concentrate." She goes. I was arguing with by-standers.
"Okay," I says, wiping my nose with my shirt, and my tears with the palm of my hand, "but I have to read it...I'm not well..." I start flipping through my pocket notebook.
"Okay." She goes.
"Okay—Oh! I like this one!" She sees my face light up.
"Okay. Give it to me."
(Backdrop) Tosca w/ Earl Zinger: Wonderful
you are a broken lunch box,
there's a note with crayons
from you and cookies,
with ridges wishing me
the best day!
and study hard
in the sun i sweat
and my nose itches from spring
and you cN't hide from the sun
but lunch is fun, Jason is our best player
He's Michael Jordan, cause he's black;
Nick is Larry Bird, he's white
1pm class and my water bottle is warm,
ice melted from the morning
you can't hide from the sun,
teacher turned the lights off
so we can cool off and do some reading
i smell from sweating
but the girl next to me smells too
she has a cute smell
i have a crush on her
she watches the game with her girlfriends
im not good at basketball
but once in awhile
she sees me score
your memory is a worm in the dirt 2
in my broken-box
there's a picture of you,
ripples in the waves of
an existential whirlpool—
firmware matter, like glue
thankfully, not hardware.
You are an ache in my soul,
a spasm in my back when
the weather is damp...
You look a bit older now,
like I imagine your mother,
like you are living a full life,
enjoying things, to say the least.
You are the pangs of consciousness,
like a dream that has abated
like numbness that's no longer sharp
sickly pleasure burning, more wretched
than foul discontent,
lingers the odor with the coming of the interlopers,
of love, passion or lust,
that animals can't convienently pretend
coming of the interlopers
erupt from the rush like enough's
enough of that crystal crush
as long as the breeze is a tidal wave
his mistress screams
a wayward melody
like oceans breached
and rivers are torn
bully
I had a dream about Garen. I used to make fun of him. In school, he had hair underneath his arm-pits, and we called him "cling-cling." We were friends until I realized I got more out of making fun of him. It built up in him and one time he punched me in the face in class while I was making cling-cling monkey gestures as he was giving a speech. I punched him back and who cares? It made me look cool.
I've always wanted to apologize to him and I have more hair than that fucker probably even knows. He was weird though. Throughout the years, I ran across him and he loved to talk about movies, and he talked to himself like I make it an art—he was really weird. His little brother I guess was smarter than him, came to my university—I saw Garen at a club party.
I was dressed in fashion and insecure. I hope he noticed.
what was dull
like ancient thoughts
dreams in a trans like withdrawal
you can't control your shit
or breathing or
people coming through the window
and your dog cute facing him
you can't reach them
so you just awake with a scream
in time
you can check
heart rate
stupor like a video reel on speed
Leslie Klyee getting gangbanged
now becomes physical
life has moved you
your body is dull
and weak
your mind is mush
your mind—all we have to do now! is erase
those thoughts from our head,
our brain
packets
ketchup,
neighbors—
me drinking in my underwear
alone in the afternoon
i'm going to climb over
the sweet scent of barbecue,
I brought Hunts.
Or do you prefer Heinz?
Oh no,
you prefer Heinz.
Woman, a man just wrote this for you!
I'll stay sick with nudges,
giddy on a chair
like a hapless fool
i am a man living in a dream
who needs to breathe
obviously, when you breathe
i wonder, like ancient forlorn
emotions
still not, what's life but molecules
and hiccups of a mischievous girl
like a crush
atoms and air waves
smiles like sensations
of pleasant things
like the sort of things
that comes from giggles
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