….hell is
this if this is hell if hell is hell….
even
discerned by the ghosts in my cheap headphones. screeching, howling through the
corners of my salt-encrusted mouth when the fucking sun tells my enflamed gut
that it’s eggs&bacon fuck-you time. after sleeping in a frigid field
littered with the desiccated remains of mustard beetles and out-dated porn. nostalgia,
which is Greek for “you just don’t fucking get it, do ya?”
I once lived
in a fear-cage. it was called exuent, which is Latin for “asshole that
lives in a fear-cage.” I would take long walks along the college hipster
sluiceway and peer existentially over Cache le fucking Poudre.
once, I heard
an owl from across the street. a fucking owl, hooting like something out of a
Hammer Film. I didn’t sleep for weeks.
…like a
ripe fruit exploding in slow motion. like a Viking funeral on a lavish yaught.
like a crime scene captured in brilliant pastels. like 7 jokers in a deck of
35. like a random function on a coffin. like an ellipsis in Braille. like a
sunset viewed through night-vision goggles. like an all-expense paid vacation
to Chernobel. like I give a sequential number of fucks where this is all going…
I feel it
right in my fucking glands. the ones that tend to get cancerized. the ones that
the predators enjoy the most. the softest ones.
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