mr. soporific [2002]

in mere minutes I’ll be bidding goodnight to this bloodshot world of fallacy and human congestion. onward to more desperate climes. I try not to believe in hell. because if I did I’d never get anything done. (I’m behind schedule as it is.)

“it’s not what you know, but what you think you know.”

all the spin doctors in the world take their cues from idiots. the foolish savvy must scratch through the trash to retain their equilibrium, and I’m 3 feet deep in liquor nightmares. yes, I’ve memorized the sound of the other shoe dive-bombing the floor. it sounds suspiciously like a female voice saying, “your name here.”

the television set can only proselytize so much, before you’ve gotta find another false idol to worship. these eyes are mine, no matter how horribly they betray me. I can taste the smoke in the air long before the inferno.

I press lies to my ears, to drown out the noise.

of so many assholes and their useless toys.

I abandoned all of my convictions on some random intersection choked with heavy metal traffic. the ill-yellow streetlights have no use for me of late. …left cold and tired in some asphalt wasteland, buried up to my throat in past-tense’s… I pine for the day when I sleep it off permanently.

it’s piss-mental hours like these when I begin to believe in the myths of anesthetic. the voice of the world becomes all too fucking loud. there’s a moth on my monitor (useless little fucker) and I forget the places my hand has been. if only they could see me sitting here, gripping my ego’s cock like a consolation prize. if only they could smell the foul breath emanating from my philosophy. pluming like a sour cloud of stolid cynicism. all oily and erroneously functional. I’m a machine running on the wrong fuel. pools of vinegar soaking the walls of my skull. acridly accrued in the corners where my youthful convictions cower. 

the army of bitter tongues in my brain 

bawl their rally cry of raw awareness.

nothing but stale dreams and outdated porn. old grand-dad wipes; the slate’s clean. my arsenal of strident fuck-you’s is bloating. threatening to spill over into my calmer minutes. they’ve grown restless from disuse. made obsolete by alcohol abuse. it’s fucking funny from a certain point of view.

of late I’ve learned how to put the reigns on my mood. I’m in an Ice Age; my face offers the world an arctic landscape. and it’ll take more than some fiery damsel in diseased distressed to thaw away this frost from my smirk. leave all that shit to the loud drunken choir shouting out from my CD player. it’s their recipe from which I’m made. 

the lunatics in my skull become more agitated with every passing night. I watch them all scurry to one corner or another, as I sentence myself to my own. the lunatics are mine, and they know what I know. bedtime is a torture wrought upon sightless slaves. 

time to allay what’s been stunting my growth today.

and it’s not God’s doing ‘cause he’s got better things to do. he’s got his own fucking mortgage payments due. all the checks are postdated to December 23rd, 2012.