"Thinking about you
I got on the bus
and paid 30 cents car fare
and asked the driver for two transfers
before discovering
that I was
alone."

-Brautigan

The only thing left are my cigarretes,
not even a stained canvass in winters first breath.
I breed in the gutteral burn of a strangers chest,
the madman, I am,
a booze hound for vacancies,
a florescent shine to my face,
I did not recognize it today.
The last time paint lingered on my skin
was before the haunting awareness
of scetching unanimated objects,
to make them faint together
a dance they make,
before this madman, I am,
told me to wake.

"we never really discover anything but one event following another"
"even if god did exist, it would make no difference"

throat on fire, belly full of grease.
Ouch.

hahahahha

why can't I do anything involved with technology?

this is you.

"These are MY words,

those are yours"

the possession of the handicapped

the bulbous bruised

I give myself the fight back against his frightened sickness.

His easy tears somehow my forgotten instigations

the body makes with imminent pain.

You pain me

so I place you

behind sprains and old injury made to heal on it's own.

The two times I broke your flesh, I meant it

as it was meant to kill me

to realize how much it hurts

to watch thinness transform into your stretching skin,

as I have known

I have spoken

as it does happen.

It does

and it did.

And I break my hands on your words once again.

Oh fuck.

I've not learned my lessons yet.
I'm going to begin searching for professional hermit jobs on craigslist.
Hermitism. Condition? Profession? Real word?