There is a hole—I meet it halfway down. My only chance to escape is cutting the rope loose, lose my basket to gravity and let the sail fly off into saturated heaven—the stars the firmament and everything that lies beyond.
I follow a book that is still being written, get high on nothingness ('cause nothingness is free), sell my appetites to a groaning man I trade thrills for little bits of acid your Sea-Monkeys set my ruffles free pink fringe a garter a gusset egregious salty tingling between the lips and folds the battle flag wants to go exploring Roto-Rooter style double down that's my anklet you're plumbing. Deadly spice rack lost in the foil when we tipped we tipped all the way upside-down pinafore forms an umbrella parachute but I cut my spicy little tendons and don't give a shit no more life has become flat like paper a set of instructions represented in abstract lines and symbols the way I experience it makes everything a tragedy, everything a celebration but on paper!—On paper it's emotionless as unknowingly stepping on an ant—mourning is just some feature of big-ass brains maybe never big enough for me the way I die is mine—I do it every day. The tragedy of never knowing anyone outside my room is not a tragedy to me. My veins are already flat!—My heart already stopped—You just don't know it yet. There was a coming and a going outside my door—a whooshing and a sucking and tornadoes smelling like a freight train. This is my awkward love note to the end—the end when I fall out the ending of the chute like a water slide that ends in white-hot foals: chemical carnivores implant this bloody fang in your diet box and next time I ask you a question don't be so demure. On my way here I learned that "demure" is just a word to keep a woman down I am spicy I am spanky when you exit the door I mount the bed and jump myself lifting up my 1800s skirts they leave us here and expect when they open the door that their passive wife cadet will still be sitting in the chair, rocking, sewing—well I'll sew your Eyes Wide Shut. Lift you out of my specimen grill and cook you animal style off the secret menu conning a double double with cheese your dickhead is a discount it used to be go west young man but now it's go west or go east and if you go both for long enough you'll end up with me, demure, modest, unassuming, meek, mild, reserved, retiring, quiet, shy, bashful, diffident, reticent, timid, shrinking, coy—I think that's it.
Lean to the left—lean to the right.
Understand where I am coming from with the dodging and the groaning, modest hair and towing, bleeding from the vag surrounds me—I am wiped in shit, lowly companion of the companion of the companion, do my duty, wrap myself in newsprint ailing Jills and ailing Joes come from across the ocean, blithely imprisoning each of their own left toes with handcuffs intended for a magic trick executed by a performer whose eyes are clinically blind. He wears a blindfold just to make you feel better but dude has no perception whatsoever and he's been that way since birth. He drives a MAC-10 cross country spinning plates from his left eyeball there's a screwdriver functions as a bike tool you've got Trent Reznor tattooing a piano (three notes) in your right ear and the Olsen twins smoking cigarettes in your left—your only problem, in life, is that you're not a billionaire. Get yourself together. Crescendo up, fade in the Mozart, pick an attitude, pick your grave. Pick science as the new religion. Pick overdosing on candy, snort granulated sugar, diet soda, and corn syrup. Pick in vitro fertilization. Pick genetically modified food. Pick your nose. Pick bloody towelettes to litter your floor, basins of mouse ears grown on pig backs, elephantiasis of the pussy, crosshairs in chopsticks, auto-abortion with a turkey baster—pick a community of your peers where there is none—pick a name for your child that will never fit him, that he will change as often as his phone number, pick drapes and carpet indestructible coloring your baby room, accept every registered gift, turn inward rejecting all your friends, devote your life to caravans of children hatching growing larvae feeding on mother's fat cells, the twigs between her brain, the trials of blood which define her—live for the day when they all come back and make a meal of you—your offspring consuming the seed they came from. She builds a contraption entombing her spirit with flames and every screw and every lie and every story told and every lesson learned—this is the catacomb of Giger, Bacon, Lovecraft, Zipperhead, and much, much more.
I hold my own pigtails in the blue moon light.
Swinging on burning tires placed around a dead man's neck.
If you want to see the eighthmost wonder of the world, look no longer than a news vest, cradled Gadget notebook, niece Penny sporting a video watch and secretly solving every case behind the back of a spokesman presiding the authority of birth it's always in a white-walled room with a white ceiling, white floor, white sheets, and some doctor staring at a fetus head. When he gets to the end of the tunnel, doc holds him up like Simba, reigning, leading the pride to certain death your figurehead ideal objects of Aristotle they're just there to make you look one way while from the other, slicing blade—they say you can blink three times after your head falls off the block.