Utterly unmoved by death and strife
Out of my hands right where I want it. Because I can imagine then, that all is well or as well as can be and forget that I should probably fix something. Maybe I’ll start with my car, or my life, or my fucking jacket buttons. It all seems so insignificant now with my perfect worldview that sets me apart
Elite
Aloof
And today dies into tomorrow and reincarnates my problems or does it because it’s so much of the same. And god forgot what he was gonna do today so I’ll just ski and imagine that I’ve got it all figured out like the genius I like to think I am and lie to everyone else. I wish I was high again. Sober nights bore me or piss me off, what’s the difference anyway. But I can’t imagine a scenario that might be better, realistically speaking. So here I sit with nothing better to do anyway. What the hell do you expect, that I should sleep? Go away, can’t you see I’m pretending to be an artist? We all play make believe and this is mine. I can’t remember a time when I really wanted to accomplish something, so why start no. I just want to eat and sleep and get high through the times I’m forced to remain conscious. Is that so wrong? YOU be productive, YOU be a “functioning member or society. I’ll be the little outcast movie character who is too self-righteous to know he’s an idiot. It shouldn’t make any difference because we all fade away anyway. Some just imagine they don’t fade to black but maybe grey or something a shade lighter. I couldn’t care less about your imaginary friends in high places or your ideas of perfection because you’re no better than me. Just stop trying to drive yourself crazy. Don’t be offended that I know you’re lying. It’s as plain as the books on your desk, which I’ve read by the way. And it’s as good as anything else I suppose. It gives you structure and a purpose and god forbid you go through life without a purpose because you must be that important or why the hell else would you be here? Look at you in your suit so nice. So accomplished. I bet you can flip numbers with the best of them, including your six figure salary. But I guess your kids will still hate you and your wife is still going to leave you and no one will give a damn about you when you finally give up and kill yourself. You’ll be a number too then, that just seems fitting in its way, seeing as you’re an accountant and whatnot. But anyhow, you go ahead and get your magic paper and I’ll roll my papers and we’ll see who gets to heaven first.

Failure et Fantasy

i don't know what i'm doing sometimes:
or all the time
my mind is muddled and mettles in business
other than it's own
(but that's another matter)
altogether i'm a mess and more messy even
in pieces
i'm a pisces
pretentious and poseur;
infernal amateur
you name it
i've failed it
but inexplicably i'm not dead yet
and sometimes i forget how much everything hurts and just hold tight and
forget that i used to want to die
{for so many years}and that's the meaning of life

perhaps

but i'm no philosopher
more a pedant, a peddler of nonsense dressed as knowledge
and facts are less than what I make up in my spare time
the mind flies when you're having fun and then stops to write bad puns
literary gaffs portrayed as art
and if i was in new york, this nonpoem would be famous
but hetero white southern people can't create
and we all know that

Skinny d with the key to an f 23
tearin towels of some heads with the usmc
baddest muther fuckers in the us of a
we woulda won this fuckin war if skinny d led the way

He said we nuke the camel fuckers on the first day
not a goddamn dead body, not american's anyway
what's a terrorist but a corpse that's running late
Ole D said here's your damn funeral, now face the east and pray

Word to your mother