Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Particularly tricky parts

Is the way I wend the troubled way between getting enraged by the indifferent sprawl of shit happenstance and the standing wave of clear purpose.

My lack of words to describe this, this thing that fucks and shits and cunts can't really, really make that clear. How fucked up this is.

Days walking, days wanting. Days without any personal filling up, just one more day of being. Existing, and finally flattening that out in a lithium way. Take the corners off, round down the edges. Make the serrated blunt.

One more, little more, fucking sanded down blank acceptance.

Cannons made out of grit and twigs, raised over the head, eyes not seeing below the walls. One more, little more, in the continuing retinue of bollocks.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Fusel's fucked off

I lost him in the mall. We walked over the bridge into the rusty iron maw of East Village Kicker Emporium, the local commerce cancer in the middle of a winding of roads and motorways (we took the subway that smelled of piss and paper litter). And once past the destitute orcs ("will settle blood-feud for coin") and elf whores we were inside the heated interior. Big metal cabinets stood at every corner, each filled with heat bricks - because it's just this side of too cold for the clothes you chose.

And he disappeared in the crowd. Leaving me again.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Illusions of eminence

In that swaggering stride, trousers hitched up over sweaty belly. There I have the usual mind to flick from one easy leach to another easy creature.

Fuck off, smiling cunt, you have more bricks up your arse than a rectally satisfied architect