Cold Cuts

I craved warm shoulders. I wanted to dig deep and root myself in her body; the touch, kindness, arms open and receptive to my melancholy dog days. I brushed with seriousness and sappiness, stroked pent up anger and whiny bitch extensions braided deep within my head. Guffaw and laughter scented my arrival but I hid deep the bruises of life, shame, discontent, contempt, attempting normal. I lost myself in Joker reveries with the killing joke as my epitaph on a lonely desolate gravestone wet and mossy for the finishing touch. All about appearances.

I like to think of myself as so deep and abundant in wisdom and clarity but the image-heavy imagination breaks those delusions. I am partial to the pretty. Superficial layer on top of the kind soul slowly scrubbing its edges, this constant battle to be greater than, more open-minded and less shallow. I swim here and there leapfrogging over tadpole growth deliberately debating the merits of being image-conscious and curtailing the aesthetically pleasing angle. Just a scalene looking for the right.

I felt the need to grow, develop, deliver no quitter lily liver critter with a bitter pill swallower. Jagged edges. Chips on my shoulder can’t have just one. Eric Estrada the line between here and hereafter, sane and insane, life’s a joke and a riddle, Crumplestilskin. I gain heavy nd bog down in the mire of self-abuse and loathing. Ungulating, beating, throbbing membrane lush with the devil’s influence. Down down a black hole fearing the bottom but crashing towards it all the same. I relish that beef, that humiliation hunger game tossed around with minced and mottled meat. Sh sh shame spirals agony replete, addictions to tension and low levels; I look upon my wearied form down on knees and lost, lost to a warm world I spit at and turn away from. But that is past is it not? Past self, past reprisals, past the post electing for some positive. Change self, quit the self-destruction for some grassroots blooming. This onion has layers like ogres with their asses. Parfait perfect person.

And I longed for the kiss, sweet lips, winced at the touch, the crowd around me suffocating me, drowning in people sea. See see sissy, spacek space case, martian child thingling.
Thing one without a thing two. Judgy fish myself til the fun dies down, the fucked up party down, good thing I didn’t get the coca. Runaway train on deserted perverted rails sketchy and off kilter tracks trackmarks me. And I try and steel myself for the final key. Notes from underground left after me.

Cracked up basket case fooling for a picnic. End it all accomplice embellish. Stand in tracks awaiting the bend, putting misery to an end. Knife in gut, blade in the shade, darkly Dexter chump fillet. Chemicals down the gullet, poisons down the spirit. Alcoholic sputters with pain pills shoved down a doused soused throat, screaming in my head and silence on my lips. Eyes scanning, run run death wish. Wake in a bright hospital hospitable, watched over by scrubs and baby docs locked in purgatory my usual story. Mingling with the crazies, life blurb hazy maybe I’m dumb and lazy and I need a sound playbook. Silver linings came to me, break the old habits, spending money money hungry for the honeys so sunny playboy bunnies say they love me suddenly. Can’t get enough of me, sick of me literally, narcissism pessimism altruism on the spectrum. Ill and fated, scared and hated, nice guy to jerk conversion. Curses and mockery on the ready repeat.
Vinyl vile vitriol verily.

Stuck in a rut sinking in quicksand, body enwrapped from the waistband. Screaming in my head, silence on my lips. Mad bad cad auto breakdown mentally; fair-weather friends talk me awkwardly, stop calling me, avoid the real me. Or really? Is it me or the sad sack of eternity? Which is the scarcity that pops it head from under. Chickenshit chicken hawk ostrich emu fly don’t walk. Looney Toons after effect animating my biography through dark worded poetry. E-read my disaster capitalism moody magazine.


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