The looks that got you killed. Can’t say you didn’t deserved it. Look at you.
The lie sliding so easy off your face and straight into the cavity of corruption. I’m scrolling in judgement, indicting individuals, passing sentence, granting no clemency.
Which hell awaits us next? Depends which ones- of those we’ve freshly minted- are finalized.
I won’t let my face give me away.
I hide behind a keyboard whenever I can, for safety. Now, it’s mandatory.
There’s nowhere to go, nothing to do in the dilated hours when the work is done. How do you entertain yourself when you have no imagination and the TV is dry? Someone wish me luck. Send me some reheated prayers?
I pick up the phone; an A.I. voice states flatly:
You ARE compromised.
No shit. What’s my recourse? I’m stuck in here. I’m floundering in my flatulence.
I’ve hoisted my white flag to the top of the roof.
Not going anywhere. Never was anyway, but, now it’s literal.
Gog grant me the serenity to venture into the open air and grab a piece.
And the wisdom to leap off the fence, headlong into the destruction I so richly deserve.
The bugs are out to get me
and I’m waiting on a ride.
Spiders of light
spinning a gossamer halo
out of clouds
over your head,
collapsed sunshine and bruised air
circulating within the nightmare
of your dreams.
You have become nothing more than make-believe, sizzling pixels popping capillaries in my brain, clogging my aorta.
How I wish I could mangle you with my mouth, in the hunger game that I call my life. I walk to the gas station for frozen food, I stare at a screen 18 hours a day, I masturbate more than a bonobo.
meanwhile, I’m not going anywhere…
I can’t. By law.
stuck to one spot like booger, pacing the floor like a wind-up toy.
Gog grant me the courage to express the glands I can.
And the jizzom to split his difference.
Ooooo… baby! MY BALLS ARE ON FIRE!
This is la crème de la poubelle: the best crappiest.
In my spare time, which is all of the time, I spend my life scrolling. When my mind should be climbing, time finds me scrolling. Endless corruption of my senses, of my bodily reactions, of whatever is left of genuine feeling.
You’re so vain in the membranes.
Maybe it’s pay back.
Separating you with a chain by accident,
slinging you into the middling tier of mucus plugs.
My routine’s become unbearable; I’m pinned in place pinned in place pinned in place going nowhere going nowhere going nowhere glued to the filaments of this dark webworld.
Stay right where you are, you’re my favorite fool. My favorite food.
At the first sign of diarrhea I’ll call your congressman and tell him his lunch is ready.
Reinforce the wetwork
while I wait.
I’m fantasizin bout u in bloody underwear.
What can I say? I have a livid inner life, solidifying in isolation… going nowhere.
Pinned in place.