one thing i love about my life is how i am full in emptiness like a fucking bell or some nonsense like a cactus tree. in one breath i feel pert, pristine, unconsummated and even virginal… in the next i wail and moan like a veteran whore, beach ball tossed with relish from frame to frame, shoved blind in every socket. i invite sorted sordid hells and malady into my life, close the lid on the jar and kill even poisoned butterflies such as these. i weather merrily the well deserved torment for all my sins, as i am very flexible, equipped with smokestack chakras, chemical flurries, cathartic emotional lightning and a masturbatory mastery that allows me to self sustain like a bromeliad in a basket of shade.
this life of mine is half full. i spin plates the wrong way and dangle from the ceiling, a hemispheric marvel of fortitude and spectacle when i’m not rocking back and forth in place bemoaning my fate. i wake in the morning with suck my cunt verve and a nasty lip, unbounded by fear of pure expression. i mutilate language, flirt like the devil and fuck myself into a corner on a bad day. sometimes i wake up beatific and show my puddle what for. it’s a shitty world and we all know it, yet we sculpt the ineffable, railing against the caustic wind of modernity. we mow down the bleak highway like a bus with teeth. on a clear day, gloom is mere roadkill squealing in our wake like a dusty armadillo.
my life, in the mystery of pronoun and syntax, takes it on, full bore, the stale imagistic mires, missives and dismissive doldrums of defeatist fuckall antiquated norms, obliterating perceptual roadblocks with acid and firestorms. i throttle my clover and holler like a wraith possessed by a bassoon, from my little room, stirring up trouble and lemonade. it ain’t so subtle. i talk a good game but really, i too suffer doubt, anomie, sexual deprivation, poverty, psyche depravation and occasional suicidal desperation like any bird worth its salt. call it what you will, but twitter is a hell of a drug. i have nothing and no one to blame. every other tuesday this estranged endeavor rends me speechless in nearly tangible rapture. one day i hope to capture this storm and ride it home. my fingertips like ten horses will deliver me into a clement abode where your kisses rain like ginger candy and teardrops are a shape, not the color of every waking hour.