Friday, March 11, 2011

I realize I?

sleep is broken. I anticipate the worst, and make anticipation feel a fool of a third wheel on fire. the world is a world is a child labour law gone wrong. spindly spindle the spindled grendel. Yig Yog Cthuluectatious.
I'm going to twirl you, dip you, bring you close, as we dance upon the underside of a floating mountain, a submerged glacier, a stealth bomber. fading away is reality, and suffocating us is realty. a goat man is trying to sell us a neighborhood, every house looks identical; grey, little yard, picket fence, two stories, two car garage on the right, back yard. a goat man is chewing hay while he bleats about the killer green we'd be making on rent. then he relieves himself of decency and charges off into the red fog.
and yet we're still dancing.

I'm a child. You're a child.
You make bad decisions,
and you were mine.

I'm a fool. You're a tool.
You play in a pretentious sandbox of stereotypes and cliches,
and I fell for it.

Yet I suppose not all is lost, since none of you know who I talk about, ever. Could it be past the past? Or presently present? Or neither, since it's more likely I'm just writing to write, right?
A brain dead ogre, click clacking away about flesh and love,
never truly attuned with the latter I suppose?

And now I slip into the real nonsense.

Once the cord is cut, the severity of the sever is severe. I leave it cut, unintentionally, because every time I go to replace the cord, I self sabotage. Maybe it's true, you can't be friends with people you've been close to. Maybe it's true, because no one wants to admit it is, and would rather dismiss it as a silly cliche and be done with it.
I'm going to sell my soul to the first souleater that ever did eat souls. I'm going to stand at the foot of the mountain of madness, and scream insanely. I'm going to melt down every bone in my body, and ooze around forebodingly.
I'm going to die a dead man, if I don't find you.

As a blogger I suppose I have ADD.

But anyway, whatever this started and ended as, I'm going to find the right one, and lose her.
Then maybe five years later, after she's slept with many others, she might come back, and tell me her tale. Of course then I won't want anything to do with her, because the right-er one will come along and sweep me off my feet (as men so enjoy, amirite?)

Have a happy Billie Holiday.

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