Someone I respect told me I ought to just let it all out, even here, on CN, where everyone seems to be so professional. I try to be. But there are stumbling blocks in my head. But i don't want to bore anyone with my shit, so instead of a diatribe, here I present a poem opening my cranium and revealing the filthy brain within...enjoy.
A sunbeam so normal melts brains into sick constellations. Read by the translators of the book it is said this is salvation. Sucking down wet slime of unprocessed swine is likely equal to choosing oneself blind. Spirits, or is it just red? Even sober find myself dead.
I cannot transcend believe me I have tried. My knuckles broken with hard luck and hard times. The blood and the screams are akin to orgasm and then I feel bad and weep sick with spasms. Some lockbox within me contains the dust of a Pharaoh’s remains. Enter the tomb and welcome a guest of three-six plagues.
Along the river Styx I travel
Drinking the stygian water and causing my mind to unravel
I burn in my cups and with white knuckled typing, imagine viscera and banned White Lightning – perhaps a having kids would release me but ten years of smack has thus far cursed me
So I fire a wad and yet fail reproduction
It kills me to fail but somehow I grin and function
When I watch society I feel so lame, you are all perfect, accepted, and tame,
You all have your green stacks and pillars of salt
Audis and iPhones and treasure filled vaults
Envy and nausea make me feel weak
And I cannot deny my own mess is my fault.