i have so many hard choices
to make in my life like
should i play fallout or
watch reservoir dogs and
pulp fiction back-to-back?
and should i succeed or
take the lazy route and fail?
and should i kill myself today
or wait until i’m 40?
should i hainkdher or should
i heiontlkrmek?
i sit on an office
chair eating toast
from a plate that
smells of mouldy
plastic while watching
the breakfast club
and something about
that just seems…
comme il faut
it’s not that i want to
kill myself, it’s just
that i don’t want to live
this day and maybe tomorrow
and the day after too.
and for a few days in this
month and that month, i
want to be able to vacation
to the land of temporary
character death or disappearance
but i do want to come back
in a white scene transition
a sort of fade in to this
scene and then out of the next
whenever i want to. don’t
write me any lines for this
act but i sure as hell want
to be in the one three ad
breaks from now, mr. ball
i guess it’s too bad i don’t live in a television programme
these fleshy walls are
made of me and my
thoughts, and i spend
all week running into
and bouncing off
them like the walls
of a jumping castle
until they tear and
i fall through them
into a stringy world
of veins and organs
and become tied up
like a hostage in the
back of a van.
some spoken word came
up on shuffle and i
found it hard to hear
my hitchcock film.
i couldn’t decide
what i wanted to hear
more so i left them both
playing and went for
a walk.
i tripped over and
banged my head and then
i saw ginsberg and
he held a megaphone
to my ear and started
screaming.
that was quite unusual,
i guess…
a thick piece of rope
and a viscous cloud
of smoke or steam or
whatever it is. wait,
i don’t think that
makes sense. a sticky
cloud of smoke? maybe
that’s what nuclear
bombs feel like. i was
just talking about
a long, thin, rickety bridge
over something dangerous.
maybe a volcano.
you know, sticky like
glue, and the rope
for the sides which are
supposed to keep you
safe or something. but
i guess nuclear bombs
make sense at the moment.
yeah, let’s make this
about nuclear bombs.
you sent me your pieces
of art and god damn
were they beautiful.
this was almost three
years ago now, and sure
it’s sad, but i’d almost
forgotten you existed.
if it weren’t for these
archives, i’d probably
never think of you or
your art ever again.
my knowledge of archives
has greatly expanded.
it’s been about three
weeks since i’ve put
my fingers to keys to
write a piece of what
i and others may call
poetry if we’re being
lenient. i guess it’s
just been that i haven’t
felt a whole lot lately.
i’ve “wasted” three weeks
watching television
and playing violent
video games that the
ignorant people of
society try to tell me
will infect my brain
and turn me into a
killer. the only thing
i’m killing is my
motivation, self-
confidence and time.
i took a course called
“how to love your voice”,
but after twelve weeks
i came away with more
hate for it than i had
in the beginning. i
guess you can’t simply
feed me words and lines
of text books and expect
me to love myself more.
pull the cotton over
your eyes; feel the
egyptian; smell the
clean linen. i smelled
it when i slept on
your creaky floor boards
past 4pm while you
made a living for
yourself and i wasted
my days away like
an unhygeinic man
squatting on floor boards
in the clothes he’s
worn for the past two
weeks or another equally
as shitty simile that
i can’t be bothered
thinking up because
i’m too lazy. and
although i may be
lazy, that’s a miniscule
fraction of my problem.
