everybody lives and i cant wait for it to happen to you

wish i coulda said goodbye and thanked her 4 inviting me, but hey, everybody dies right? if god came down and gave me a choice, etcetera...

you see enough bald guys w soul patches and 5 string basses and PRSes going into acoustic sims and they start to become a synecdoche for your horrible shitty life

"when i spit your cum in your mouth you smile

because we both understand the act

like jon brion amd aimee mann

it comes off smooth and suspended 

with a real emotional center

those good old days when we putt fuzz on the master and called it a way

bewildered lanky woman with portapros double exposed glasses hangin off her nose?

playing guitar like i got mittens on rolling around on moon gravity unmedicated"

^ some bullshit words from my notes app

use this refractory period wisely, you only get so many

ramirez! last refractory period! make it count

drank 2 modelo chelada tallboys last night and listened to csh monomania and it so resembles my life that it doesn't even make me feel anything anymore i might as well just be looking in the mirror

i heard a song a while ago:

"everybody dies and sometimes it doesnt even hurt

their whole family cries as theyre being lowered into dirt

it sucks to say goodbye, but being forgotten is even worse

i hope that no one remembers you were even here at first"

i appreciated that i didnt have to wonder who it was for, but it sure didnt feel nice! in fact, it was probably close to the worst anything has ever made me feel! ("immensity of feeling" blah blah) but hey, everyone tells me time heals all wounds;

she told me she doesnt care about strangers being weird to her, she just doesnt want to be beloved. well, time for me to kick the football again. she invites me to the rock show, so i go to the rock show and then she acts so strange! as if shes scared! has god not given her a choice? the side eyes and murmurs, i thought we form webs outside our comprehension, i thought she wanted to be wholesome and silly!! :333 xD 

the last time we spoke i didnt bring up this song to her because i didnt want her to feel bad for making me feel bad (a synecdoche for my horrible shitty life)

its not even a particularly good song, which is the worst part. put some hustle in

so much time and focus has been expended on my part trying to understand the game, understand what it is she wants, when it is really that she wants nothing but to not be understood, she is apathy meeting self interest in the middle at the expense of real and vulnerable people in her life, emotionally stunted antisocial weirdo chaos agent.("manifestation" is narcissist codeword for manipulation, everyone can understand this, right?)  i would have a better attitude if her truly stupid and self destructive solipsism wasnt so expressly relayed to me that i assumed it was a joke. but hey, if god gave her a choice...

the next time your life is "too good," keep me blocked.

there are no outlets left and the bridges are burned.

congratulations, i finally hate you. hope you got some good songs out of this, you need them.

- Sent from my MacBook Pro

game of pricks

come be quiet like mice

cos i will Not say it thrice:

im cooked like a cuck

and i cant make a buck

without a newfangled cellular device;

i feel just like a husk,

what for that elon musk!

for on his app i spend days

watching porn (featuring gays),

and jerking off from dawn until dusk!

the villain robbers lament

for all ciara's gold has been spent

in pursuit of aimless gainless vengeance

for theres nothing i resent that has ever meant

quite half as much on the dollar of my repentance

there was a time (more or less a tenth a life)

where i lamented for more or less eighth a wife

who i resented yet paid my tithe

and lost the ability to rhyme

you see it now: still not there

it slips out sometimes, stuttering

when i go mute, (this happens often) the only coherent thing i can get out is singing "game of pricks," (this is true ask emmy) and goddamn can i sing "game of pricks."

"what lays at the intersection of what one owes another and what another means to one?"

-asks the faggot loser

i dont believe ive deserved a single thing ive ever gotten, good or bad. im mostly interested in syllables these days, even if the words ar ehard to get out.sometimes i feel like the summation of songs shown to me in cars. i dont mean just you, okay?

UK title: Jesus Of Cool 

US title: Pure Pop For Now People

makes you think, right?

bro, last night was a Let It Buffer by Kleenex Girl Wonder. Bro, Last Night was a Mrs. Equitone by Kleenex Girl Wonder. broo, last nite was a the comedy album by kleeeenex girl wonderr. fuck off

for three transgressions of WHAT????

there's a birthday party every night at a rock and roll bar where they serve communion wafers sprinkled with old bay. jesus was a nephew with a hot topic uncle. does any of that make you feel anything? it doesnt do much for me but its kinda funny. strokes parody where he says "and my nephew dont give a fuck'

i started to write a song called "You Break Horses," but i realized i dont care about anything anymore, much less enough to write a song about anything. im really just forcing myself to type this on the couch tummy full of trader joes gyoza as we speek. i hope your experiments to invoke in yourself new and horrible feelings for your art at my expense worked, because im blowing a 0.0001. im bored as fuck, sister! this is all motivated more by procrastinating doing my laundry than anything else. 

bro last night was a Belle Glade Missionaries. bro last night was a Spiteful Intervention. bro last night was a No Conclusion. bro last night was a Sober 2 deth. brolast nite was a Overexposed Enjoybro last night was a the gun song. 

someone described "socratic dialogue at joke bar" to me as "twee sartre." funny, right?

the prince was the genie, the genie was the prince. capiche?

me and my nephew adam

 

death in october

wading through trash to set up my speakers and interface so i can play tyrannosaurus rex - unicorn on foobar2000 while the nihilist neofolk femboy surveys my room hungry for more things to make fun of (foucault books i havent read, lack of a closet, empty cans, disposable enemas, etc). he asks me "do you not feel embarrassed by your tiny, filthy room? you get laid in here?" i say "yes" to both because it is only a lie in regards to the former, and lies like that are a great way to defend against making people feel bad for having realized that they are making you feel exceptionally bad. he lays on my bed scrolling through the everything app while i sit in my chair alternating between eyes closed tight and throwing them against my marx brothers poster as a plea for help up to the end of cat black (the wizard's hat). the only words i can choke out are "doesn't this sound just like sung tongs?"

i pay eight hundred fifty dollars a month i only have from ebegging on a pale green closet with no closet that i try to avoid being in as much as possible. he showed me a bunch of neofolk and i only liked some it but i think he thought i didnt like it because of the nazi aesthetics (which im not gonna lie and say im a big fan of but i think i understand the subversive intentions of gay british occult guys) but it was mostly because its really boring largely and sounds like if stephen merrit was on nitrous and also plausible deniability maybe maybe not racist. i think im making a bigger deal of this than i need to but i have the kind of executive dysfunction where thinking of opening the mailbox makes me want to throw up. im naked in my bed in the afternoon now listening to tyrannosaurus rex - unicorn and its not helping as much as i want it to even though it is the only record that makes sense a lot of the time.

whatever

3 poems

the roland taverner of rock and roll 

listening to the new why? record with the taste of two 12 oz red bulls and vomit and duty free rez cigarettes in the back of my throat
im scared to see her roommates, spending the week listening through the walls.
all our bedrooms can be so imperial.

they call it friendly fire.

im spending whole interviews talking bout how much i love medication as if that will make it work
a nurse walking by my bed mid seizure at wyckoff heights yelled to another, "it's faking it." how could she have possibly seen my instagram bio?

doubt can be the foundation of your relation to yourself, if you allow it.

its called getting paid to drive vans in service of concepts
its called being half recognized on the train
its called erotic slapboxing for drunks
its called googling how to countersue in the psych ward
its called self imposed lolcowing from ages 14 to 34
its called a million djs playing to a million empty rooms on a million thursday nights
its called real or perceived abandonment
its called being in a line of military sons
its called pretending youre both boys
its called Narragansetts in the cuck chair
its called a place to marry strangers
its called an early bed
its called 
(sorry, sorry, loud)
its called a point where most people would give up, but youre too stupid to, and thats okay. some wouldn't call it stupid.
a former lover, mid ██████, suggested that i go to the doctor.

there isn't always a lesson.

sometimes it just happens to some people for no reason.
illness begets illness, i guess
maybe my gift is holding hyperbole about the bay city rollers in one hand and the smell of someone's breath who does not come around anymore in the other.
even if you slip up,
they call it friendly fire.

song for emerson b.

if we pretend we're drunk, they wont suspect we're faggots; if we say too much, is that really a fault on our part?

going to sleep next to you with the smell of me still on my lips.

i want to listen to animal collective live bootlegs with you off of laptop speakers while we do the crossword

and i want to i want to i want to i want to

you know what it takes to finish me

we all believe in thoughts formed as pure, but...

i want to i want to i want to i want to

read cannery row i want to recline the chair 

i want to 

i want to be able to get out of bed, i want to smell your hair, i want to never close my eyes,

to hold you and shear you and wear you

when i say "god, youre so beautiful," the entire sentence is addressed to you

if we pretend we're drunk, they wont suspect we're trying; if we say too much, that might be a fault on our part.

all i feel is guilt and love

all i do is sing, cry, and fuck

hypotheticals hang in the air, your breath takes me

starlite walker texas ranger 2

up on allegory mountain up on plato road,

i deleted starlite Walker from my downloads folder

im a horse with blinders with binders full of women, pinned down bound i said to her: "what are you gonna do, fuck me to death?"

"youd like that too much," and as if divined: sitcom applause.

i had a bed in today and im not sure if it was for peace

i think it was mostly for killing myself

i took a look at my face and saw forgetting to shave

i took a look at my face and you left the running lights on

i took a look at you left the running lights on and saw more more more "I" statements

i took a look at my downloads folder and didnt see starlite walker 

i took a look at my work and saw john ashbery chemically castrated

I, Old man took a look at my life you're a lot like i was

24 and there's so much more, right? do you promise?

i took a look at you.

you left the running lights on.

the car wont start.

the battery is dead.

standupshots

 

last day

 i did what i do best (making sounds when fingers are run against [read: punched]), you do everything just perfect (as if you've never seen it before),

"different textiles create such different feelings!" ¹

¹ my dying thoughts through heat stroke as we stage act 2 of our admittedly flawed but well intentioned reenactment of middle school homoeroticisms: i wonder to myself how these underwear could possibly be comfortable as i dig my palm into her cock,

across her stomach was like first snow

light catching on untouched expanse of pale

and soft,

i saw your curls stick to a face plunged up and down in sweat, savory taste, a weight against you well trained.

there was no memory here, i was spared the rod if for just a moment:

seeing your eyes lock, defocus, close, my hand on your sacrificed calf.

she (other) asks me if i want to bleed for her. we all take great delight in killing me. killing me. (look at me quivering saying this and say you feel different, and ill show you...)

i knew i loved you before and i know i love you now, precious lamb without blemish, to be shorn with a gentle, firm grasp at the wrist. 

in the last day we create definitions for words no one has ever said and try to be on our best behavior. finding myself at her (other) doorstep barely there,

(but not alone [and never alone

on the last day we created meanings, if not new, then new to us; and if not new to us, then i dont fuckin know man. fuck you.