Man, Meat, and Tissue
His self induced living hell
It's a script he wrote
for a lifetime tv-movie
It sells more issues
Than just man, meat, and tissue
No one taught him about the journey, so
In a hurry he staked his flag
at the mountain's base
He wildly screams at those still climbing
Behind his mirror his reflection is blinding
The world is not molded to his liking
All we can do is look down hiking
His sermon fades with altitude
Listening was like drinking crude
At best it gave thought for food
I guess there's times that I miss the dude
But I had to be
Man, meat, and tissue
Friday, March 16, 2012
(preceding was omitted for reasons that will not be disclosed)...that beams off the page, and is as suiting of a label as K.Y. Two letters now synonymous with ease, lubrication, and an assortment of sex. Two letters. Do you see what they did? They took water, two letters, a couple chemicals and created a literary masterpiece.
"Fear and Loathing on the Bus"
This sick fuck reality show. All of these morons are fighting and fucking and breeding and spreading disease. It makes me want to puke.
After work I walked to the bus stop as it waited to leave promptly at 10:52am. The bus ride there was at 8:50pm. My feet shrieked as the corns on the left side and calluses on the right hardened. Back stabbing cannibals. The sour aftertaste of this planet is unrelenting, makes me squirm, and drives me to pour bleach over myself. In the beginning I was able to manage this job. Now I need a constant stream of nicotine just to maintain and suppress. Whether I suppress rage or laughter I do not know, but both carry the same consequences. They both arouse the same contempt in the weak fools. I'd get my way more if I massaged their egos as much as they beg and plead for validation and recognition of non-existent achievements.
The bus wreaks as always. Pathetic as ever. Faces recognized and unknown alike. On the bench to the left is a fat sow who last week was vomiting profusely all over the bus stop. Good thing her fat ass hogs the entire stop's bench and did not provide a place to sit. Her filth would have certainly splashed me as she heaved the disease of her day-to-day wasted liquor and doughnuts. The stain of her purged DNA still remains baked at 115 degrees into the cement. A sidewalk mural of celebration noting her great achievements. Her parents would be proud. I was certainly impressed by her matter-of-fact attitude towards the event, and the will power that she showed. A certain twinkle of depression due to lost doughnuts that sure enough took amazing strength, despite passionate temptation, to not slop back up the entire mess. Instead, the sacrifice was left for the great spirits to devour and as a tapestry for the morning rush of bus riding school children to ponder. I'm never surprised when I have a hard time sleeping.
The bus trods along. Bumping and swaying us all to sleep. A sleep analogous to the complacency of poverty. The bottom 25%, not to be confused with the 99% - because the 74% who find it charming to group themselves with the bottom...I've digressed. As I was saying, the bottom 25% are perfectly discontent and accepting of the madness and decay. The bus driver always tends to be the happiest participant. Whether talking to the occupants reading or trying to sleep or simply mumbling his bliss and greatness to himself. "You're looking at the best driver in the world," he proclaims in an almost incoherent slurring of Saturn like dialect. I look in his direction, smile, and give him a patronizing nod. The class of bus drivers make use of the most random subject matter to carry on their daily conversations. "You don't see too many cement trucks these days. I wonder why that is." I choose not to engage in the speculation in person, but it could be the rise in more fuel efficient, cost effective, and convenient cement trailers. (Or maybe there's just no more fucking sidewalks to pave. Or maybe he shouldn't be looking for cement trucks in the first place because he's driving 20 people around the valley. Or maybe he should shut the fuck up and let me sleep.)
I wake myself up snoring just in time to ring the bell as the stead slowly approaches my stop. I am dripping in sweat and drool. I feel foul and my face burns.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
There's times that I find random writings from random times in random spaces and hidden places. I recently found a seven part piece of writing that, while severe edits are necessary, I decided to serialize randomly. I will will edit slightly when it lacks universal coherency, but will attempt to keep the piece as true to the original as possible. I did not read all seven parts, so I'm not exactly sure if a story is being told or this is simply a serialized rant.
People say that I am extremely intelligent. Many use the expression, "Too smart for your own good," and the sentiment is at the top of my list of phrases I loath. There have even been a couple of fully insane people who have stated that I am more intelligent than most people they have ever met. Thank you. Nonsense. I think I've just read literature written by people much more intelligent than I can ever hope to be. Now, I will not let that become an absolute truth because then I would be self-limiting my own intellectual growth, but as it stands now I'm simply well read. I also have impeccable taste when it comes to reading selection, and like any classic ditz I let every word wash over me; reciting the parts worth using throughout my life...Out loud these fucking morons know that it is better than gold. They can taste it at the end of the yellow brick road. This is an interlude to what will be and what has been. Henry Miller's tongue is live explosives. I do not share his penchant for whores, trollops, and cunts, but his language cannot be translated for some. This place reeks of evangelist ball sweat. I live to let it out. In public, under the watchful eye I must watch my mouth. While these seething perverts recite scripture and their burning desire to cum on a greeting card girl's face, I must watch my mouth. Orwell's pig loves Ronald Regan and drives a Mustang. I must watch my mouth as they climb the ladder. I worked hard and they gave my a $2,000 life insurance policy, $350 a weeks, and 3 days paid vacation. Please hold the applause.
A 200,000 year life span that took less than a percent of the time to show our Roman habits. We wiped and flushed our whole shit pile like a crack head trying to ditch evidence as the D.E.A. kicks in the door.
It feels too late.