garbage1008

 

At the bar, the two of us were both mesmerized by the bartenders exposed cellulite ridden thighs.  With her back turned and preparing our drinks – I a double check whiskey on the rocks my friend a cheap light beer crap – we stared and stared at the pale jiggling thighs and the ultra tight denim shorts which accentuated her quaking cheeks.  At some point we talk about this.  And it occurs to me that everything is just animal impulses. We’re all so gauche.  Humanity is so gauche and I love that word.  Sitting there at the sticky bar and looking at all the assholes around us.  I too was/am an asshole.  All of us trying to forget ourselves and swilling poison.  All of us so pathetic.  Desperately looking for meaning when all we do is create and nurture piles of shit.  And our eyes bulge and pulses quicken at the sight of mounds of fat.  All natural so I suppose that’s saying something.  And someone asks how her shorts must be smelling at the end of the night because they are packed so tightly into the crack of her buttocks.  They would be well lined with skin flakes and probably flecks of brown shit or small pieces of toilet paper and that ripped and stuck during the messy process of ass-wiping and dried sweat and encrusted with whatever juices have leaked out through the night’s work.  These things like smell and taste, it’s all animal.  We’re just a bunch of dumb red faced monkeys.  But it all looks the same after a while.  There’s nothing behind it.  All just for emptying balls.  How sad we are.  the smells of our body.  The smell of semen and slits.  Dripping dicks.  Semen on the tongue.  Semen in the eye.  When did this all cease to have any meaning?  Finding someone attractive is so awful.  This is what we were created for?  For nothing.  Somewhere someone has their mouth wide open right now in preparation for eating fresh shit from an anal cavity and their rocks are in the process of getting off.  I go to the bathroom and take a piss and try as I might to shake off my dick I still splash some piss onto my rent trousers.  Cribbing a little now: I imagine my suicide by hanging and am amused to think about my manhood poking out of my rent trousers in a death erection while the seat of my pants is also full of my body’s last great evacuation of steaming corn infused shit.  Talked about making money at some point and wanted to cry.  Discussions about money promote more rot on the inside.  This is all a mistake.  Everything has been a horrible mistake and our creator must be so disgusted with us. 

Listening to here comes the rain again and I realize the alcohol makes me feel more suicidal and think about revolvers but it also numbs things so I don’t know which is worse and i like the numbing and I like how awful it feels.  It hurts a lot of times to talk to people thought I suppose I should consider that it must also hurt them to talk to me.  I scrambled a couple eggs recently.  I should make a big papier-mache nest and live inside it.  I wish someone would buy me a fluorescent green or pink striped and collared shirt so I could wear it under a cheap black suit.  Or do i?  the more I learn the less I want to know.  I need to break open that dekooning book asap.  Lovely stuff.  Here all alone is so nice.  I might go to the bar later on even though that would be a terrible idea.  Why does the production on these black Sabbath albums sound like dog shit?  Is it my fucking speakers or my ears?  Started watching a movie about space truckers last night but the offbrand zzzquil and bottom of the shelf red wine had taken it’s toll.  Everything feels so gross in the morning.  Gotta read about some frogs today.  Need to read more about technology.  Order some more books.  Not time for anything.  Bullet making my brain explode makes the most sense.  That is the center of everything.  Just utterly obliterate all this uselessness. 

I did not realize John Carpenter was doing the soundtrack to the soon to be released feature film adaptation of Stephen King’s novel Firestarter.  I didn’t realize it cause I’m a dumbass.  I love Carpenter’s soundtracks and his lost themes albums.  I recently listening to one of them while driving around and digesting oranges.  This makes me keen to see the movie on the big screen that I may experience his newest film score work at high volumes.  The movie looks pretty good too (I liked the director’s first film) but I’ve always considered the book to be near the bottom of all the King stuff I’ve read.  I constantly crank the ghosts of mars soundtrack.  I need some coffee or something right now.  Or to line my teeth with tinfoil. 

Flight attendants have me.  There are two cellular telephones near me.  The wonders of technology.  In a bar recently.  Need to stop going to bars.  No good comes from bars.   And now the curating.  Not quite the right word.  Styling.  Started styling for you.  Of course, I think as my head goes light: how utterly proper.  Hooks.  Long hard day of reporting the news.  Rich explosion.  Crossing guard, great performances.  Really like the carpenter fog.  Deep dive into carpentry.  Need to complete lost themes.  Need to reread bacchus.  Campbell.  Need to order some books.  And maybe more used hosiery.  Did I mention exotica earlier?  I’m thinking of two different things. one with reptiles.  Very hearty.  I wouldn’t think they’re not hearty.  And the other, recent in wax.  Never sampled.  Need to sample.  Need to read pulp.  I don’t like making idle chit chat at the bank.  Giantess.  Giantess at the bank should crush me like a massive futuristic forklift machine.