sno

 

Purple crocodiles have me.  The hips of Chiquibaby are one of the few things keeping me alive these days.  Still tempted by the 36.  But I know deep down, deep in my asshole, that I would just decide to cash in my chips one night and blow my worthless brains out.  So why resist?  I need to eat some red meat today.  Now I see the fallacy, the great mistake.   Only for you I don’t regret.  My brain normalized it.  I had the chance for something good and true and raw but I waited and it was all normalized. 

Purple crocodiles and monochromatic film.  Castles.  Understanding now why it all felt so stagey.  But these things bled into one another.  I scream someone’s name and then declare that we have got to get the fuck out of here! 

So lovely but I know that none of it is real.  This is a place of fantasy where I go to numb true emotion.  The glasses are a nice touch.  As is the look of disappointment.  But it can’t be real.  Heart beneath the exclamation mark.  I walk in, hair looks good.  I’m sweaty.  Purple shirt I have. More purple.  Already mentioned glasses are a nice touch.  I have a thick paperback in my hand.  The old paper is pleasing to the olfactory sense.  Immersed.  I was reading a Stephen King novel.  One that I’ve never read before from a very interesting period of his career during the 1990’s.  I believe it may be his lowest selling novel.  I’ve heard very mixed things about it.  I’m halfway through it but I’m loving it so far.  The supernatural element of it actually reminds me a bit of a few of Clive Barker’s big novels.  I also thought of Lisey’s Story, one of my favorite King novels and one of my favorite King adaptations.  I also thought of something else but I’m too dumb to remember what.   

Double whiskey.  With ice.  I think I said with ice.  Sometime I’m too self conscious to say on the rocks.  Just one?  Forgot the previous line.  Closing it out.  Closing it out.  Not much will.  Deluding myself.  Could have just passed on by like nothing.  But I’m not truly resolute.  Just one?  So sweet.  So lovely.  So convincing.  Cold glass.  Fingertips.  Condensation.  Dirty pages.  Throaty laugh.  Real.  Beautiful.  Everything immaculate.  So sweet.  But I’m not real.  Don’t look.  So close now but just don’t look.  Look away.  Slept with sable. 

Later on in my car I was consumed by self loathing.  At one point I was listening to the song kiss me.  Everything was fantasy.  Wasn’t numb enough.  That was the problem.  That’s the problem with the false will.  You end up with nothing.  Need to stop going.  Need to stop torturing them.  Offer the blissful relief.  Never show up again.  That is the only right and proper thing to do. 

A refuge from the real world.  But they both hurt.  Genuine article and the fake version.  Both are painful, miserable, without any hope or reward.  Of course there is no reward.  I don’t deserve any reward.  That’s not a problem at all.  The numbing agent is the only good thing.  But I don’t have to make someone miserable in order to utilize the services of that agent.  Mask of sweetness.  But not deception.  items of real value exchanged for currency plain.  There is something to be said for classic professionalism.  I think.  But stop with the joking.  You are a fool.  You are a classic fool.  Need to die.  Corner idiot.  By you I mean me, I, myself.  Stop being a source of misery. 

Of course then, the ball.  Flesh merging.  Not the right word.  Changes.  Flesh changing.  New face.  Doll, someone said.  Doll’s face.  Everything perfect.  Eye contact hard.  Remembering bare.  Knowing glance when bare.  Lovely.  Smile.  Lovely smile.  Ball.  It would be so sweet.  Of course it would be because it’s all imagined.  All fake.  None of it real.  I need mazzy.  Fade.  Melt.  Give in. of course not possible.  Nothing could ever be real.  Driving back, wistful.  Good that I left.  If only I’d never gone.  Wish I could just expel my memory from everyone’s minds.  Just eliminate my existence in all directions.  That is the glorious ideal. 

Kept coming back.  Kept checking.  Even after.  So courteous.  Professionality.  Makes everything worse.  Good to disappear.  Asked twice.  Asked twice because I am rot inside.  Recent, hand on back.  I don’t want anyone to see me.  Even that is a lie.  I can’t fucking stop lying.  Collapse into.  That would never work.  There is nothing underneath.  The disgust.  The revulsion.  They must see.  Entering. 

Then silly.  Later on.  Stage play makes a lot of sense.  First chunk rather glorious.  Fluttering through the window.  Drift off to sleep with the assistance of some bounty hunters.  Have to stay on point.  Felt so said.  Tangibly sad.  Insides rotting away because I’m awful.  I’m awful.  Blood is the life.  Drinking from me.  Wanting to die.  Service with a smile.  Such a lovely smile. 

Have precious little data.  Again, I must emphasize the consummate professionalism.  Falling asleep, finally had some peace.  Dulcet.  Police officer.  Remember this.  Hahaha and at daybreak, the cycle repeats.  I know it’s bad for me.  It’s bad for everyone.  It’s bad for everyone who comes into contact with me. 

I was reading Frank Miller’s Ronin yesterday.  Lynn Varley is so great. 

Tee hee.  At some point there was an avocado.  Avocados have me.  there was also coconut or pina coladas.  Divine.  And deep lovely laughter.  But I still vacated.  And then I didn’t matter.  see the most recent one.  this came before that.  Fuck I am so fucking awful.  If only I could just be completely erased.  I know what I need to eliminate.  I’m such a piece of shit though.  I need to watch more black and white movies.  I’m listening to Save the Best For Last by Vanessa Williams right now.  I fucking love that song.