“So toss your three sheets to the wind; for tonight we drink old moonlight from new bottles. Cunt flap platitudes momentarily soothe his babbling idiot skin and quench his dreamthirst. His sore throat is the recipient of every livid flared cock in the known universe. His very syllables weep black pus like viscous fluid from the eye of a needle. Really fucking disgusts you to see it. Really depresses you to see some swamp-eyed shitslipper sink into the sand with the wherewithal of a headless junglefowl. “But my god, what a revelation!” he breathlessly marvels with his left hand knuckle-deep in the shower drain. “This time… this time for sure” he again insists. With a genial slap on the ass and a stroke of the mirror he’ll set off in high spirits, ignore cracks in the sidewalk and steadily ailing paper cuts, weave through the marketplace and into the sewers on a half-full promise and an admission to tomorrow. His spirit is nothing but music spilling into a narrow street hanging harsh and heavy against a rust-colored sky; sickly yellow gas flares shit fire and sulphur into fake clouds.

Very little use in dragging yourself across the same old litanies of broken glass. Why archive the murals of a wasteland? Why be something that you’re not? Why do you shit where you eat? Why do you talk to your mother that way? Why do you even bother? It all slips through my hands so much I can hardly even feel my fingertips. It all slams back into me like being fingerbanged in the dark. Not even given an opportunity to grab a flashlight. But we’ll stick around. We’ll hang for that.

Self-deception is a ruinous fucking thing to do to yourself — half-truths from a stolen youth. Self-discovery is much more akin to learning to ride a bike while being pelted with jagged rocks. You’ll learn how to jack off into the artless statue. We’ll teach you the fuckgravy felony. You’ll become the jizzblanket bandit. Lest we forget when your hair follicles stood on end and your lips forged into the enigmatic limestone smile of Augustus, and your cock flew off your body like a rocket spewing blood everywhere while you shrieked at the top of your lungs. With your musk and glory you carry your legacy into whatever you may mold. Your organs promptly collapse into frenzied hysterics and you shit twinkling blue zircons into the amber embrace of daybreak. The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long — quite like the words of this turgid song. Like an incontinent fellow through a box of tissue paper, so too shall you cowardly retreat to your hall of mirrors. The rest of us aren’t rolling in the dirt — you should try it sometime. Do yourself a fucking favor, boss man.

With the maroon comforter crumpled over my sunken face, my memories creep up. My thoughts are dangerous: even when colorless thoughts pass through, they dig canals in the epicenter of my brain, whereupon it shrinks back like a wounded animal. Each of those canals correspond to every second, and every second is a new and exciting exercise in truth distortion. A truth that can scarcely be heard. A truth that turns away from me however my desperate embrace. My body is pissing out my brain. I can’t tell between myself or my bedroom. Piece by piece, I float away in a pool of sandflies, rising and falling behind the sky and dissipating into the atmosphere. These are the boxes I push myself in. This is who I am.”