The me, the E.

My dog ran away. My mother is going into surgery. Things are not going well.

I’m blighted and limp wristed, passive, wholly unenthused and misguided. A fascist masochist; a subtle carnal in-reference with a shelter of empty ideals, soundbite mentality sucked up like manna, religiously disregarding order with a general smug distain for those who adopt my broken, insubstantial beliefs. An enemy of the misery in which I frolic, a stance taken against culture to enhance to belief in farcical rumormilling. Innocence shrugged off like a treacherous burden. The fact that I've mislead each special perversion into a nondescript sexual hyperdrive only stands as a monument to the art of being cruel and classless. Every waking day, the heat singes away my delicate natures, the deep, permeating pains of my joints creak and pop, boasting their brittle enterprise. I’m like a craggy, gentile golem held in place, but without the baptism.

Doomed. Head in my hands. The noose coils wildly through my every day thoughts, at both the beginning and the end of time. The writ of death poses a question to life. My skin sheds my body for the bereavement of sentience. Yes. Yes at madness, at a craze; indecent and ferocious. Heart and hands heavy, mouth and teeth stained from sifting through our ashes. Flesh to bones to dust to earth. For every snare and trap encountered, another digit lopped off. Groping blindly for vital resources, my fingerless hand subsists on bare nutrients and empty suggestions. Rolling meadows of numb flesh, disenfranchised bones floating in useless cartilage. Phantom fingers wiggle in place of useless knuckles. Seeing nothing else to engage my mind, no thoughts, no fresh loam. I stuff my hand into my mouth, the mouth collective, nothing more than a massive trash compactor.

An impregnable fuck up. No, not none, no nor neither needed.

A stupid fume.

Investing a presidential tenure in our circumstantial investment was a failure on all accounts. Throw a kick to the cunt and salvage the rest? Maybe I could write it all off like a retarded adoptee. I wish I could pick the bones from those hands so that I know they owe no more misdoings. Maybe it's a statement of misanthrope that I let you remain loose and ignorant to your ways. The throne has a cock protruding from its seat, and I honestly don't believe you have yet noticed.

Useless advice comes from useless people. Another strange bout with timesickness, another volatile excuse for spitting acid like cum across the stage, another absent pitch at clarity. Gameless. Pointless. You've outgrown your shareholders, and you are forever more disinterested and insipid. A narrowminded informationless beam of toxic irresponsibility to your peers. A herald of bad news, a source of aimless drunkenness and fallibility.

But you are still a paragonal phenomenon. You drink, but you are not a drinker. You love, but you are not a lover. You lie, but you are not a liar. You cheat, but you are not a cheater. A fashionable gorgon with a progressive dearth of value, discarding history in place of a new meat to hook.

Sniff the meat before you eat, honey.

and put a clamp on your tampon.

Git.

W.