LIFE IN THE TRENCHES: Romance, Rebellion and Running Amok

forensic semantics - numbers - authenticity - tevo - thumbprints - and pragmatic resonance.

god damnit. i'm tired. julian, i don't have the energy to say anything. so, there's that.

i guess if i were to say anything it would be that i've been smoking in bed too much. i've been working from bed. i get up. piss. naked. maybe, brush my teeth - depending on how hot it is - maybe, eat a half a turkey sandwich with chipotle hummus from costco - perhaps try and tweet something significant - search my soul for that impulse and wonder why i care. losing it. gone. kaput.

i don't go crazy over ladies anymore but i do want to be good to someone and have that someone be good to me too.

i have this fantasy - lately - of finding someone to come over and sit on my chest and rub her hot spot close to my face.

i've been looking at people and asking myself, what the fuck does this one eat for breakfast and why.

i get angry quick and feel like a prick shortly thereafter. then laugh about it from the other side.

my parents gave me a better television. it has a dvd player (built in). in it, a pilates dvd. my mothercalled twice for it and suggested i get a punching bag or do some home yoga.

i downloaded my bank statements 30 days - and started to highlight my consumptive purchases with a pink highlighter but stopped to go and buy beer. i'll post statistics tomorrow. none of this money is really mine.

i feel watched.

i don't want to smear or ruin reputation but i've got to say it. i've got to talk about everything. the way i talk about it. and i'm sad, man. fucking something is fighting very hard to do some fucking thing - like float.

this is not the reward. none of this is the reward. there is no reward for your achievements. not even floating. i'm not saying this with a black cape or scowl. i'm just saying it. there's a picture somewhere on some other post here that documents this arrival. i thought certain things (like altering anatomy) or writing very openly about everything would pay off like some sort of mechanism. your know, the arrival. the divining rod. authenticity of - head - heart - action. not so much.

this is the curse of mechanism. detoured quality.

what follows is anger, disillusionment, shit fits, then gladness.

i don't know if i care about "blogging" or breaking the paradigm of press/poetry/the trenches/publication. i want to say this - that since learning the things i've been teaching myself - the kind of work that's coming together (not writing) has me feeling like a felon. i've dropped my fingerprint everywhere (the writing) and its out there. with interest. wouldn't be so bold to say that the world is searching. but when looking for a job - there are certain fields and quality of jobs that will do the semantic forensics to see what this guy, that gal, any of us so bold to slap some sort of opinion or piece of self on the internet.

i mean - its all up here. ever since myspace (or when i joined it). i'm not dropping key words into here for the search. i'm being totally honest. as i learn more and want more and love more - the definition has broadened - these days i think only of the pink highlighter and family. its all up here. the better part of at least five years and this life in the trenches i'm so awesome fucking blog - whatever. it's all up here - the quirks, twitches, tourrets, spelling errors, quests and inquisitions.

then the mechanism.

the break, the sight, the bite, and blessing.

i'm jumping all over the place. i apologize for nothing. as far as jumping around goes.

i'm interested in getting interested in transcendental meditation. i am interested in investigating the cost of a punching bag.

i am very excited about the fingerprint. these mitts of mine like otis redding's arms are hungry.

in him like me still lives mr. knowing and mrs. longing.

they make quite a slice of pie like mr. riley.

i ramble. i apologize for nothing. i hate how i watch and carry around your faces. like the other day when i was working as a p.a. for a commercial and became very agitated and crazy because i couldn't seem to get people to stop walking on the grass (it was a growth formula home improvement commercial) and i felt small in my sight for absurdity.

logic yes. logic not.

please - stay off the grass. no searching.

that being said - i feel like the true movement is for those felons of emotion and verse - pretty much anything - even if you jack off to dragon fruit and spend a lot of time snapping pics on your phone of choice which, unless you say "no" (like it matters - a no - the they have laid it out there -

they: get excited. we're geo-tagging. for those that don't know - that's basically dropping your lifestyle - both in what you snap as well as where you snap it - with both coordinates and images.

anybody with half a god damn brain can locate you.

like a dog sniffing shit to see what's for dinner and where you've been. like a waft of something else. i don't want to talk about flowers or even give this phrase but all over the place i smell jasmine.

also, i'm sorry - i heard about six pops rock somewhere within an ear shot - i smell jasmine. julian. you are dead.

i'd rather keep the place where i drink coffee the place i go to escape the hazards of working at home - instead of fall in love with love - for love - instead of giving it a go - for them behind counters - i'd rather drink coffee.

all in all though - they used to get pretty pissed at the marquis for sticking his cock in the proverbial humping pumpkin. now, i think its the time of the felons. and its time to live bravely. i think i need to demonstrate some faith in what i believe. adjust. sit in front of the fire with some hot something and drawing smiley faces on trench warfare's death strike forced perspective - aka; 3 dimensional images - aka; making assholes out of brave folks who fight like assholes in defiance to the machine gun.

no one is broken. there is nothing to fear. everybody already knows it. they keep your statements. they track your tastes. i eat a lot of soup. some of the food from costco is quite delicious. in fact i'm hungry now. and i've got some highlighting.

the ideas are coming. the world is getting bigger. there is no reward. it has happened before. its happening now. and its going to keep happening (i'm referring to writing, pumpkins, fingerprints, semantic forensics etc etc) so embrace the degenerate - us artifacts - us litmus - us who live as best we can.

punk thunk romantics - fear nothing. want everything. nothings coming. sitting here. and me, sleeping with ashes in me bed.

live openly.

and feel like you know something more when you notice things like those glass roses one may notice while spending other peoples' money and take care of each of something. we'll sort it out.

in summation, i'll take a look at this later when my eyes aren't so heavy and edit it.

watch out, friend. a comet.

I AM NOT THE DRUNK GUY. I AM FERMENTEDLY CHALLENGED.

ok. so my opinion on this matter may be a little slanted in the favor of the fermentedly challenged (please don’t use the word “drunk” or “alcoholic” – come on people. it’s 2009 – we the fermentedly challenged have thoughts, feeling, emotions, hopes and dreams too.) (plus we have super powers and you need us.) (you know Shakespeare? the fool? right? god bless the drunks and fools? i mean – who else could be light and refreshing while the end of the known tempestuous island universe come to a big thud fucking plop of a steamer of an end?).

just saying. there’s a reason why we wear the hats and know things that the big fancy kings and queens and wizards and wretched souls like poor prospero gets their ass handed to them because that’s what the big fancy kings and queens and wizards and wretched souls like poor prospero get when their big all happy asses forget to give us the nod and wink because they are not sensitive enough to respect us – the fermentedly challenged.

i know its 2009 and the whole p.c. craze has puttered out but in the immortal word of one of the goonies (one of the corey(s) – haim? i think its haim. one of them was a Feldman. i think the feld ran around in his pajamas. i’m not sure though.) the point is that there was a scene when the goonies are at the bottom of the well and mr. big letterman jacket fancy king pants is calling to his lady friend to pull her out of the well up to the great big sky world from the depths of the underground world she decides to say “no”. just say no. she sends that motherfuckers jacket right back up to his fancy king ass world and the wish twists – it freaking inverts and the kids down there say, “no. it’s our time. down here. not up there. down here”. and to me that pretty much says it all because they (DO YOU GET IT) they were in the well. they were in the well where all the pretty princesses and prince charmings and king people with a healthy diet and what not throw their chump change in there with a little “ooooooooooooohhhh. i want a jet plane and true love wishes down in there but we have it covered. were down there. and its our time. and you can have your god damn leather jacket. i’m drinking.

that being said. i would like to make friends with the kings and queens and what not from the sky world because down in the underground world where the wishes live money gets tight and us goonies get thirsty.

in the spirit of using terms like the fermentedly challenged and what not i would like to offer an olive branch to the world and say, “hey. i get it. i’m wearing a funny hat. nobody likes a j-hole gawking at your girl scribbling notes on something like a j-hole out there in public” – but i really have one wish to throw back up to you. i would like to be sponsored.

by jameson. or bushmills. i don’t give a shit which one. just has to be irish whiskey.

look at all the good press i’m giving us. down here. look at how interesting and creative my thoughts are. they are AMAZING. look at how i’ve offered the olive branch – ever mindful and soulful – just wanting a piece of the god damn pie.

i mean, sure. there are some of us who are not so well behaved but – i’m not a leader – i’m not a role model – i’m just a human being – and i play the game hard and i deserve to get

p
a
i
d.

sure. i do. and as long as while i’m airing it out. what the fuck – why the fuck is there no public recognition for the responsible drunk. the drunk who knows that , shit man – it’s been a long night. i’m gonna call a taxi or hitch a ride and catch the bus in the god damn morning to retrieve my car (often) f.challenged? seriously. drunks like us are good press. mature. wise. a friend of the working man. an unassuming champion of oil consumption. why doesn’t anybody sponsor us like the m.t.a. or yellowcab or something.
you know what i mean. put me ME me ME my face on the top of that god damn cab with a big thumbs up for doing the responsible thing? good press, man. make it sexy. make being responsible sexy but don’t try and sweep the drunk under the rug. we’re way below the rug, goddamnit. we’re down underground. right here. laughing at your pennies. already wishes.

but – sometimes we get thirsty. and as many god damn pennies are thrown down here – there aren’t enough of those god damn little Lincolns coming for us and that sucks balls – it takes a lot of pennies to buy a nice bottle of jameson. (hold please.) (about 1800 to 2200 pennies.) that blows. seriously.

if anybody has any connections and wants to spread love and understanding for us “like the god damn Olympics” i could sure use someone to take the stand for us and fight for our rights. like tiger woods. and american express. seriously. that fucker can hit a little white ball just about as far as any of our foresight but, i am pretty god damn good too and i’m fucking fantastic at roe sham bow.

suck it.

i also am very conscious about where i put out my cigarettes. so that’s good press too.

just saying.

i have included my contact information:

Stanley Tea Time Get Handled,
President of Slip and Slide University
and the ring that comes in that box with
that sweet popcorn and peanuts that is supposed
to decode everything.

TWITTER, PANIC ATTACKS, WRITERS BLOCK AND THE EXISTENTIAL EQUIVALENT OF LOOKING FOR ANSWERS ON WEB M.D.

i'm going to fire this one off really quickly. (then come back and do some light editing when i come to my senses - time of sensibility is 1:35pm)

i'm having a son of a bitch of a time writing these days. like right now. just this second. i was like, "hey - i'm going to sit down and write what i'm feeling which is this right here and not get all fancy or try and fit square potatoes through pineapple wholes (i meant to write holes. the "w" was irresponsible) and talk about how i feel like doing push ups right now - i have been for a while - thinking about push ups - but i've also been thinking about twitter and other people and stuff about grammar and other bullshit - i was hoping to make lots and lots of friends to validate some ideas about the possibilities of letting it spew all heart and nice like to bring all the creatures together and create a legion of bad motherfuckers who do things they want to do it with a whole lot of sass and style - like charlie's angels but better. kind of like the free press - which it is - but more so in the way that isn't so god damn fucking stupid. inclusive. and yet i snipe. i wish i had more toys as a kid - and i'm mad i even lost the last few sentences to that one - grammar and the love of twitter without knowing twitter or getting twitter but being too lazy to look for its sexy little hot and hopping prohibition era clit - because the eyes are all of a sudden (sorry - all of a sudden the eyes) are watching (because i post a god damn link to every tweet and typepad and facebook and all that other shit because i'm looking for something to come back at me) and i'm looking into taking up some meditation because over the last few weeks or month or more i've had those moments where i think i'm about to die - aka; a panic attack (so says that bald buy who isn't a doctor but says awesome shit about looking up a pig's ass for a pork sandwich) and it isn''t so great to not be able to breathe and feel your heart ripping out from the BLACK DEPTHS OF MY SOUL (its authorized) - right next the the shack of tender ponies and candyland champions - i know its a panic attack - but i've begun to wonder if it is something else and i'm considering doing some surfin' on the ole web m.d. which to me - is pretty much the most stupid god damned thing just about anybody with a question about panic attacks could do. seriously. its true. in fact, it's true with just about any malady - real or imagined. diagnosed or challenged. when you start looking on web m.d. you're pretty much fucked. and i won't do it.

all i know is that this little exorcise is going better than i expected. shit. just paused again thinking about or feeling bad about wanting to post this to my blog - then twitter for the glory of sex and territory (i'm not sure if i used that zinger already) but why does everybody hate the word blog and the class of fuckers who have been donned bloggers? what gives?

i have my ideas. oooooh weeee. i sure do. but i think people are pretty stupid sometimes. them and their hamburgers and pineapple holes and snazzy furniture. (proper use of the h instead of the erroneous w in relation to my ambition of getting things bang dead).

ok. pardon me. got lost. hold on a second. wait. ok. things have gotten good again. i am in the midst of a writers block. i don't want to talk about the writers block because when i start thinking about the writers (it needs an apostrophe) block i start doing shit like - well its the lingual equivalent of looking for a definitive answer to my malady on web m.d.

get lost. come on. i feel like an epic oh my god black woman with wonderful hair in front of one of those silver cadillac art deco microphones on a stand singing, "get lost- come on. yes. "get lost - come on". she's a hot one like macey or macy gray or grey. don't you even pretend you don't know what i'm talking about. i'll break a chunk of shut the fuck up off in you fool.

wow. that last one may have been one of the best random slurs i've come up with in a while. which bothers me. not that it has been a while for a slur like that. it bothers me because its taken a lot of those god damn slurs to get to trying to put down and express this thing i'm writing right here. (i just started to hit the backspace button to revise - forgive me). (at 1:45 p.m. i come back to this request for forgiveness and realize that this little stretch of letters is fucked) (i'm asking myself to forgive me). (and the seven people who may read this blog to forgive me) (or the seven people who may read this blog to just witness my forgiveness and forget that any of this ever happened - like that summer in desmondu kata hutu when i forgot to rinse the cup after brushing.)

doing it again.

the truth is i'm all backed up. i don't know how to do it anymore. i'm fucking frustrated as all hell and something is not right and i'm fighting hard not to get all little women about it (the movie version starring a very intense winona rider) (she's like a little shinobi angel with a sparkle in her eye) (in that one the heights went wwwwwuuu uu uuu tttt tttthhh thhh thhhhhh eeeerrrrrrr.) (shorthand = wuther - but the inflection and pronunciation is the piece de la resistance.)

i'm fighting hard not to get all little women on it and think about it too much (the writers block) and do the existential equivalent to searching for answers on web m.d. for the panic attacks i'm having and writing about now - which is weird don't you think - because this is where the web m.d. lurks to give the consumer aka: john Q public a nice dose of the terror - or a chance for someone who loves someone to do something active to help their loved one because; at times - i know - it gets really pretty horrible when nobody has answers (speaking of the doctors) and you feel completely and totally helpless.

i guess web m.d. isn't all that bad if you realize its web m.d. and that is what you are doing i guess giving the terror a chance has its benefits. i guess that i've spent another five hundred words (or more) talking about but not really getting to anything.

i just needed to do something. i needed to try. which i think is something that i've held onto back their in my ever loving fucking head was good enough to win the god damn pie eating contest and get the blue ribbon and the picture in the paper and the thumbs up next candy moore - the great american pimple that was never popped.

ok. hugs. love you. bye bye. adios.

love,

felix taco.
breakdancer.
suckerfish.
bombadier.

THE LESSONS/EPIPHANIES as Experienced by said poet, Bryan Price.

I learned a few things in the last few days.  I would like to share them with you.  Some of them are just observations.  Some of them are questions, half formed.  Some are something else . . . I’m not sure what but that’s the way it goes with this guy (sitting on the other side of your screen) as I piece things together for the get up and go. 

The young man walks up onto stage and opens his composition book.  Clears his throat, doesn't look up and begins. 

THE LESSONS/EPIPHANIES as Experienced by said poet, Bryan Price.   

a)    When a lady refers to your penis as a pollywog, do not refer to her cooter as a tugboat.  The joke will fall flat.  (I must confess this is an old observation but I have been thinking a lot about that one as of late and thought it worthy of inclusion.)

b)    For those about to undergo surgery, one must prepare themselves for the fallout from anesthesia and the hearty art of pain management called opiates.  They will make you a dumb motherfucker – so be easy on yourself.  You have an excellent reason at your disposal that doesn’t happen all the time.  It absolves you of feigning interest or listening.  In fact, befuddled is the way of the gun, so get smart and milk it for all its worth because eventually absolution will fade and your stupidity and denseness will be stuck out there in the sunshine for the whole world to see and snicker at.  I’m not saying that I have been doing this.  I am genuinely pretty freaking stupid these days and fatigued – blah dotted - but I think the fact that this is even being included as point be might be something worthy of note and is why I include it.  I’m at a crossroads, as they say.  I’m in and out, quite honestly (quite honestly?) buy I won’t do this.  Neither will you.  Because it’s the fine, upstanding morally responsible thing to do.

c)    Sense of humor is a strong tool to get you through a flurry of rampant paranoia and there is nothing wrong with shutting your door so you can walk around your apartment naked to diffuse it.  KINGS AND QUEENS you are KINGS AND QUEENS we be.  Fuck it.  When in this state and needing affirmation, refer to the preceding section. 

d)    In regards to laughter there are times that it will seem violent.  I am here to remind you that it isn’t always directed at you.  Do not let the paranoia tea bag your sanity.  Negative or positive energy – I say fuck it.  Take charge.  Take a look out of the bathroom window.  Friend, I know that this it is scary to face reality head on like this but you may be pleasantly surprised to see that its just the people living in the building across from you and laugh your ass off in the dark.  It is both light and refreshing.  But, I’ll be honest with you – do not try to overcompensate to reinforce this reality.  Because nobody likes an uptight dickwad scaring the animals.  Mellow.  Breath.  Relax.  Friend, I also want you to know that you’ll have to keep checking from time to time to be sure of what you know but that makes things exciting; like a choose your adventure story.  Those guys were great.  Thank the French for this. 

e)    Not everything can be explained.  Not everyone is interested in an explanation.  Not everyone deserves one. 

f)    Fiction is non-fiction damned.  There’s no winning.  Fuck it.  Let it rip.  France is counting on you.         

g)    The key to feeling welcome is being open to it.  Thank music and paranoia for this slow forming revelation.  Included in this note, I would also like to diffuse the declarative by saying, “Stupid is as stupid does.”  Either that or refer to the section about Anesthesia.   

h)    I keep thinking about the liquor store on the corner:  A week ago, one of the clerks got smoked (supposedly it was with an ak-47).  When I went in there to buy some beer the other day there I couldn’t see the death anywhere.  Not even on the clerk’s face.  I don’t know what I expected but the room was bright and bleached clean.  It was terrifying.  I paid.  The clerk smiled, waved and said thank you very cordial like.  Me, the ripple that left the scene as it was as I walked out the door.

i)    Don’t smoke.  Sleep more.  Try less.  Put the needle on the record.  You know what is sacred.  

Welcome Home. 

MY NAME IS BRYAN PRICE, AKA:BP - I AM A POET AND I GET TURNED ON BY WEIRD STUFF

so, this may or may not be weird.  but who cares if it is or isn’t anymore.  i believe in pragmatic resonance and if you talk a lot of bullshit you’ll attract not so mystic demons and if you don’t you me us all that other stuff may have a chance  - like with sexy ideas and progressive thought bombs or what or what not fired from the minds and mouths of idiots (myself included) that may or may not jar something in someone out there with a string of thoughts and a hankering to make some sort of thing happen . … fuck it.  please excuse me.  i am not myself, now.  like the kind of self that kind of sort of feels like taking one of those death clubs the irish bad asses used to carry around back in the days of old new york and bonk the high holy fuck out of the skulls of any j-hole that may or may not have deserved it.  in my opinion, depending on what the day is like and if your girl or guy turns out to be a piece of shit or father cocksuckfuck takes the purity of your little son and teaches him the inquisition born gorked out interpretation of of the “body of christ” any fucker at any moment can get their skull caved in and i  think a nice petrified piece of wood works just fine all nice and up close and personal like as far as those things go. 

i totally give the five or three people who happen to run by this blog the permission to delete my ass back to obscurity because i’ve got nothing insightful to say bout firefinger or some other shit that reminds of of geek assed keg stands back in the day when poor Sheryl stood in the corner barking because everyone felt all smug like because they were too stupid to try and learn her language – because we’ve all go a language if we have the ears and half a shit of brain to realize it and they may be someone watching who can illuminate everything.  if you haven’t seen this person yet, you should check it out to see what i mean.  is pretty freaking cool.  READ ON BUT COME BACK AND TAKE A LOOK.

ITS LONG. YOU MY NOT GET IT OR LAUGH YOUR ASS OFF BUT IF YOU ARE PATIENT, YOU WILL KHNOW WHAT I MEAN.  BUT KEEP READING FIRST.  

in any case i’m pretty grumpy.  my ex girlfriend was a (blood sausage).  she also fancied herself a publisher.  something weird happened when we moved in together where she didn’t like me to write how i wrote because it broke some rules and what not and nobody would ever give a shit  about what i had to say but she still wanted me to sign all my stuff over to her with a thumb print stamped with my blood which i thought was weird when all i was really doing was trying to get the least expensive tuna to make some sort of casserole because i didn’t want her to be unhappy and i was a poor spender when it came to deciding oil water tuna vs. canadian whiskey (the shit cock of the entire universe).  in any case, what i’m trying to say here is that i’m going to write whatever the fuck i want and if you are a friend or not a friend or come across or don’t come across you need to know you may or may not be in here or may not be in here and if you have a problem with that stay the fuck away because i would rather be alone for the rest of my god damn life than feel like a broken retarded emasculated jerk with no magic or north than do the one single solitary thing that has kept me from doing a lot of fucked up shit to a lot of fucked up or not so fucked up people like finding tht irish club and smashing it up against the head of becket – the fucking shitball who does home tattooes at the coffee shop down the street that fills me with a flash of such violence for some reason that i would love to see his head explode.  again.  this may be because i am in a state where my body is like this  andmy pain is like this but . . . whatever.

anyways, so i want to talk about a weird sexual feeling i had in the plastic surgeon’s office yesterday.  you see, over the last two years i’ve lost round 175 pounds.  something like that.  i was 363 pounds.  all along the way i’ve been writing, watching, listening, laughing, seeing, loving, empathizing and quelling a whole lot of violence in me because the amount of variables that leads one up to a place of such complete and total rage and self destruction that they would build themselves into a heart attack like fuck like that isn’t so great and it has taken a lot of calling fuckshit on myself to stop it.  i won’t  pat myelf on the back for it but if anybody is going to do  the high and mighty – dang, man – the body doesn’t mean shit in this world – i challenge you to drop acid and run with the bulls in spain, get into the stadium and tap the ass off a few bulls – get thrown and tell me about the next few hours on the train platform going through what i went through really reconsidering what does and doesn’t matter all man like and rebellion like – i mean – how many of you fuckers would really put it on the line like that all alone where if you were dead and died nobody would be there to claim or know you – just you and the fucking splat of idyllic balls slipping and sliding on the piss, jizz, wine and vomit of a bunch of tourists, assholes and true spainairds who pretty much hate every single on of us j=holes come to their home and culture to prove something that can much easier proved by just being a man – a real fucking man = and living.  another story and another day. 

in any case, i’m in a lot of fucking pain – and i just got a surgery and right now it looks great – and i think somewhere around ten pounds of dead loose skin is gone now and it hurts – god damn it – it hurts real bad and has me thinking things – like about my irish girlfriend – i sure loved her but i was sure fucking stupid and i’m sure as shit glad that i didn’t give her no bloody thumb print but that’s neither here nor there but lets just say that when i was in the  plastic surgeon’s office with olna or ornya (i couldn’t quite place it) she and i sat  there sorta quiet like as she inspected my wounds – touching them – tracing them softly – asking if it hurt – which it did – but not like all the other hurt that i’ve felt – it was a good hurt – a final hurt – a nice clean sentence – a hurt – a hurt from her – and it was shared and she had  these blue eyes and a mind far greater than mind and my ensuing healing depended on a sight that she had but i didn’t.  and i said no. and yes. and its okay.  its okay.  its okay.  and she pulled the tape away and dabbed the blood.  squatting.  on her knees.  doctors jacket pulled up a little.  legs – stockings revealed.  black pumps – not stripper – fuck me pumps but the kind of pumps that have class and the kind of versatility to sit on a subway with her knees touching and toes turned in just enough where there was a destination hidden somewhere behind them – perhaps a man – or a sister – or someplace with oak and soft music or something fantastically german with tarps and a collar of somekind and a goblet full of cum. 

i’m not sure – but i like to think of an oven – and a mother – and a husband – who has no idea – and leaves – one leave found everymorning and lit with with a strike anywhere match then dropped into the open wastebin of some dump basket in front of a school – some poor library that has long since forgotten its responsibility to tell us – all of us = every children and aghast mother fondling a pipe bomb next to their walter’s butt plugs – whre the devil is real and we know the devil because we speak of the devil and the ideas are exchanged and we know where there are heroes and we know how there are good men and women who do horrible things and there are even more wonderful andhorrible creatures who seem right but are the single straight shot that will snip the jugular of that last angel of nothing so that its gone – gone gone gone gone. 

and as all these things ran through my brain and she cleaned the wounds above my cock – gently – looking up at me to see how my face reacted – and we said nothing – it may have been one of the most erotic experiences of my lifetime – and i’m not sure if  there will ever be anything like that ever again – which, in my opinion shouldn’t.  because  then it becomes like some fucking kid from the Midwest with a Mohawk and a nickname talking about blowing peoples minds and making fun of the prudes when the marquis de sade died hundreds of years before their bomb on wheels moved them across the country where they could wear their obviousness like a black flag across their empty, emaciated and obvious chests – devoid of anything of  imagination – and an inner universe of an absolute moment of an intimitately pure and essential question mark to never be understood by anybody – save that illogical but primal impulse to find that club and feel hatred for misguided love and smash every stupid son of a bitch that makes the twinge of fire rise in them with a piece of wood needed a notch marked in it for watermelon popping some son of a bitches head.