(Letters to my brothers and others) March 2005 to May 2007. |
12-27-05 I am satire toward a view of myself, and I've not been so inspired lately. My senses have been sullen, scorched and short-changed; I'm not so much amused as jaded and with little sentiment to share I'll blow holes through culture one backward step at a time. A no-life, selfish alcoholic with no future and a dirty, rotten past passed. He had newspapers on the windows and boxes for blankets and ears covering as hearts while he sat in the darkest dark. Swilling, chilling, slowly killing embryos before they would impart or impale his delicacy of a life imbibed, reviled, crucified and, ominously, in defiance of denial. What's the best for me? Who knows, he said himself. Almost as uniquely as a cutter cutting for the first time. My curtains are obituaries and my blogging is rooted in 1700-style transmissions from brain to hand and pen to page only to be translated as wishes of death personifiably enraged. Left out of a cage, enraged. Urban hermit; a cell-block termite hell bent with lack of deterrent. A lonely angle star spangled, with no place to continue. Thieving currency, oh surely he's gone back to home. (?) or has he? Daylight truant, nightlife current; my parallels are so fluent. He's not like everyone else and I've got newspapers on my shelf with songs to sing and tales to bring but he's got nothing left. He's a bad debt. What's best for me is what's left of me after he's left. |