Individual got super desperate and said we had met before. Totally untrue. So the brain engaged in animated small talk to disencumber the situation hinged on an awkwardness like blue soap sliding on a ledge of emerald marble. That was a failure and a flag dripping down a pole in discolored shreds of pork and yarn. All I said was that I was doing performance art soon. She said that was incredibly dumb; men laughed. Men who were vacuous laughed like yarn coming free from a grandmother's wet sweater tugged on by a drug addict wind. I wanted to cry. Mentioned that the act would include K-Y Jelly. No response. But hey! I was humoring her ugly ass and yet she still had power over me when the men started to laugh. She looked the opposite of insightful; was a short bus waiting to escort her to forgotten hills? Smoke another and die. I was not medicated. The region for that sort of cure was beyond what I could afford in this segment of this segment of this segment of my dry life. Expendable one year. The other woman was embarking on no new solution, just a bunch of salutations, the hamburger-faced men fondling her lazy arms. My eyes were just two hairs on a huge head of hair, and yet I cried because I was conscious of a bunch of men and women who were all fatally losing pawns on a totally fucked chessboard. I hammered a terrible understanding of how important my immediate family is to the rest of my life. In memory and in standing. Then I hugged my performance art companion and she told me to shut the fuck up. There was something and I was not it. So I went psychotic. Lost a mood that was floating barely, the ice cube mangling itself into the nothingness of raised salt sea water. Walked across the street away from the drunk, loitering crowds. 2 a.m. was gone. Psychotic, hating Baltimore, hating hearing the same part of me over music that was not mine, my ear a devil tormenting a fat kid in a field of grease on tires, each tire saying politely, "I think I will zoom into your lame ass." I cried; I was psychotic. Unmedicated time spent thinking of a blue color that reminded me of a legacy of a white color on top of a green shadow of no color, just a fat angel talking to me about the value of mud to a depressed human mind. Then her fucking voice approached the back of my male companion and me. "Help! This ship is eclipsed. You are and, more importantly,
are not the key and the bullshit steamed shrimp. New dicks are Poseidon's helmets in a closet of water; I can choose from them when I am half wet with suds and suds." I forgot about a dozen people then and there. And someone, my best friend, drove my car. And someone, I, died. And my family rotated in bad feelings, a ton of worry about me. And I wrote this, not wasted but blue and dead as a decapitated fish. And I wrote this for you and you, not fully psycho, but kind of in love with many people. And I might feel better if you don't read this.
Individual got super desperate and said we had met before. Totally untrue. So the brain engaged in animated small talk to disencumber the situation hinged on an awkwardness like blue soap sliding on a ledge of emerald marble. That was a failure and a flag dripping down a pole in discolored shreds of pork and yarn. All I said was that I was doing performance art soon. She said that was incredibly dumb; men laughed. Men who were vacuous laughed like yarn coming free from a grandmother's wet sweater tugged on by a drug addict wind. I wanted to cry. Mentioned that the act would include K-Y Jelly. No response. But hey! I was humoring her ugly ass and yet she still had power over me when the men started to laugh. She looked the opposite of insightful; was a short bus waiting to escort her to forgotten hills? Smoke another and die. I was not medicated. The region for that sort of cure was beyond what I could afford in this segment of this segment of this segment of my dry life. Expendable one year. The other woman was embarking on no new solution, just a bunch of salutations, the hamburger-faced men fondling her lazy arms. My eyes were just two hairs on a huge head of hair, and yet I cried because I was conscious of a bunch of men and women who were all fatally losing pawns on a totally fucked chessboard. I hammered a terrible understanding of how important my immediate family is to the rest of my life. In memory and in standing. Then I hugged my performance art companion and she told me to shut the fuck up. There was something and I was not it. So I went psychotic. Lost a mood that was floating barely, the ice cube mangling itself into the nothingness of raised salt sea water. Walked across the street away from the drunk, loitering crowds. 2 a.m. was gone. Psychotic, hating Baltimore, hating hearing the same part of me over music that was not mine, my ear a devil tormenting a fat kid in a field of grease on tires, each tire saying politely, "I think I will zoom into your lame ass." I cried; I was psychotic. Unmedicated time spent thinking of a blue color that reminded me of a legacy of a white color on top of a green shadow of no color, just a fat angel talking to me about the value of mud to a depressed human mind. Then her fucking voice approached the back of my male companion and me. "Help! This ship is eclipsed. You are and, more importantly, are not the key and the bullshit steamed shrimp. New dicks are Poseidon's helmets in a closet of water; I can choose from them when I am half wet with suds and suds." I forgot about a dozen people then and there. And someone, my best friend, drove my car. And someone, I, died. And my family rotated in bad feelings, a ton of worry about me. And I wrote this, not wasted but blue and dead as a decapitated fish. And I wrote this for you and you, not fully psycho, but kind of in love with many people. And I might feel better if you don't read this.
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