Last night, I framed the old man down the street for the murder of my limbs. I took liberties with the constitution and burned holes in my bones. I sat outside the grocery store and sold drugs to orphans. I assaulted my needle with sugar and water, hold the water, please. I made prank calls to an automated answering service, and casually asked for a raise. I killed a crow for the irony of it. I beat up a fat kid for revenge. I smoked a gallon of vaseline and torched the television set in a hotel room, where I was just staying the week. I robbed an old lady of her dentures, and, in effect, her dignity. Suddenly, I'm the bad guy.
I'm careful not to step on the cracks of indifference, but sometimes the skin doesn't want to bend. I often find myself falling for the pavement, and sometimes girls. They're very hard on me. I sleep off permanent hangovers and meditate through fractured sobriety. I find comfort in the beauty of purple scratches on my brain and pull the wool over the eyes in the back of my head. I opened the door to conversation, and found a new mystery to solve (or resolve). I put two and two together and came up with 4. I'm trying to decide whether to pass out or pass away, and which one holds the most profit. I'm trying to teach my bird to sing solo and fly straight (into glass windows). I've abused my right to write and sold the rights to public conservation. I am clearly disgusted to know End. He's really a great guy.
Every poem has its day, just like every cowboy is embarrassed by a certain 80's Hair Band that I won't name. But, do know that it is Poison to the system of a downset of the beautiful shiny happy people of the sun maid to be bored and dying of it. A play on words or a word on plays? You decide. We'll hate you for it momentarily. Or just for a moment, at least. I'm perfectly self-conscious and constantly hard on my hearing. I do have a way with words. And if I'm not careful, they're sure to have their way with me. In the end. Where it counts. When it blends. How it sticks. Pardon the pun and pun the pardon. "Pardon me, ma'am, is that a fur coat you're wearing, or are you just happy to kill me?" asked the mink of the hippo. Anything to complicate your figure. Anything to exaggerate the bill. Let's harass the tadpoles and make frogs out of them. Poor Mark was killed by the ocean. He died of natural causes. Let's stop lying to Charlie Brown. He'll never be a good man, because he's destined to remain trapped in the animated frame of a small boy. He'll make superstar, at best. I want to listen to Albert Einstein talk about the little things (never so trivial as when we first met). The beautifully decorated magazines of society's Generation Tolerant turns handguns into handouts. This perfect day is a nice day for a revolution. Or maybe a walk.
My mother inadvertantly taught me how to not fear death. How to, in fact, welcome it as a prolonged family reunion. Dying to breathe or breathing to death? Another blood clot in my childhood memories. I wonder where all of this comes from. Am I thinking clear or freaking out? Am I sitting pretty or barely standing? I'm tired. This much I know. I also know that I have a tendency to amuse myself when I confuse myself. For what, I don't know. It's time to raise the roof and burn the bridges. The skeleton is gay and, I believe, has something to say. We speak in cautiously decorated dialogue, covering our lies with sugar, facing our fears with curtains. I wish I could be honest with you, but I haven't exactly been lying. I've been giving candy to a stranger. Finding comfort in conformity. Sleeping with the lights on, in the middle of a road, towards the top of nowhere, which is ironically close to the middle of somewhere. I'm sorry for making you laugh. I feel good about forcing you to cry. I love to witness your depression. I hate to see you smile. There is very little difference between a sadist and a dentist, or so I wrote. I need to stop writing in circles in writing stop to need I.
How many new bruises need to heal before I win your heart? I'm fragile in blood-soaked, shark-infested water. The sad irony is I can't swim. Or is that just sad luck? I keep forgetting, but that's probably because I'm not paying attention. I'm sorry. Did you say something? It's so much easier to listen when you've got something to say. It's even easier to get away from myself when I'm with you, if only in attention. Poor Tim was killed by a falling tree. He died of natural causes. How John is that? How much does Buddha like apple pie? Temporary insanity is a psychopath who got lazy, and at half the pay. Blame it on the ADD. Blame it on the movies. Blame it on Marilyn Manson, because I'm sure he took a day off. But let's not forget, it's only temporary. In a couple of months, we'll hire us a full-time looney. We've got great medical coverage. The company psychiatrist is dropping acid in the bathroom. And the president is a sex fiend, but then again, which one isn't?
Back to my problem at hand, this new scandal has developed into one of those awful Movie Of The Week freak shows. I've written myself into a dream that I can't wake up from. It wouldn't be so bad, but it's starting to show itself as a nightmare. I'm not sure I can handle another pill. Maybe I'll save this headache, and mold it into a new trophy. I'll turn sympathetic diversion tactics into empathic hobbies. Life is full of midnight surprise snacks. I'm declaring war on my wrists for the sake of coffee table discussion. We'll settle this tomorrow. Peace is just another fad anyway. Blacking out in the middle of night, with all the lights out. I want to forget what I was never told. I want you to admit that you'd rather not see me, because paranoia has made me bad with subtle hints. And it hurts oh so much.
And suddenly, I jump from one thought to the next. Just like that. Without the slightest hint of a warning. Or was that one? I'm into options and out of trends. I'm trying to find a way to end this relationship with words. I'm coming up short and falling off fast. It's sure to hurt. It's sure to leave a bruise. Or, at least, a scratch.
