My Prosody is on Parole As I Send My Friendships Down Death Row

My mind is thirty-seven years of anxiety,

twenty-three pools of stress, eighty-six bricks of melancholia bellowing into a river of woe. It's an insomniac's wet dream: wanting to turn this fuckin' ha-ha house into a hay ride. Sleep, is a fickle thing, a nightmare turned into dissonance while ducking mirrors, and dodging demon-headed bimbos lurking behind shoulders. There's always some stint of agitation, a eugeroic unsettling. Death is for sale, lurking around each corner.. catching up with each footprint. My mind plays the late nite guessing game: "Which body do I discover next? 'Which phone call am I going to get late at night for the last time, again?" Numerically ping-ponging names in a hat drawing the next permanent sleeper who won a ticket straight out of Suckville. Then, there's the tone of my friends. I hear their words under my skin. A giant echo of Cunt willing its song to silence while eye rolling at the thought of their face. Exhaustion, is a safe word. It's the word clung to when depleted of giving a shit. Barren is the Fuck field that once grew my Hads. Skin walking upright dreaming prostrated tongue-ties carbon stamping tile. This is where the real writing begins. Not that: "Dear diary my pain is forever bullshit, so I make stupid choices with jilted hope scratching away as Jane Austin's shrivelled dead ass in a roach attic burning midnight oil in a cycle waiting for my lover to return from the war while I jot my Epicus Majorum teeth-gritting to the prospect of another day while hearing another piss poor stanza that's looking for validation in the world by another wannabe shitty neo beat poet never learning from their mistakes." Then psalms of light and love flood my gags into vomit when I read, and then, I expel wasted breaths in a society I don't even want to be in, cajoling my thoughts on grandeur prospects of a day that never comes as a resolve with a run on sentence of loathing in a revolving door continuing an internal kill count stunted by the blows of shit-bagging hominids who walk by living in the lap of luxury still complaining about the taste of water. The phone rings off the hanger again with Oliver Twist eyes: begging for more, begging for teaching, begging for feedback, begging for a thought of improvement from a tortured soul of genius in a town of idiot dancers gaslighting frauds playing in the driving lanes of stupidity waiting for a green light as people preach about acts of compassion while slopping another bowl as I scream at them to go walk into traffic if they want to really learn a lesson since they only want to hear themselves while looking in that mirror bouncing off of their riffs and staring at a fucking wall with the turn signal on. These megalomanic moments are made in Taiwan, shipped from Tokyo on a three day priority mail order cracking open another United States let down of 88 pages or more 88 pages — or less: wishing, wishing, wishing. . . You would just fucking die while wishing, wishing, wishing, that I would use my voice, to speak. Speak my tirade receiving another instructional obiter dictum on the things that I don't give a fuck about. Which is another long way of me saying: "I hate your fucking guts when you talk to me like a condescending little twit..." Like that old saying goes: "If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say nothing at all." So it's quite bewildering that half of you still act pissed, when I remain a fucking mime...