i do not want forget that i hate myself. everyday i am reminded of my self loathing. it is better for me to disassemble myself and rebuild the correct way. i forgot what it meant to be human for 2 years. looking back it was hell i almost did not survive myself numerous times. but my heart is stubborn and beats me to near death and to death one day, my lungs are hungry and selfish, bottomless wells consuming oxygen with no regard for me they say i should endure. for what. i asked for death. and it would not come. so i wait. something must be done. i see people's lives pinnacle around me then after acquaintance they fall slowly away. for i took what it was to be learned. so i wait. half convinced of the felicity that worries are far from my head. partly convinced by the torment that they will swallow me in my sleep. partly convinced by the people who care that i am worth something. partly convinced that if there is love i will let it stay hidden because my heat beats me so, my lungs are too hungry. still i do not live for my own sake any longer. yet i must subscribe that i do so i can endure. i cannot exist. i must not. yet i do. then can it be seen. the heart of love that is selfish too. it requires a disregard. one that is willfully given and given in a receiving manner. for then can you understand what it is that makes humanity so wondrous. only from with the ascension from the gates of ends could i see it so. the action is the same but your soul decides how it is to be precieved. i will wait for______.

the limbs splayed. graceful. subtle pulchritude. amour-propre coiled in rouge flesh. sanguine and lewd and alive with depravity. must we acknowledge the ghost beneath. the hungry ghosts. it is so. so it is. a


conquest of reason.


to stave off the self-effacing panoply of august--the facade. assured self assurance.

is self medication to any other unhinged. the sheets you wear too realize what is below.


they ask 'are the excursions pleasent, enjoyable'

are the recursions mundane?

is life so.

vest in me the self vested. do they say so.


imaginings.


current.
foreboding.
a history of hell.

shall i be honest. shall i spill on the canvas my absolute insipidity. infinite i. 6.2 billion and 1 potentialities. shall all remain so?

as far as certainty is concerned. affections are better loosed and not returned. so humanity seems to be so. should i find ever a love as beautiful as her. it is the damned occupancy. so learn me patience. it is so. recursions. excursions. the facade. building walls with brittle bones. through the sun

i do not exist.

i remember the breaths were painfully cyclical, pale white tundra tuned to the solemn ebb and flow of the tides in officer's bay. something was arbitrary still. some fickle inclination seemed to surge then recede . i didnt know it then, i didnt know what it was that was different with each expired second, minuet, hour. it was will. the will to live, or die or exist in an incapacitated state for eternity. it was a joke. Emily said it was a gift. i couldnt see it so.

the ebb and flow of felicity is marginalized. is cyclical. is inextricably bound to the extremes. give me potentiality. i am a faux human. i am living below. damn the statue in the fountain. knowing what is well for yourself is a cross. but you only know it because the damn white collars and the history of laughable martyrs printed on cotton. we kill. we breathe. we kill. we believe in future. but only one of killing and breathing. insatiable. the daunting heartless. mockery. become the blasphemous bastard you swore you would disembowel at first chance but a decade and a half ago, even more recent. you are living squalor. and wondering why you have not the courage to indulge yourself to. yes. call it so. make it so. it is death that puts your perspective on. it is the death that makes you do. they say "we kid ourselves that there's future in the fucking, but there's no fucking future" because of what the white collar and prude priggish overly principled talking heads propose it so. the grotesques. but so the dead dance with the dead. let me indulge myself. it is only until artificial walls condemn you to the flightless spring do you commence self infliction, self freedom, self discovery, self for self sake. what was it jaundiced flesh? open wounds talk back again, some ritual contrition. i want it. but yet because of those principles you decide to abstain. bastard. fool. hypocrite. the alcohol served well. the tobacco lit right. the psychedelics you want. the future you desire. yes wait. for what? for your own hell to suddenly explode? to suddenly say you have endured death, let this one live? damn. the gates of ends. for it ends there. i have not thought since the great depression of 2005-2009. really until 2008. i am to waste all the time spent with the devil. all the time spent with heaven. am i? get drunk, get high, become alive. i have a problem. nothing is ok. nothing stays the same. on any given holiday i may escape. so shine on me. porcupine quills will make an inkwell of your arms, supine palms poised and needy coaxing the risen Son, He dont seem to come. no one cares for debauchery here. no one wants to get their feet wet with life. no one wants to kill themselves little by little willingly. they are cowards, fools. they let time do it. because the suppose they are killing time. laudable laughter newton briggs knows it so. and so it is. i recline to my similar state. yes. what is it? said netwon in response to the curiously unbalanced staccto of knocks and fist pounds on the door of number 113 E. State Avenue Billington Haus Apts. "Newt!? wake up?, Dammnit you fucking prick, its me Eli" "eli what the devil? its 4 in the morning". "yeah, i know, hey i need my camel hair blazer back--the one Margot let you borrow. i am leaving" "where are you going? its a sunday, no one travels on sunday...youre drunk, you bastard you are drunk?" "no, i am just goingt o go now, i can catch the 5 o'clock ferry if i leave now so please, newt, jsut give me the blazer". "damnit all, one moment." newt replied walking back into the receding hallway then turning in to a bedroom".

the dualist, resurfaces. vomit. a sea of it. churning inside a bag of organs. vesicles. the disconnect is the fall. its time for a suicide. frankly who gives a damn, where damn is needed to be given. damn you too. damn. addictive personalities personified in the slight labored assumption, the notice has been escaping through those pinholes. the silver is collecting. shedding winged things. wicked things, shedding aseasonal garments. sentient again. come back to being. the shadows grow too. yellow walks the sidewalks warming windows. graced by the epitome of indulgence. the hollow souls. holes, holes holes holes, holes. we dig them too, all the deeper. for but sport and derivative happiness. which is only ammunition. so. holes, holes holes holes, holes. dadism too. circles.