Here I come.

The world, it changes around me and, I, I ignore its subtleties. Political upheaval is at hand; Mr. Rotten’s dearest dream is at last laid heartily down on our doorstep, complete with flaming doggie-doo. Will I stomp on it, or hope that idealism is burned by anarchical wet-dreams? I can feel the lust of the surreal yearning wash over me, its own flames licking around my thighs, my heart, my eyes; I can feel the blood beginning to leak once again from my heart, sounding the deafening bell-peals of an end to my frequent arrogant of love of being an asshole. This up, this down, this ebb, this flow this how do you do, you son of a bitch, what comes and what goes; I have come to expect it. It is my friendly face, my disappearance, my easy out, my inspirational sermon given by a jolly black man in a church with no other choice. I said to my friend, I said, the other day, that my writing feels me as much as I feel it. I says to him, I says, “it’s almost like she’s telling me, ‘whatever, bitch, when I feel like seeing you, I’ll call you’.” I tell the same to my lover and he says to me, he says, “stop giving it a personality”. But here I am, unwillingly aware of the outside world and how I barely factor into it. Aware again, unable to sustain the Mt. Everest caliber of cold and numb I’ve been surrounding myself with for months.

It all comes flooding back the minute I let my guard down. Last week, I used the knives of professionals and realized I knew nothing from nothing. And so now, I have no choice but to pay attention to something.

cursed cursive esses
written out in ink
and transcribed here,
in the internet ether so that
their beauty is

de-constructed
destroyed
devalued;
delicious at last.