Here it comes.

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  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.

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