I used to deny I was special.
It made me feel so covert.
Like I was
emptying myself to play a role.
To be honest, I think I might have been a great actor.
they are beautiful on their own or
from a distance.
The garden of tapping
Headless chickens on bus or corner or hall, though.
They make me feel I am slowly
Becoming more and more unique.
But I feel so lethargic in it… as though
I am a marionette made up of body parts,
all from varying ages in my part.
And my adult head is hung up by a hook,
Like something out of Hellraiser,
And I am directed to and from locations.
Hung up on this and that. A set of
tracks like a subway guiding me in predictability.
A stock character.
But at night I am here at this screen.
And I am fucking exceptional,
Even within a blogoshperic population of millions of ramblers.
Complainers and pitchers and blamers.
I am here.
As you age if your time
does not gain valuation over
Currencies of the world in which
you are jostled through,
then take a bow &
get off the stage.
I have something new to have destroy my chest and spawn
like a H.R. Giger alien.
And it knows your name is correlated to your economic position.
It knows you are a cheap or a high end action figure, or a sculpture.
It knows I am an original sin, an anomaly.
A throw back Monday to Friday.
Some pastiche over the holidays for Measure.
And you aren’t forgetting clever.
People piss me off in large groups.
but become so interesting when left to themselves
just long enough to go a little cracked.
To leak something through
the sludge of brand and vice and mimicry.
You drown out the main soundtrack,
and make me dance a little less shifty.
But even you can’t handle my twitch.
I lifted myself through a roof once in a dream.
Inside the attic-like sky they occupied were
a dozen friends and lovers and I had yet to meet.
People are like the Dark Crystal I guess;
Skeksis are as necessary as Mystics.
Not that I ever considered myself Gelfling,
More like the Neverending Story’s “Nothing” on my back,
That rides the mechanical bull of mu pride into
snowbanks of blow and
dirty hobo with sketchy looks
and rusty metal pipes, being all like;
“You don’t know where I’ve been Lou! You don’t know where I’ve been!”
No people here. Just the stroboscopic pentameter of
a million movie references,
balled up in a tight circumference of
freckled flesh set fire to with
a hundred binges.
Hoping to burn out the light
that burns your eyes.
Hoping to burn out the lights
before they fade.
at least break a few bulbs before
the restless natives take us apart again.