Fresh Hell

 

I have lots of little bits and pieces floating around. Not quite good enough, or not quite enough substance, for a whole post. But they’re interesting, and they’re clogging up my archives, and I want to stop tripping over them every time I go through my stuff to choose what to post, so here you go.

 

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Today I suffer

From reverse Midas touch

Where everything my skin so much as grazes

Turns to shit.

I’m not giving out hugs today.

 

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I have four little plants in my window box

They are growing

Happy and young and turgid

I do love me a turgid turgid plant.

 

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Everything is a failure

Everything I touch

But every failure I touch is a little better than the last failure

A little less fail in each one

 

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Charles Bukowski

What a nut

So why is it I understand

Everything he says

And everything he is…

 

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The internet is down
And we have nothing to do
But work outside
Write
Cook
Watch movies
Pet the cats.
Oh please Mr Internet Man,
Come save us!

 

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I think I will
Refract
And if I choose to do so
How many forms of me
Must I maintain?

 

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I hurt.

I rage.

Everything is uncomfortable.

Everyone pisses me off.

I foam

I age

I stabbed something to death today

But when I try to remember what

All I see is red.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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