Craze;


She’s at my door in distress, she’s in the hall with horns. I’ve been waiting on this for weeks. She’s looking at my room with an eyeshine dripping porn.

She’s bent over my dryer now, with her lacy black g-string staring me in the face as I… as she loads all her sopping wet clothes in. The rain smacking aluminum siding is louder than the music playing. She stands straight and turns around, giving me that same familiar half drunk, half high smile stained with recent breakup. She drops her cigarette, a long gone stub melting the filter, on my kitchen floor then spits on it. Gives me some sideways gaze, eyes atrociously glazed, and walks into my room like she fucking lives here. And then she’s going through my cd’s, playing all the ones I’m sick of hearing, skipping to the next track a minute through each song compulsively… annoying me to no reasonable end.

I go straight for the bong, I go straight for the freezer, a bucket glass and mix it strong. This isn’t even my house right now. I’m trying to mix a second drink and pack leaves into my bowl at the same time. I go back to her, now minus thong and ask Does She Want To Talk. I seal myself into listening to the same horrid story, the same one they keep telling me. 2 years worth of some guy’s emotional failings, minus any positive details on same subject, minus additional admissions of her own inability to accept, understand, communicate and move forward.

I remember this with clothes on, then I remember hearing this naked… her voice and sad story drifting off as that one loose clump of hair drags itself up my thigh, and a single drop of wet mascara falls on my torso. Maybe I was losing tracks of time.

Me, so apologetically not caught in the moment, so not too excited to think what I’m doing through. Wondering which reruns are re-running their course through the tv screen, wondering which tired old script I’m living out.

I’m telling her;
How I’d rather love something I never have than do all the same with something I’ll have time and reflection enough to be completely disgusted by. Knowing you and your total lack of sexual integrity, learning every reason the players in the stories you weave wouldn’t want to ever be anywhere near you. I’d rather feel sorry for you for no reason.

By now she’s peeled me open just enough to extract what nourishment she will find here, and leave her poison behind. Everything about the heat being all the way up to dry her off makes her skin feel that much colder.

Everything she says was planned out before I opened the front door to see her standing soaked, dressed like a careless whore, like she was completely unaware the last three weeks of downpour would stretch on through another night. These are the habits of simple indiscretions that tell me so much more about her character.

As for her story, I’ve heard it so many times I can almost piece together the missing parts she withholds to save face. For all my complaining, I fucking love this.
This will be all it takes to forget about the rest.

I fall asleep with my arms wrapped around the crooks of her knees, head arest on her ankles. Wondering once again, why I can see straight through my eyelids. Seeing forever this girl and this room in all this blue light, praying for cataracts.



Unknown "Hotdog Inspektor" Sexy - 16 years, 7 months, 2 days ago

LIFE AS A GLITCH IN CODING IV

"No Matter What"


Is tomorrow really a new day?
Then I’ll be in a fuck of a hurry
Rushing around to pack as many joys and pretzels into
An empty life, for life till we part

A stomach in a state of rot
Another new day, too many of these
New days, new lives and second chances.
That’s not really what I need, I spend far too much time waiting for this bus.

Learning to let my love die, to keep hope
Learning to walk without joy
Every drunken night no longer a rush to pack as many hollow excitements into one night,
I have to be smarter than that now.
I have to be able to look my situation and character in it’s face.
To become something I can appreciate.
I’m not a gut to be filled, though I love feeling full
I have to be too many blank pages
An empty frame
Useful only in due time

Everything I’ve seen in you has made me no use for someone else
Left stains in my eyes, strains till it dies
Watching the sunrise, fuck watching anything with you
So you can revel in its beauty beside me,
Put on your fishnets, eyeliner and leave.
And now I’m living out reruns,
I’ve begun to feel the future, unwise yet all too promising;
She wants to be you so she wants to fuck me
Put her hair up, strap on the heels and leave
Everyday a flashback
Every bitch a knock off of you
Wanting to be the next to see me fall, but I said I would not,
And they cry when I don’t.

Any way, any time of day it’s only one way
We can only aspire to crash and burn harder
Smarter with every breath
Quicker with every step
Knowing we’re only set to ash out more efficiently
Carried to the last door only on reserves
All of this an excersize in pessimism
But can we not leave these lines behind us?
This lethargia…
Giving up everyday,
Everyday, giving up is hardly even worth my while anymore,
so I give up on the process of giving up entirely,
as well as epiphany and rebirth

chrysalis?
NOT a butterfly!!! But a moth
With no colour to protect me
Transforming into something easier to spot to kill,
No longer crawling safely across risk free nothing but chewing on sticks
And I foolishly gravitate towards this light all the same
We moths are both careless and easily entertained,

Well,

Siren told me I will chase any light with black hair
And that is just foolish and selfish of me,
Dangerous and desperate.
Callous and noncommittal,
Eyes going too many ways at once.
Too many fucking lights on in here.
I can find my way to the fridge
Yet once inside, the light dies out...
I HAVE BEEN FUCKING TRICKED!!!

Being selfish again…
Black hair and horns
Feeling self destructive,
Feeling fuckin GROOVY.

I’m dried out and she’s FRESH.
Drawn to flesh out of stress
I’m dried out and she’s WET.
Drown out the words I’m slurring in protest.
And I’m not ready to taste that sour mind of hers
I plan every move out knowing she’s The 12 Steps to Suicide
Flashing me that grin for my time.

Keep dreaming of one, and yet there are a million others

Acquisition, turning all those dreams into nightmares.
Covered in sweat, waking in states of panic
Even my sleep will bring me stress

Keep dreaming,
And there are a million others.



Unknown "Hotdog Inspektor" Sexy - 16 years, 7 months, 2 days ago

LIFE AS A GLITCH IN CODING III.iv

So I stopped. I tell her now about my day at work and I make up dreams I say I had about fucking her. I had one of the meth addicts find a bunch of personal information about her so I could line all my fake sexual dreams with them.

She get’s kind of uneasy in her easy chair when I start rattling off her credit card numbers and varification codes, never in the context of her ever having a charge card, just written on the walls or her carving them into my clavicles. She’ll start adjusting her clothing, realizing she stopped taking her little notes and scrawl a bunch of shit on her clipboard all at once, but as I keep going she calms down. She leans back and keeps nodding, pretending to listen with the left half of her lower lip tucked between her teeth, daydreaming of stuffing some part of me into her unhappy insane snatch. And I intend to keep it that way. For all I pay her I can at least get some entertainment for 60 minutes a week, which for some reason is always only 55 minutes, and I am considering having a serious talk with her about where my money is going, what she’s doing with the extra five minutes, and why I keep hearing the quick yet quiet unfastening of snaps and zippers on my way out, right after the click of the door locking behind me.


*


Siren abhors pessimism. For a disorder, she’s quite the anomaly.

“Can you just keep knowing what you know about her and keep that with you? Can this finally have an ending? I’m asking for this as a favor. I can’t see you like this anymore. It really fucks me up.”

“You keep tripping me out with this stuff. Things can fuck you up?”

“Yeah… that does seem new. What’s going on in this headspace anyway?”

“It’s not like you pay rent for this. You can’t just complain about the conditions.

“It’s getting really cold in there. I don’t know, I mean, I’ve been there for awhile and it’s never been like this. It’s getting so cold. And there’s these… things. G r o w i n g in there. Out of the ground. And it’s gross. I don’t want to step on them. It’s so cold, but these things are steaming. Like if I touch them, they’ll burn me. I really don’t want to be in here right now.”

Siren, she fucking owns me. I see her in these girl’s faces when I walk down the streets. The shine in those eyes I’ve never seen.

“Okay, come out then.

I see it in this chick I meet the other day. She radiates this
glow
this warmth on my skin.

This race back to purity.



“…can I?”

“CAN you?”

I’m five again. Nothing seriously traumatic has happened to me yet. Anything could happen. But then what if anything does happen? I’ll be here again. I’ll be me. I made choices. There were consequences. I now live with them.

“Shit, I don’t even know. I’m really tired now.”

“You’re TIRED?”

“Yeah. I said I was tired, so what? I am.”

“It’s just that you never said you were fuckin TIRED before this. What IS going on in my head?

“I don’t know. I’m going to sleep now.”

“What?”
“Siren…?”

“…Sleep?”


I shiver a little. Like I was in her cold, joyless cabinet of a home. But I am. I’m her lanlord.





Unknown "Hotdog Inspektor" Sexy - 16 years, 8 months, 21 days ago

I LIKE THE TRICKLE...

something i writed at work last month. and mixed with sum other shit :]




what writing means to me:

writing is fucking bullshit!
but... it's so small!

so while you're working the door at a shitty dive bar nobody can from a distance see what horrible fucking things live in my mind! YAY!

also, people can't discern from those tiny letter that I CAN"T PROPERLY DRAW HANDS! and don't let me down now, precious pencil hand, the dude is counting on you! to script escape. a hiding place, and to chronicle so many stained moments so later on when things seem very bad i can look back on this! the worst time of my live ever!

more inspired by being uninspired than one's feeble mind can bear to contemplate!
no need for self expression, just a leading eye towards the world around me!


stuffing file folders with pessimistic fotune cookies.

and turning love songs into suicide anthems in the worst of times

scrawling out the worst of lies

and sometimes the worst parts are the most uplifting,
ugly little things wrapped in beautiful coats
silk over shingles, turning shit to shine
hiding between paper and graphite.


...please don't think my sloppy smeared works will ever be complete!





k out. word life!!!

cutty

the universal donor

	main$stream - bitch widaperm

Unknown "Hotdog Inspektor" Sexy - 16 years, 8 months, 21 days ago

LIFE AS A GLITCH IN CODING III


Siren… I named her Siren because I know she'll be the thing that kills me. With her every word she lulls me closer to an interesting end. Every fucked up part of my life comes out sounding so poetic. I've never tried to write a poem in my life, but every time I suffer one is born, Siren sings me slow songs of slaughter very sweetly, I tried to get her to leave but I may need her as much as she needs me. I remember life without her and I never aim to recapture those boring, lonely times. Some days I hope they really do come for me, and lock me in a padded room with her forever, with no shoelaces to silence her sweet voice.

Sometimes I even feel bad for her. Everything she feeds me I vomit. All her love is wasted on me. All she wants is to dance and never dance alone. I hide form her in my therapist's office, where I talk about her behind her back, knowing she'll be there to cradle my heartsick heart the second I leave.

My therapist, I can't respect her. She went to school thinking she could help people like me. She keeps a certain level of emotional distance from all her patients, (if only in her mind) most of which eventually eradicate themselves. And after years of this tragic methodical series of reruns, she never considers the possibility that the way she's been going about business hasn't been working and never will.

Talking to one of these people is like talking to a very understanding layer of drywall. I used to tell her everything, she insisted. Said the only way I could be helped was to tell her every intimate detail of my life, while she sat there taking notes, taking my money and taking more notes. Who knows why she even takes notes, she records everything I say into this stupid micro cassette tape recorder.
Suffers from severe delusions, paranoia…
Inability to connect with others, misanthropy…
Delusions of grandeur…
…twitchy…

I could have written her notes for her before our first appointment. Delusions of grandeur, big surprise. We live in a society rooted in these delusions of grandeur, if we can agree that they really are delusions. We founded a country on it. We started and finished wars around it. Nothing about me is rare or unique. I am more like a tincture of the uglier sides of all humanity since creation, mixed stiff in a chilled glass. I've become so comfortable with my flaws that I look for them in new people, filter out the monotony in middle classdom and build a web of clinically insane friends to share my life with. I can't stand people feigning sane, acting happy so they can blend in with people they don't realize are all unhappy insane monsters of mortal existence.

It's like they don't get the big joke of life, that every one of us has either spiraled into emotional chaos or is holding them selves back at the very brink in perpetual stalemate, never living and always complaining. Forever finding parts of themselves in others to hide from, extensions and crevices to exploit in those who refuse to cover them up. My condition is like a naked body, It's so fucking beautiful but everyone insists you keep it cached.

So I stopped telling her these tales. She doesn't deserve them. She's stability fabricated, I know damn well she falls in love with every tortured soul that walks into her office. And then they overdose. And then they jump. And then they become 'cured' and she never sees them again. Every second I'm talking she's thinking about grabbing my throat and giving me the best fuck of my life, a fuck to end all fears, gripping my hair and jamming my face into lonely cunt. Biting her tongue till it bleeds. I can tell by the shine in her eyes as I speak, that far off glaze about them. She's never listening to what I say but she's trying to, like it matters. She could never help me.


Unknown "Hotdog Inspektor" Sexy - 16 years, 8 months, 24 days ago