slippery

i only see her when it rains,

and the sidewalk is slippery.

she is slightly tilted.

her collapsed soul

hanging like a hand-me-down purse from her shoulder.

she seems less than life-size, somehow.

i like to make up stories about her past.

sad tales on how she got to where she is.

i don't know,

she could be happy on other days.

perhaps she (like me) just hate the rain,

and maybe she sees me the same way i see her.

but she never see me when it rains,

and the sidewalk is slippery.

she ruins my day every time.

shiiiit, it's springtime

springtime on the boulevard,

and the crazies are blooming,

growing like weed on the star-studded sidewalk.

they pop straight out of the concrete,

i swear.

how they talk, on and on,

and i can't understand.

good thing there are no liquor stores

between my work and apartment, cause

i could just get drunk every day this time of year.

they are gonna tear down the sign.

the big earthquake is coming.

we are all bankrupt.

but people are cool as always,

and i could just get drunk every day.

the crazy gets crazier,

but soon it's summer

and we will all hide in the shade.

grey

something is amassing

in my stomach.

a frightening shame,

an unrepairable tilt

at my very core,

a damage

from the weight of my own self.

i see my reflection

in the window,

but it isn't me.

the city is grey

covered in fog.

and in the distance

i can hear my own tiny voice crying for help.

there it was

i am waiting for some awakening,

but now i'm caught up in electrical cables.

it's always late at night before i start feeling,

and the internet is getting smaller

-closing in on me.

certain songs, i can't listen to them anymore.

we don't agree like we used to.

i need that awakening,

more now then any high.

listen to those songs,

don't lose your mind,

i tell myself.

not now, when you're so close.

there it was

-a sudden trace of emotions.

and now it's gone.

the end

there is data in the air

they do the dreaming

and i do the sleepwalking

the old men across the street

in the park, vomiting

pigeons feasting on their insides

and the air is sick

with messages no-one can decipher

a static outlining of sorts

fiberoptics, radiotowers

they do the dreaming

we are data-language

a vision of zeros and ones

i do the walking

in the sky, a thousand butterflies

a misguided fligh

into a reverse metamorphosis

cocoons falling from above

the panic, mesurable

in the echo of the vicious hail

what happened to their dream?

knee-deep in larvae, i sleepwalk

there is data in the air

fool

the walls were those of an apartment,

not a prison.

but it made no difference,

in his mind.

he was behind them,

inside.

without these walls, he thought,

and started picking away.

dust of sheetrock falling to the floor,

forming cone-shaped piles by his feet.

picking, picking with a screwdriver,

dust falling, falling.

like sand in the hourglass,

falling.

time, he thought,

it kept on ticking, ticking.

and when would he be free?

sweating, he could not stop, then

WHACK! with the hammer.

the tingeling light!

the fresh air!

back to picking, picking

reaching for that climax.

the dust,

the hourglass filling up.

faster! one finger through

faster! one arm through

faster, faster!

and then comes the head,

and with the head comes the climax.

sweet release, sweet freedom! - for a moment.

but now,

as the children are crying on the sidewalk,

and the dust is settling all around

-only now can he see himself.

his face poking through a hole in his house.

covered in dust.

covered in shame.

and he thinks to himself, what a fool i am.

swoosh!

surf's up

with the pacific frothing at the mouth.

that wave wiped me out

gentle force.

swoosh! and i was under

in the quiet, wet silence

dragging the sandy floor.

at peace, by God!

floating to the surface

i was not yet born

swoosh! and so it was.

ocean in my stomach

palm-trees in my eyes

blue, salty, sweet everything.

and i'm born, alive.

matinee

when i see you now

for the first time.

that shine -

this beautiful face

hinting at something lost.

a movie from years ago, maybe

or a dream?

a matinee set in the 50's,

that lead girl - the first crush.

washed out images, and that shine!

was it a dream,

a fantasy derived in a drug haze,

or are you her?

this is not the 50's, 

or make believe.

it is now,

and you are my matinee.

my first crush

all over again

play me a song

i used to be the sound of dead air.

intangible to all the senses.

a colorless shape of sorts.

sometimes moving,

but mostly not.

living on a breath of nothingness,

it was supposed to be the years

of mindless self indulgence.

but it was only mindless

years went by, as the years will do,

and that cruel and unusual boredom,

those joyless spaces,

somehow changed.

it wasn't me (i think?),

just the climate - the setting.

in me tonight is a small banjo.

i will dance

and tickle those devilish strings.

play me a song

-a sappy one i'm sure.

but it's better then silence.

good boy

so i'm sober

yep! completely clean

no more Xanax

good boy

no Vicodin

good good boy

no OxyContin

nope, not me

no more vomiting

no cramps or paranoia

no memory loss

hooray!

such a good boy i am

but i can't fucking write anymore, can i?

such a sober boy

sober sober boy,

with no words

is this what it is?

sober... no words?

bullshit, i say!

spring cleaning and the letter O

the los angeles machine is running.
a hum of the purest insanity
outside my window.
in bed i think about lips.
mouths forming kissy faces.
pouty lips,
smiling lips,
cracked,
lipstick red,
bruised,
and pierced lips.
i think about bottomless pits
and dental cavities.
i see the number zero,
or maybe it's the letter O?
and outside,
a thick new layer of angst is forming.
souls chewed up by the machine.
for reasons unknown to me
i'm angry at these mouths.
mouths eating food,
smoking cigarettes,
belting out soundless prayers.
there is an audio disease spreading in the night.
madness creeping in my ears,
messing with my sleeping head,
and now i'm afraid of the letter O.
the machine is doing it's spring cleaning.
not everyone will see the summer.

on the ledge

up there on the fifth floor,
rubbing his hands on the worn down armrests.
rubbing, rubbing
the constant hum of the rain,
buzzing, buzzing
like a needle scratching an old record.
was he God?
was he the Devil?
did he even Believe?
wet noise and death,
opening the window.
a once wandering mind,
now mired in painful speculation.
frightening life,
turning, turning
out on the ledge.
was he only the tiny voice in his head?
tiny voice counting
five
four
tree
two
one
he died in his mind, always.

dark harvest

each night in bed
wrestling with the moon
and my sheets
i write poems in my head
intellectual one night stands
forgotten in the morning
just words whispered away
in the cool breeze of the AC
before i fall asleep
these are my favourites
the stillborn prose
my own dark harvest
lingering like a sweet hangover
of imploding thoughts
they are mine now
gone in the dark
lost forever in my head

then came the hurt

then came the sounds
clearing a vast space within me
i saw her lips
understood every word
individually, but
put together the meaning failed me
it was the movement of her mouth
searching for the least painful phrase
the somber syllables dead in her eyes
a glare wandering the still air
searching for simpler times
then came the hurt
a pain only communicated
by the one you truly love
the emptiness we both felt
now hangs between us

we join in

outside,
and grown men are barking like dogs
how wild is this place?, she says
this is where man and beast merge into one,
out of sheer necessity
sooner or later we all go mad, i tell her
how far removed are we from any sort of normalcy?
i don't know, i say,
how do you measure a thing like that?
we laugh and blow smoke in each others faces
high on summer and love and beer
we join in
howling, barking, screaming
and the hollywood night gets quiet again
we have marked our territory,
for now
that was a close one, i say
and she smiles

shhh

time just stopped moving,
didn't it?
you were gone,
and it was me and the wall
again.
the clock keeps mocking me
with it's dead arms.
i wait for the right time to call,
but time just stopped moving,
didn't it?
now i'm gone,
and it's me and the clock,
not ticking
ticking
shhhh

colorblind

always new drugs to quit.
pills that taste like green and blue and yellow.
it's a soothing sickness,
plush and cloudy in all respects.
several demons,
green and blue and yellow,
resting on my shoulders.
then they get me,
and only alcohol can wash away
the taste of color.
wash me away from me,
lick the sobriety off my skin.
the umbilical strangulation
of that past
and now
and kill
my
eyes.
i got those colors in my head now, but
i don't want to see.
don't want to breathe.

loneliness

loneliness,
she is no longer a random guest,
but rather a large force amassing
within this space we inhabit.
sucking meaning out of the void.
loneliness,
she is sick of what i have become,
and i am still in love with who she used to be.
we are full of each other,
like drugs in our blood.
her presence, rude and crushing,
anchoring me to the slowest perception of time.
loneliness,
she no longer inspire.
communication boiled down to misconstrued gestures.
this relationship, we can not end.
we are one, not in love,
separated only by name.
loneliness,
she is me.
this unease with which we live.

the silent city

there i lived,
knowing i was far from home.
that pallid cityscape,
a monochromatic blandness-fuck,
where only a faint cry
kept the wheels of time turning.
behind the window
the city is always silent.
only, my head was running rampant
in the sewage-system.
my deadness
rising in a stinking mist from the manholes,
among all the people,
out in that filthy night.
all the people, all the people...
that flesh-wound fucking itself.
multiplying, dying, pulsating, gyrating
emotion-pus,
greased thick on their faces, on the buses,
on the sidewalk, on office-buildings, and trains,
and politicians, and the royal-family, and, and...
naturally, i escaped
with most of my dignity and shame still intact.
too bad then,
i left my head in those smelly tunnels.

headful

my lord! you're a fuck
a long hard fucky fuck
well into the a.m, and not properly intoxicated
i wanna destroy the language
grind it to dust
watch it dance in the air as the sun comes up
shit, anyway...
a headful of mute words
stop stop stop, go to bed
make sleepy sleeps, dreamy dreams
this is shit
shit upon shit
and i no longer get laid - it doesn't matter
already tomorrow
go to bed with no words
just a headful of night
my lord! you're a fuck
one more beer, i beg you
then i'll rest

train

riding from the eastside,
on the subway
heading into downtown Oslo.
the old trains have a certain beat to them.
they seem to be the only things beating
in a city of winter hearts.
on my way home from another unforgiving workday.
listening to the rhythm of the tracks,
i glance out the window,
at the wast loneliness passing by.
i share this train with pale faces,
consumed by skeletal dreams.
"someone kill me" begs the bum by the sliding doors.
we come together as a group now,
collectively ignoring him.
"no" he says, changing his mind.
"someone give me a beer"
we, the pale, hide our eyes behind newspapers,
fearing that one day,
we too will be bums
standing by sliding doors,
begging for beer or death.
all the while not knowing, that
outside the train there are plenty of both.

phone-calls

bored.
so often confused.
more and more i want to become confusion.
be that false fabricated reality,
weaved so seamlessly into the textures of real reality,
that people can no longer tell what they are looking at.
make random phone-calls to foreign countries.
order take-out in Provence,
listen to the ocean in Talcahuano.
call Marrakesh and smell my phone,
then wake up innocent men in Helsinki
with uncontrolled screams into the speaker.
some will yell back,
funny sounding words.
we could communicate like wild animals,
in different time-zones.
add some twisted undercurrent
to the flow of information.
a child-like approach to disruption of patterns.
all this i want
just to kill twenty minutes of my day.

almost straight ahead

for a day i drove straight ahead.
no slight turn, or dip in the road.
the grandness of the land ballooned in my head,
gently drifting through the golden waves of the Iowa fields,
never before more at ease.
the sun was burning out, when i was startled by an intersection.
no traffic going either way.
only me, confused.
relieved.
to the left, a topless bar.
on the right, a motel.
i doubted my ability to keep the car straight for much longer,
so i pulled right in, to a graveled parking area with no designated spaces.
the red neon was still faithfully lit, but the place looked closed.
it was worth a stop anyway, if only to stretch my road-worn legs in the dust.

the heat was still pressing in the dark, as i dragged my feet towards the office, accompanied by the soothing sounds of crickets.
there i knocked at the screen-door, and rumbling sounds emerged from inside.
a tall midwestern beauty opened the door.
curly dark red hair (not her real colour), and the most beautiful tits i ever saw.
snake-skin cowboy boots up to her knees
what can i do you for sweetheart? she asked with a lipstick-smeared cigarette in her mouth.
just looking for a place to rest my head.
the head needs rest does it?
she was high on some drug i really needed.
got any money on you sweetheart? she wanted to know, blowing that sweet tobacco smell in my face.
what's the damage?
she nodded to a sign that had $35 written on it with magic marker.
i pulled out my wallet, and she gently put her hand on it,
as to cover it.
there are other ways you can pay, she winked at me with fake eyelashes.
i gave her the 35 dollars - not without hesitation.
where'ya from anyway, stud?
Oslo, Norway, i told her, and her face lit up.
wow, that's in England isn't it?
yes i said
it sure is!

i spent that whole night regretting not fucking her.
and i never went to that topless bar.
in the morning, i dropped my key in the box and took off.
i tried to ignore her in my rearview-mirror. standing in that doorway,
smoking her cigarettes.
slowly lifting her arm in a sad goodbye.
but i was back on the road.
not a turn, not a dip.
still going,
almost straight ahead,
with some regret.

yes?

there are no standing at red lights,
waiting to cross the street.
what would i do with my hands?
those awkward rubber-strings
extending at great lengths from my shoulders.
there are no more walks outside,
in the light of day.
it hurts when people step on my shadow.
physically, i think.
mentally, perhaps?
there are thoughts sometimes,
at late nights,
of drowning my brain in formaldehyde.
through the glass-jar,
maybe it could see what's wrong with me.
but other times i'm fine, yes!
yes.
yes.
yes?
i'm just fine.

surprised

there are a lot of things to be said about looking in the mirror
i am not gonna say a lot about it
because i seldom feel the need to look at myself
but this morning, staring out a darkened window, my reflection appeared
it had a surprised look on it's face
i was surprised because my reflection had a full beard
i did not know that i had a beard
there are a lot of things to be said about beards
but i am not gonna say a lot about it
this beard is just my mental state manifesting itself
on my face

i am a maggot

many a late hour i cried for help.
when help arrived,
i screamed for it to leave.
there are lost verses to my childhood song.
adolescent years filled with a desperate wish to die.
as an adult i have been permanently intoxicated.
i am a maggot
leaving a slimy trail behind.
i move slow,
but the days move slower.
at thirty two, i feel old.
and i know now that if you try to fight time,
time will always win.
all i want is to be with the people i love,
all i want is to be alone.
in me is a deep-rooted contempt for wellness.
so is the nature of my illness.
it's an irrational fear,
but fear is fear - rational or not.
those glowing faces
with their yoga-mats and organic food.
those born again religious fanatics
with their scripture and judgement.
all this caring for life,
this want to live forever,
a strive for heaven.
well rounded, caring bastards.
get away from me with your talk!
secretly i want the world to go down in a global-warming, nuclear-blasting, balls out, fornicating, drug and alcohol induced coma inferno.
in me is a deep-rooted hate for most people.

wagon

on the wagon, off the wagon
driving the goddamn wagon off the road
and i woke up crying in that ditch
i tried sobriety
but there is a lot of shame leading down that path
these days i watch my beard grow
the string of confusing thoughts is stretching
a mind-fuck of disorganized pictures
underexposed faces, smiling
for what reason, i wonder?
that head-worm sucking me dry
i still get out of bed (most mornings)
to a soiree of boredom
a cocktail-party of great pretenders
what is the sum total?
i wish i was still in that ditch
crying my heart out
drunk

pee

standing still, there on the sidewalk
down on selma avenue.
legs wide apart
in a proud pose.
i didn't notice, until i got closer,
the dark wet spot blooming from his crotch
running down his left leg.
wow,
how i admired him.
his shameless demeanor,
this ability to let go.
i have tried for days now
to pee myself
with no success.

?

perhaps you noticed
being next to me
that i'm not really here
can you tell me when i left
can you tell me where i've gone
will i notice
that i'm next to you
what your answer is
if you even have one
does it matter
do we care
the days keep coming anyway
the days keep going
are we gone

painting

i used to paint
drag my body in wormlike contractions
across the pure white space
violating the canvas
body dripping with shameful colors
nuances of brown
i enjoyed the animalistic madness to this act
more than the paintings themselves
this was never about art
always desperation
i paint no more
these days i drink and vomit

blood out my ass

there i was
waiting for the right moment i guess
the other day blood poured out of my ass
my doctor used words
unfriendly to my ears
and i've felt old ever since
but then again
i felt old ever before
tired now
words hang from the corner of my mouth
drips like saliva down my chin
still bleeding on the inside
and the moment, i wonder
might have passed me by

let the wind decide

wish i had guns.
i would shoot them at all hours of the day
and feel high aiming at the sky.
i would never wear clothes again
my shotgun duct-taped to my leg.
just get drunk and smoke cuban cigars
whistle bluegrass tunes
and go on crazy rants.
the desert would be the place to be
and if someone trespasses
just bury them there.
no-one would like me
and that is just fine.
i'd write hateful words in the sand
and let the wind decide.

the record store

back home
not too far from my apartment
there was this record-store
a small store
that could fit maybe five or six people
but i never saw more than two in there
i used to stop by most every day
to listen to music they wouldn't play anywhere else
to look at albums i'd never seen before
i would hang out with the owner and talk about music
for hours
i liked him a lot
he was passionate about his buisness
and i wished that i had a passion
sometimes i listen to the records i bought there
and i think about him
that store was his life
and eventually his death
he died of a heart-attack when he was 30
i tried to go back to that store
but it wasn't the same
not when he was gone
now they play the same music they play everywhere else
i've seen all the albums before
now there is usually more than two people in the store
and i can't go back there anymore

debatical

there is always a war up for debate
people go on and on and on
and i long to the days of broken bottles
blood and alcohol
music also
tied to that tune of drunken madness
the battles keep on coming
and we are tired of not fighting

so many words in the paper
to few faces
nothing to tie the ship to
we drift away in this sea of muck
give us the poison that is rightfully ours
heritage

sometimes we are washed ashore
sick by the swell of our past
there it is
broken bottles and blood and alcohol
music no more
you don't pick your battles
only your weapon
and your weapon is not up for debate

dream

i loved her when she slept
perfect,
framed in light blue stillness
a quiet beauty,
not passing judgement or doubt
i could watch for hours
trying to get a taste from the subtle movements of her jaw
but i failed to penetrate her subconscious
before she awakened with a glare of guilt in her eyes

was i ever in her dreams?

myself,
i'm incapable of dreaming
now that she's gone

climate shock therapy

this time of year
(november).
where i grew up
one look out the window reads death
spelled by trees lining the street
starved to dry bones
and the birds have all moved on
following our last breath south.
i had yet to be alive when i headed west
all the way to california.
these days i follow my own winds south
like the birds
to the deserts
to a different kind of dying
a death that i can live.

smog (the LA poem)

los angeles is a neuron
at the core of the psychotic mind
a shock of brilliance and madness
this atlantis demon of the desert
draped in a fabric
thin like smog
woven by the energy of millions lost
framed by confused consciousness
like a graffiti painting
this reality hits the wall
as the firestorms create their own winds in the southland
los angeles is the last to know
the nightmare of so many people here
create the sweet dreams for an entire world
if you have one way out
you go west
this is misery, this is beauty
and this is west

memory loss

i had a lot of good stories
but the allusive details are gone
all that is left is the vague sensation
that i once lived
like a shock of static electricity
delivered by a stranger
the scent of a summer that seemed to last forever
we don't get those anymore
not even in california where it is always summer
this memory loss
it might be a primal instinct
or maybe it's the drugs
cause i refuse to believe that i never had much fun

the only child

what if God got tired
moved on to bigger and better things
told his son to cut his hair and get a job, then
sent him back to us
what if Jesus is getting drunk at some bar in Texas.
not a carpenter anymore, but
a mechanic,
a part time poet
taking comfort in rust, and
failing livers
signs of time
he can taste some truth at the bottom of the bottle
and the drugs
they decide whats real or not
if that even matters.
last call, and
he tries to scribble down words in the right order
to disrupt order by using words
still fascinated by rust and time
his failing liver
this time he can only die for his own sins

time to appreciate

in old westerns
some poor guy always gets shot in the stomach.
a good guy, but not the lead.
it may take hours,
sometimes days
to die from such injuries.
slow,
painful, but
a good way to go i believe.
just enough time
to lose all shame
or ambitions.
total freedom
and the time to appreciate.
as you drift into a dream
the gaping, gushing hole
speaks to you
a promise of rest.
that is how i would leave
i'm a good guy
but i was never the lead

but now i'm crying

crawling, yes I'm crawling
then i'm running
the crack in the ground
growing larger
my shoes are blue and I'm running
people yelling, grabbing money from my hands
now they are pointing
crawling. i yell back
the sky is black, but now i'm laughing
crack in the ground, tearing us apart
people fall in, and i'm laughing louder
then crying from the stinging guilt and shame
angry hands take my alcohol away
uniforms look upon me with suspicious eyes
and the sun is up forever
where beauty breaks like glass
and i sit and sit and sit
and i'm crying

little dog, old man

i have a small dog
a chihuahua
she is not even two years old
despite her age and sex
she reminds me of an old man
patient and wise
little dog, old man
sometimes i think she is my best friend
when she takes me for a walk
she slows me down
helps me pay attention to the details
the small things that make up the day
little dog, old man
i love you for your loyalty
you are weary of strangers
always honest
little dog, old man
she wants to go everywhere with me
and when i leave her
she howls by the window
like a small wolf
and when i return she bites my nose
little dog, old man
i wish i was more like you

before i go to bed

christmas, almost
out on my porch
kind of cold for california, but
i'm out here every night
sucking on that last cigarette
i've come to enjoy these palm-trees
better in the dark
and the two black men that are slowly passing by
one always talking
about things i don't know
the other listening, like me
trying to understand
his voice reminds me of a book i once read
but the moon distracts me
from remembering it's name
right now it feels like i've always been happy
but i know that can't be true
i wonder if the moon can hear us howling
so does the men, talking
gone in the dark

sit

have you ever seen a hummingbird sit?
i have
they always seem to be flapping their wings
yet going nowhere.
i was wearing only a scream back then
displaying my sick tongue
fluttering my fingers at the air.
perhaps it wasn't a hummingbird
but my last sincere dream
resting for a moment to shake it's head at me.
whatever it was,
it made me small
then i forgot about it
until now.

pills and bugs and such...

pills in a matchbox
oh, my god

bugs are eating pills, and the pills
and the pills
they are eating my stomach
and i crush those bugs with my index-finger.

bugs in a pillbox
oh, my god

and the pills will crush my soul with their crawling, and the bugs
and the bugs
they always never sleep
cause they have to stay in my dreams

me in a bugbox
oh, my god

those feelers can't feel much more, and i can't
and i can't
they trample me with their many feet
even when i'm not asleep

one frame per hour

on my silver screen
a muted trumpet plays
at one frame per hour
perfect lighting
shows how dark it really is
it is not a big deal
most of us are only extras
walk from here to there
don't drag any attention to yourself
it is easy to believe that life is a movie
but from the back row
i understand
that this show is nothing spectacular
it is only life
and life happens all the time

i hate trumpets

drip

oh yeah, magnolia
this sure looks like the dark
it is what we seek
that little sadness injection
a mournful IV-drip
self-pitying deathbed we lay on
every word bundled into a withered bouquet
drip drip drip
what runs through us is nothing new
it's donor sorrow, black
inherited muck
well i don't want it
not no more

pimp

He held it over his head
that ol' book with her worn out pages
still he preach
in his finest megaphone voice
the judgement he no longer believes
She rests in the worst motels
too many men have left their fingerprints
on her skin
He, the pimp of that whorish bible
just another Messiah rolling down interstate 80
lonely like the distance of the highway
no lightning-bolts, no desire
but at every vacancy sign
those flickering neon beacons
She waits
for the man to lose his faith

coffin-parade

in the moonscape of sandy flats
on warm stones, far from water
thoughts arrive
deep like drowning. shocked
in a neuron firestorm
the sun will cast my shadows in every direction
like a compass gone mad from bipolar magnetism
this is a wild west funeral
a coffin-parade through dusty towns
lost from lost beings
a backwards dance, backtracking my walk on the wrong path
life has spiraled out of my hands, and into the hands of the spiral
don't bother with that wooden cross
i'm not done yet
when i am
the birds will pick me apart
the color on their beaks will taste
like red nothing

sledgehammer fingers

there is something arousing about observing people
from a safe distance
there are bubbles bursting in my guts
as i observe her
she is writing aggressively.

this is in a bar
one of those dark places
where people go to avoid each other
the beer-glass always have traces of lipstick and fingerprints
this is our way of socializing
we communicate with stains and uncleanliness.

her fingers grow into the shape of small sledgehammers, pouncing
bashing the plastic keys of her laptop
hateful words for sure
i imagine it being a break-up letter
or a fuck-you-note to her manager.

in this moment of inspiration
i lock myself in the bathroom
to jerk off, and
write threatening words on the clean walls
these lines will brew inside the stall
like a dirty bomb
ready to ruin your day

when i'm done
she is gone, and
so is my beer
i tip the fat bastard behind the bar five cents
and complain about the rude message in the mens-room
this is my way of saying fuck you
it's hard to always take your frustration out on the wrong person.

heading home
knowing that i never did partake much in life
i curse myself and everyone
but i intend to enjoy the delicate details of death
when the time comes.