(boring unicorns)

My brain is a pace in the maudlin whirl of unkept accidents.

And i am the fruit of the repetition.

My pattern precedes me. my reputation, not so much as i'm still figure out that nasty little sunmabitch again. not that it matters. i'm just curious. aimed at wonder (and days and days as a strange, sleepless casualty of light hallucinations that don't so much interfere with my day to day as haunt my bed with images of ants crawling over the walls and threatening to fall down and consume me as a fetid piece of meat settled in the sun, baked but still dripping viscera from the fresh sockets torn by the beetles for all the times i used them in my silly game of scaring grown men out of their skin and off my property [before i could even call a room my own]...never a trick really, so much as an endurance test on both are parts where no one really got hurt except for the few times my teeth got carried away with the appetite for fiercer attention even if it assured [or, perhaps, the better for] me a parial place in the adolescent race). nonsense. non plus.

Fuck.

Perhaps i'm better off wrestling the bed than letting my fingers rattle my senses again but you know how hard it is to stop this runaway train from leaning into that last curve on the precipice above the lazy hamlet of crippled pillagers who know their fate from the boston tea leaves they still read in the stains of her wine drunk face.

And fuck and fuck and fuck again.

It is a curious complaint, this compulsion. so many days i wish i could just bore the right hole into my skull and spend the rest of my half-life living right with the dead from paycheck to paycheck but then there's the rest. there is the passion. the desire to make one piece of something great (if not quite yet).

At least its mine.

I guess and guess.