Leave It to the Professionals

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Sun wash. Battle Rocket, backward cigarette faux paus.

Coffee morning dread.

That is my mini-poem of words that just pop out.
I don't ever mean to write anything.

It's not a choice, more like a compulsion to write.
Sorry to innocent bystanders of my art,
we all know those things we don't know why we read or look... but we do
and then it becomes a 'sucker of time,' something that sucks the time out of our life and then
we are just alone again with the computer and insomnia

saying, 'if only I went to bed at 8 pm when I was tired, I wouldn't be here... again.'

Pah.

I have miniature animal figurines with large eyes, like owls and tiny cats. I talk to them and act like they have feelings.

I am more alone than I have ever been.
There is no one I want to be near.

Full of hate and bitterness----- just for today

that is why I cannot wait to sleep.
I never thought of killing someone until this year,
I remember laughing in the theatre during Natural Born Killers when no one else was laughing,
when the earless guy pops a mouthful of ecstasy ...

everyone else seemed to be uptight ...
and I thought,

I have imagined things like this...

the dream I had when I was primal
living in the tropical forrest and I had a spear,
and I was all muscle,

I had to kill in that dream.
I did it with my hands and the spear,
but I had muscles that were lean and I could climb the walls
kind of like spiderman, but better.