My leprechaun--- never my Sir--- ah but friend, this is directed to certain ruminations on our mastication of the world outside the outgrown hallowed grounds. On certain premises that led to argumentations, I would like to address while sober:
V-Day Is The Day Bipolar Encountered PSTD
My butt-fucked leprechaun, as the ticking alienist in this 4.5something billion-year-old planet, upon evaluation, presents via rehab speak that this restaurant paying homage to the Incurable Bipopular Disorder is:
!An elaborate coping mechanism for an entity that is Bipolar!
!In some languages, this is called: A Living Art Space!
!Interactive, these free lectures about natural substitutes for brain chemicals like serotonin, dopamine…!
!The animal to kill and eat to beat depressing rage unto chill is
!Alexander McQueen didn’t come here!
!It’s a time warp to Social Science of 1996!
!
!It is a trippy wonka ayayayayaya!
Being a pricey whore---
This brain, this heart, this body, a soul with the Philosopher’s Stone transforming shit to gold (but most of the time these stones into Pyrite). It was the consciousness’ choice made when the world of words had become noise; the page had ceased to satisfy the hunger for what could be changed in the service to the nation. Amid all that noise, the Stone had become a Heart, this catalyst that now turns robotic rats’ penises and vaginas
--- articulators---
into brains. And what of your love, dear fiend?
“I refuse to continue prostituting my brain!” you say.
What do you think the world is if not to bargain freedom?
What kind of whore did it make you?
The Machiavellian Gambit---
Never my Sir, perhaps honesty is a genetic fault, and you and I are brothers in this foible. But it is a matter of Quantum Physics: what is then is now and then it will be then.
You are never with a mask, you say.
I say, “How intractable! Even elephant dung can be mistaken for a stone! And elephant jism is honey to some armies, you know!”
Feared? Check.
Loved? Check.
Diplomatic? Fuck that shit but it has its uses.
(That is the business of language, after all--- to insult with floral assertiveness.)
Hated?
Only by idiots (lost in the fallacy of the memories of their Golden Fucked Up Age).
Furiae, Visum, Ars: mine arse and so thy should be.
And Nietzsche laughed, “Hwaaaaaat?!”
It’s the end of the world as we know it when an atheist is puritanical in values. Being a Mormon would be better, you know. Or perhaps be a member of that cult wherein relatives can go fornicate with each other and produce forth monsters. At some time, that’s called royalty. In some whoredoms, it’s called “family”. Aww, shucks, a family that screws over and fucks each other, stay….err….a higher rate of turnovers!
What is this tall prison costing you?
This block of 40 floors housing some of the future of the Sunshine Industry.
On the 38th is some Shoe Conglomerate
--- one French executive is hunky.
On the 34th is a ride for a peso that takes off from some place and crashes into the Pacific
--- they joke.
On the 36th are skin and slimming specialists
---smoking in the fire exit where an emphatic NO SMOKING sign begs with !!!!!!!!!!!!
On The 40th is the brain of air-conditioned boxes that is the drug for capitalist junkies
--- these zombies looking for some fun (and the brain has a butler).
A laugh
--- To mask a feral snarl
“Are you even writing?” you ask.
(Do not ever fucking talk to me about costs.)
“Of course you are too tired to write,” you say.
Yes, my teats are being sucked by the futures that are birthed by my cancerous womb.
The I in Isolation or in Solitary Confinement
Absurd, never my Sir, that I inhale these brainwaves who blunder into ignorant declarations of censorship, projections, and they rattle,
“SSSSSSSSS…”
Tires? Farts?
“Yes, I could not talk to anyone,” you say.
Talk? Of course not for that would entail conversation and the pieces are,
“SSSSSSSS….”
“But then again, nobody grew up the way we did,” you say.
Retarded and wizened?
Why, yes.
I say, “We were never meant to fit.”
And a cat says, “The only time I really know what’s going on your mind is when you put them in words.”
LOOK AT THIS NOISE.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
And here, (im)material:
A chunky puppy who would grow up into a short fat philandering fuck----
An email that does not know the proper use of contractions---
A butthead that is called an asshole----
A proposal that says “Filipino English versus Real English”---
Jesus Fucking Job.
By the way, I am mistakenly called a trainer.
Therefore I work in a zoo.
!Ooh-Ooh-Ooh-Aah-Aah-Aah-Eeh-Eeh-Eeh-Ayayayayayayayeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
So why does Death bother you?
“Because this one died at 29?” you say, “And it doesn’t make sense because a life did not reach expectations.”
The expectation to reach at least 30? What do you think?
Because a friend died and dies every year when this month comes for the past two years now.
Because people die after.
Because people die before.
Because all these witnessed deaths are scabs.
Because…Because…Because…
And the other day, I tiredly said what I refused to say, “I want to die.”
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Because of Mothers
One of mine came home.
And on a Monday night, she said, “You are tired.”
Yes.
And on the next night and maybe the next, I woke her and said, “Yes. Can I stop now and just go away?”
Anytime.
Is it time?
So, Leprechaun, never my Sir
These things instead rather than snap: worlds will not simply fall apart.
They will break.
This-----
My pinky and the brain.
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