I like songs about drifters, posts about the same

I didn’t wake up today. I wanted to, but my eyes’ muscles refused to work. So did all of the other muscles in the world. They were on strike. I felt that I was in a sad relationship where my body was separated from myself, even if we were both sharing the same bed. I can’t stay mad at my body for requesting a break.
I won’t. My mind won’t, if there is any to begin with. I was drifting away from my body, but oddly enough I was enjoying all the bodily pleasures imagined: sun in the eye, raindrops on the skin, laughter at the life.

Tell me what’s in your salad and I’ll tell you what’s in mine.

Fine, I’ll go first. Mine has 2 girls. One that looks like me and feels like me, but is not me compared to the other one who is the epiphenomenon of the first, resembles to me and feels like me with a twist. There’s no dressing, only dresses. One of them dresses casual the other one dresses up as me. I sit the two of them together, but they refuse to look at each other or to acknowledge one another. I’m fine, I can relate to that and to them except I obtusely refuse to relate to myself. Three would be a crowd I guess.

I like to drift and am a sucker for fugacious things: intercourse, ice cream, cigarettes, milk, me. (Do not read that as: milk me. If you do, the pun is all on you and not myself inflicted as the comma lady was visibly there).

An old man was sitting outside his house waiting for Hope. He was waiting for her to die. He had heard that she’d be the last to die and had wagered his friends that he would survive her. He didn’t. The two of them died together as a couple.

I like dogs who look both ways before crossing the street.

I like dogs period.

the pure breed mare in nightmare

I’m riding bus number 9. It’s the first time in a long time that I’m doing this. I take the first chair behind the driver, on the left – the side we drive around here. I’m looking out the window and at the same time looking at it to see my reflection. Can’t really say which eye sees what. This city is sad. More like lonely-sad to be laying in its own stink, decrepit state and hypocrisy. It smells bad. Just like the guy sitting behind me. Then again, who am I to judge? He might have a condition. Maybe he does not have a place to stay and is taking a ride on the bus to forget about that. It’s not my bus so why should I care or form an opinion? I don’t, even though it hurts my smell. The hour is late and the sun has set. What a paradox: the darkness brings out even more ugliness. I look up for hope. I think I see birds that fly away, only they are fucking bats. Their wings flap with contempt and this is merely a reflection of the people walking below. I’m holding a small watch battery that I have found on some stairs I was climbing before I got to the bus station. I’m playing with it and can almost feel it vibrate. It’s in my head tho, the battery is fuckin’ dead. Why else would it be laying on the ground for people to step on it? Finally a ray of light in this dump shit hole: teenage lovers, so untainted and so pure. They hold hands and don’t see any of the sadness that miraculously reveals itself to me every day. The grey in black and brown is being washed away only by billboards. Thank God and advertising for that. However this is only during daylight, because at night there is no light to see their colors, other than the moon’s and poor her, she’s covered in clouds of foggy car smoke so you can imagine the sight. We’ve turned into bats ourselves, our eyes have adjusted to the poor conditions of light. I guess we’ve adjusted to the ugliness and don’t seem to mind it anymore. The drugs come in handy too. Just like the billboards, shed a little color and a dip of confusion and maybe just a drop of paranoia. The perfect mix to the not entirely perfect life we hang on to. This girl sitting beside me has the most beautiful chestnut hair. She can’t be more than 15. I used to be 15 and had chestnut hair. Then I dyed it. It lost its color just like I have lost my virginity – two of the teen girl’s mile stones. More like mild stones for me compared to the rocks that were thrown my way the years to come. Here comes my stop. I have to get off. The thing I can’t possibly understand is why the hell are people in such a hurry to get off the bus? Yeah! Push like cattle in the barn, you cavemen. Geez. God forbid you were left in the bus and had to get off at the next stop. Who would like a bit of unexpected in their life? Nobody. Only the crazy and the irresponsible and the dreamers. The dreamers of bad dreams of course. The nightmare riders.

the seriousness behind being serious

if you want to be brave and be worth it you must perform. it's all about performance nowadays. take sports for instance: work hard, play ball and make sure you don't drop it. if you've dropped the ball, you'd better pray you have dropped it on yourself cause once the ball starts rolling there won't be anyone to put a stop to it. anyone other that yourself. i mean it. i'm as serious as a heart attack.and that is serious to say the least. i'm a sucker for notions' duality, but nothing compares to the duality of serious. i mean, how serious can one get? dead serious, pretty serious with capital P, as serious as a death sentence or maybe as serious as rain, as serious as sex if sex can be serious, bad joke serious or as serious as me when i'm being serious? serious can be good when expected, but don't get too serious orelse it can be fairly misinterpreted. and you don't want to be taken for a joke when in fact you were serious as well as a joke would suffer its most terrible ordeal if taken seriously and not enjoyed for what it is. just a joke. so where lays the border between dead and alive serious? it's borderline that's where it is. the dead serious i guess is linked to the highest amount of serious there could be. to my personal experience and rememberings i've been dead serious on 3 or 4 occasions all together and they were pretty close to death, so i won't go there anymore unless they make me. i like serious when it comes to life, i like alive serious. when the reasons are serious enough. you can't be serious! you, the all mocking, all ridiculing, all constantly fun making cunt wanna be taken seriously? not always. although i have tons of serious notes on my chords. i try to play them, but they must refuse to come out the way i intended them to. and i'm not to be taken serious, i suppose...all that's left for me to do is to get down. to business. to boogie and play it unsafely fun. ball dropping & rolling & all. 'cause after all, as the artist has put it: why so serious?

wheel running at sea

I’ve been at sea for too many years to remember and I must admit I’m starting to feel a bit of a loner. My hands look like some other person’s hands and every time I take a piss I wonder if it’s me holding my chap or some guy with nice hands that could pass on as mine.

I’ve even stopped thinking about women since then. Come to think of it, I’ve never thought about women except for when they were around. They used to look at me with their flowery faces and dance and sing to me. And I would go to sleep. Not anymore. They went blind and I went deaf. The singing still goes on, though.

Sometimes I stop thinking alltogether. The only moments I use to think I just fantasize about taking my own life.

I started with drowning. Quite pathetic, I know. Way to handy. Let’s face it. I have the sea at hand. I could die in a storm if I hit my head on the deck but I could never drown. Do suicidal firemen choose to die in a fire? Don’t think so.

The second choice was slitting my throat. Tried to do it while shaving. I like my neck too much though and instead I broke the mirror in my room. I did take it off the wall and placed it on the poop deck. I like watching myself literally blown to smithereens before I go to sleep. Reminds me I’m not alone.

Third on my list came sharks. I took 'em off the list as soon as they came to mind. I’m not that heroic. And the idea of serving as food to fish I’ve been hunting all my life would be a little bit too fair in setting the universal balance even for me.

There was no forth. The coward in me said stop and started to drink until I fainted. I woke up the next day the sun beating down my neck, saliva beating up my throat.

And then she finally came.

This gentle gust that seemed to say you’ll be fine. At least that was the message that got to me. Nature has its way of settling things as well as disturbing them. As long as it’s not human, I’ll go along with her and ask no questions. I know she has no ulterior motives. And if she does, she’s been around for so long that she knows her way.

I’m equally terrified by her raging strength and dumbfounded by her stealing beauty and I surrender.

single hot-looking psychosis seeks reassurance companionship

i am the last one standing on the face of your earth. the last one in terms of looks, wits, words, facts, plans.

i came in last:
the turn of my pages have already been in the summary of a kiddy book you read when you were little. only you must have skipped it.
what can you bring to the table? they've asked me when my turn came.
nothing new, i replied. but hey, if you take the words separately you could get the impression of getting 2 things. although, we'll declare nothing null and you'll be stuck with just new.
i must warn you, though: don't be fooled. the novelty rests in your remembering of something you have forgotten. so it's debatable.

i'm treachery:
ceci n'est pas une fille. this is the image of a girl. the girl itself is a fucked-up girl, a non girl, a sad girl, a girl in reverse.
depends on how you look at her.
pray she's not a gyr orelse you'll be her prey.
the multiple layers cover her bones. but inside the carcass lays her rotten essence. she's essentially good. the gs in good girl could be hers. since there are 2 of them.

make sure you keep your eyes open at all stages. you have to see all the actors in order to get the author's intent.
when you do, play along. you'll fit in like a glove.
one that has a hand inside. you know i'm scared of handless gloves.

i'm the high that killed the low:
i'm murder result. forensics had to dig up through shit and putrid rats to find my heart. it had my teeth around it and they were the only reliable source to say who i was.
so who was i?
the remains of a nightmare that i had last night.
i was the no in nonsense.
i was the hand that pulled me out of the fire.
i was the fire.
i was the victim.
i was the killer.
i was the rapist.
i was the rape.
i was the bad struggling to be the badder.

what it all boils down to in the end is what i am, not who i was.

i am a bird. you are a bloke. we're different from the start you and me.
good thing our common denominator is that we're both mocking.