1998 At This Point

At this point

At this point I would like to remind the reader that they too will die. And that I have no room. And that maybe if they die, I might get myself a little more rrrrrrooom. And deeper, and better than, and a cooler colored room. One, some in which to breathe, one, some in which to stretch, room. And my sinus eye would fade contentedly like two, two airs, two airs mingling. Two pumping, fighting for room and I hope that they do die because I am so encumbered. They should succumb. Somnambulity, succumbing feet. My paper is dying! My medium is, making room, dying for, what, I do not know, it leaves, IT will, have left NO PLACE FOR CREATIVE GRAMMER AND COMMAS THAT KILL MOOD. BREATH BREATH EVERYONE KEEPS BREATHING. Ah. At this point I would like to remind the reader that they DO have an opinion, and that it shall reflect, heretofore, wheretofore, whatnot, and so, And so, they have no opinion AT THIS POINT. But directly afterwards an aftertaste accumulates in their Sinus eye, like dry worms they are are they? I must You, we Must them, and these are just little hints of that. That thing, you know, mom.

 

 

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1999 Thank You

Thank You

Measurements, the destruction, distinction of my mind,

And thank you most of all, Mr. Television, for the gift of an enemy.

Thank you Mr. Television for fucking my asshole raw with your limp dick ideologies and warping my sense of beauty into a pedophile’s eternal youth version of reality.

Thank you Mr. Television for countless fruitless masturbation fantasies at the expense of the love of the girl next door.

Thank you Mr. Television for leading me to believe that I am boring and severe.

Thank you Mr. Television for making my mother suck your cock for the continued sustenance of her illusion.

Thank you Mr. Television for destroying my ill-begotten self esteem, your free dispensing of universal standards of behavior,

And thank you most of all, Mr. Television, for the gift of an enemy.

 

 

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