It’s all crap. I spend more time playing with my poetry and reading it and re-reading it and liking it and not liking it and editing and editing and editing and not doing a damn thing with it, except not writing it. It’s a petulant child that taunts me with my glory days, except when it gets down to brass tacks, there are no glory days. everything written is written and dead. It is infuriating to the Nth degree! Absolutely frustrating! I’m refusing to write the crap i’m thinking because it’s crap. i don’t need to put it on paper to know it’s crap. it’s just shit. shit shit shit. a child. wait; it or me? I don’t care. I am it and it is me, there is no other lover, save you! And now this – all the dreams and none of the flowers. Prose till we died, but that was yesterday. or last night; it’s hard to say when a heart gives out.
And don’t give me any shit about pleasing me or you or anyone else. I cut my lip from her bucking and it’s sore as hell now every time I touch it with my tongue in some deranged potty fantasy of pissing at 5 am into buckets down the stairs while a whole catholic boys school basketball team dances around naked clutching their genetalia (those son’s of ungodly whores!) with out a trace of puberty on their chins yet, those little fucks sure can gush loads and loads and loads; I fucking know about pleasing, god damn it! I know!
and now this – this horrendous desert of 26 letters and 10 digits and a nearly infinite palate of symbols and punctuation and nothing that reeks of unrequited love even remotely close to the horizon. I’ll tell you what: don’t confess anything to early to me, i’ll get bored if you don’t let me figure it out. but the bitch of it is, I won’t. I’m just saying that. so I don’t seem as callous, but I tell you what: I’m a bad mean ugly lecherous filthy bastard and I don’t just wanna love anything, no, not just anything – and I definitely don’t want to love something that wants to love me back. Not in a million years and not when I was 12. It’s the denial and shame and cut chrome of life that makes me want to live, not placid acceptance for all my faults without harsh judgments and mundane sentences in the hopes that I might reform my stupidity! I need harsh directions and reminders of failure at every post, "That’s why you don’t get blow jobs from me!" – yell it a hundred times a day for every time I don’t take the garbage out or forget to pass out in bed or find myself getting head from a transvestite in the back of bar for free – just cause she liked me; scream it out, out to the world and give me a god damn moment of rest from utter joy that might otherwise consume my being. Bang the pots and pans I got you for Valentine’s day and run the Vacuum cleaner I picked up from the pawn shop for your birthday at 6 in the morning, but don’t you dare try and tell me that I’m decent in anyway other than I’m not a killer. Don’t you dare point out the softer failings where i might look like I could use someone to put a wet towel on my forehead when the world gets so goddamned ugly and everyone on earth just breathes fire right out of their bellies and into my face; don’t you dare point it out – just keep screaming about my too-short cock and tell me of all the other men that can eat your pussy the right way. Then I’ll write something worth reading.
Fuck Neruda.