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Dis-complicate

I want to dis-complicate myself.  Deconstruct an identity.  A disembodied melting slide.  What little cattle pairings and tiny shit in car driving nightmare dragging slags.  And kitchen utensils fire burning flesh to sculpture monstronsity and blood clogging scabs.  Block feeding, nurturing interrupted.
Relaxing in reflex motions and repetitive masquerades, positions posturing and potent impediments cocked and released.  What fresh ripeness in a severed slab, cut and hemo-raging.  Life exploding to drain and fail this down.

(Dart eyes forward.  Pay attention to detail.  Stay alert.  Stay awake.  The enemy of tomorrow is today's fondest wish.  Keep the crosshairs focused.  You know how this is done and you know where the trigger is.)

Slapping/slipping, give hints of the sun in weather conversations and where is the mirror pointing?  Tear open the scar/s, pick up briefcase, tie noose stripes close to adam's apple, and slip the drink into mouth and drag along.

Day is brightness, and little else is.  Swallow exhaustion pills.  "Don't fall for this you fool," said to self.  Get back in car.  Spin wheel.  Drive in four-wheeled perfection mechanics and rest head when applicable.  Place lover here.  Done.  Go hide.  Stare and hate.  Spit out rotten tooth in sink and shake your reflections hand.  What am I the matter?  I've got good guy in my head and wearing smile.

(You cannot tame without fear.  Keep them afraid.  Take notes on jumps and starts and questioning glances, compliments and insults.  Calculate them.  Be calculating.  Never impetuate a single motion.)

Spin-doctoring minor hallucinations.  No need for treatment or post-haste hospitalization.  Flick ash, baptize the sidewalk, step out of the setup doors, open and have fuck with a friend.  I'd ruin my life for this.

Save a life with apprehension.  Spare the inconsequential incidental-alities for another daylight savings hour spent.  Punchclock ticketed, living in well-time precision.  Wash dishes, wash hands, wash face, wash away another day from your skin..  Change sheets...wet the bed and pillow is soaking beneath the tears from eyes swollen in the evening of a pondering unbalance.  Not enough pain to sustain me through this.  I make my own wrong way and turn misguided where they tell me is right but only for them and pretend it is for me instead.  And greater goods and in the ends long runs long terms it is better this way....

(A ghost stands the best chance.  Cloak yourself in your surroundings.  Practice it like a religion.  Keep it in count.  Don't be yourself.  If they don't know you, they can't hurt you.  Make an impression and impersonate yourself.)

Keep a coma close by just in case and one in the barrel with hollow....tip the waitress.  Nod nod nod nod.  I'm fine.  I got rehearsed rehearsals in costumed prettiness, champions of likeness and cracks this falls through.  I fall inward....like, psychic-mindings....communion-cation.   I fixate upon a face and want to mix with it/her/him and make a better me, destroying, imploding isolation and make a "We" of this.

The sun is sinning, baking brains like aborted eggs.  Ignorance agreed, prevent hatching harvest whilst feeling bleaches white.  Make a color of me again.  
Scratching itches gone.  Making blemish tracks mapping neurosis for them to trace.  Judge me not in a looking-glass halo-cage regret...they will regret what they leave me in....lead me in a decree of kissing hissing and breathing and remaking the world inside-out, outside-in.  Suffocate..  

Now step out of daydreaming illusions, put on coat, pocket change, and carry all documents in place.  Fold paper open, silly ink proclaimations/animations, and read in stressing frowning worry, their economy is unemploying me.  I don't heart secrets.  Don't mind strangers remaining strange...changelings in my entourage robbing me while blind and

(it's the forest against the trees.)
Written by RByron418 (R Byron Johnson)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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