I am being forced by a change/switch/exasperation of mind to do what I actually want. I think it is because people actually want me and I need the actual me simultaneously. I am not going to say to much more because there ARE still things that I have been repressing in myself that are GREAT — from motherfucking 2008. THAT WAS 16 YEARS AGO.
ALL I WANTED WAS TO LISTEN TO WEIRD ERA CONT FOREVER..
It is easier to understand my hesitation when Pamela Anderson is near death by old age and still my desire..
My nuclear armaments = stability. I have to stay in this apartment until..
Ok, No, honestly there are things that I appreciated but knew that I could know deeper once I was more mature, this goes for the entire LOST GENERATION writers: Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Willa Cather, William Faulkner, John Dos Passos, John Steinbeck.
Which is different from other which I knew I knew better the first time: Dostoyevsky, Kerouac, The Black Lips, Norma Jean, my own father, my own brother.
After the Lost Generation we skipped the Beats, I will never understand William S. Burroughs better than my own right hand, which is to say Kansas City BBQ and all my own taboo lovers that I did not love, witch is to say perfectly.
Where does the shit writers that Norman Mailers introduced me too fit in?
Living in Joe Fogartys house I read one of Norman Mailers letters or essays that addressed his contemporaries. This is not a pretty scene by modern standards. The dress rehearsal collected a couple of my own that included the beats, Burroughs and Kerouac.
Something is completely fucked that swept Ginsberg away into the HOMO PRIDE movement but left out Burroughs.
BUT WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING IN THE STRAIGHT PRIDE WRITING MOVEMENT WHEN WRITING IS DEADER THAN SEA SALT CHIPS AT JIMMMY JOHNS.
So good, yeah but everyone is eating white potatoes from McDonalds.
I YEARN FOR GOD.
Ok, so where was I, PET SOUNDS?
Howl.
The modern gay movement wouldn’t include HOWL for inclusion into the White House because in the fifth line it says : NEGRO STREETS.
Am I waiting to die?
(On Consumerism and Consumption)
(Feeling Holy with nothing)
Every time that I start
The metal wire begins to hum
I accomplish something
Am fried and collapse
Being in this angelic place requires the being’s death and the will to be extinguished. Then I am Holy.
Once we fire up the engine and get some gas in the tank we will be right back to cooking with witch’s tit.
Am I waiting to die?
That is what I said to Leo.
I said, in construction you will learn skills
This job is just another way to die
My mind gives me little fever dreams of the evil that is falling
At the moment it was two women who wanted to take me for millions
If I am having death throes
Then at least be buoyant about it
What is the way to build strength
Except the exhaustion, use, loss and death
Of weakness
This process feels like vulnerability
The funny thing is that I am asking myself if I am going to eat her shit
There is no shit to eat
That is the ultimate tease
The only release is to send money
I can still mentally and spiritually
Suck her toes and eat her ass
That is consumption to even be there
There is a political battle of sorts raging
I am trying to intellectualise consumptive behaviour
Me not utilising my life
Even the little girls notice
They watch me from behind the backseat
A full grown man in the prime of health loading groceries
The wolves bare their teeth
The girls bare their feet
I just drink and jerk, go to work
And hardly eat
I live in a vacuum
I am an island
The creature from the black lagoon
Why am I?
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