Quote:
Originally Posted by dull boy
Hey, self awareness! I didn't notice you there.
Ironically I've already seen my soul in the bare.
Holes in the air of our awkward conversation.
You offer consolations like I'd off myself from break ups.
I've already forgotten. Sell the paint brush. I'm painting with buckets.
That doesn't mean a God damn thing, or maybe it doesn't.
Wasn't. Crazy. A puppet. Playing a trumpet for these ladies. In public.
Made me make me look like a dumb shit. Drag my name through the mud.
Tracked it through the house. Been awake for a month.
Misery keeps me company late into dusk. Pour away at the pub.
I'm wasted on being wasted. Just a grave that ain't dug.
A wake that ain't come. Asleep at the wheel.
You hear the beeps and then squeals.
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Come at me. Slush, between the clay and the muck. Sludge
Slate, and some gunk. Mush, braze, and residuum.
Loves late, a continuum. A degree adjusted in tandem
It's nothing, a breeze, a combustible band
of gunpowder. Diseased touch, of debris crushed in your hand
Sunflowers. Every snake in the mud. Every paint, in the brush.
Mistakes like blades full of mud. I've erased and begun another canvass
Just, like, well it's like, ... the moment the ink drips on the paper
And seeps on the counter, and leaps bounds between the medians out.
yes???
It's the tiny smidgen of grease.
I just wish a group of scientists would study my hand movements in cursive
to predict and map rubrics in spurts.
so I can exist, and feel my mannerisms are human.
Melancholism effusive. It's like alcoholism. but, prudent.
Lonely, lewd and abusive, souls consumed
by a moving phonograph of obtrusive
Open almanac. It's a translucent, overcast of aloofness.
I don't know.
It's hard to think, but it's not. It's like we're at odds with the world.
Oxalis.
Atomically, billions of atoms were encrusted in that blot of ink