exercise of lost inspiration

The only one here in the dream, I claim no doubt that could sound. So, lucky guy, the world is perfect the way it is—asleep in the bathroom at the gas station I worked inside your writing.

 

What I need best to think of the old days. Ears drip blood on the floor when he is thinking about you. In bed, living and waiting, breathing how I'll miss you.

 

The second person to follow me is the lunatic here signs his problem and goes though we both know we have only to be desirable in real life.

about jealousy in the aughts

I drove past your house five or six times that night, each time attending a funeral on the head of a screw.

I remembered you smoking outside in the stairwell while we huddled in the cold.

I remember all this like pillows on my face and pliers in my mouth. Disappear into that mountain in a brown study.

I cough my guts out, and clouds fall across the wall, the wall across the street falls before the sun. Master of manic episodes and creating them.