Jabberwocky
Frumious Bandersnatch
Dear friends, ladies, junkies, freaks, tweakers, degenerates and so forth,
What the hell, I'm slowly becoming Bukowski; they're filling my pockets with gorilla turds while sizing me up for a cheap Walmart coffin and I'm holding on to a couple of empty 5 cent bottles. These bill collectors are still wanting to add to their collection, that's shitty enough and I'm hobbling around like a 3 legged cat next to an empty food bowl. Dusty baggies, piss bottles, bed sheets covered with sweat and blood, UGH! What I mean is, don't be like me– when I write these silly poems, I write them because I think some of you might be as sad and as broken as me and you might be able to understand, and look, look... I am drinking here now and I think the sky will fall down, static paranoid stasis, 32 viscous years dripping like blood from from my ears and I hold on to a couple of fading memories, it's that, it's the collection, and shit, it may be my only chance for salvation.
When I write these poems I write them to you and by you I mean myself because as you must know I am very confused and disheartened, yet, some of you might find interest in these drunken wailings. Are you going to look at me with my mother's eyes after I've been caught stealing for "the last time"? Are you going to half-kill me like a life crushing cocaine comedown at 2pm last Tuesday? Are you going to fire me like that pig fucker Jimmy because my meds gave me narcolepsy? Are you going to kick me out like that bitch landlord Jessica because I can't pay the rent? What I am trying to say is this: are you going to be like the rest of the world or are you going to be like the people who I think I am writing to? If this sounds like I am desperate, it's because I am. I am begging for a scrap of hope and a little bit left to go on with.
I don't know the actualities, maybe this fucked up kafkaesque tragedy is all in my head, maybe my life is just brown shit smeared onto the wall with long sharp fingernails, but when I speak with you people, the community and realness of you, the you you you, myself directing the arrow, my heart, the broken music of what was left after the drugs and the hurt, whatever, whatever. I can't feel you'll let me down; even if my best is only the absolute bare minimum, if it's only money, sex and drugs, my God, I'll try to persevere a little longer, day by day; whatever I have left at the bottom of the black bucket to distill, scrape up and surrender on a golden platter next to some red onions.
I ask you out of whatever is left of my soul, out of what tiny bit of essence and mirror of a sunray I have left, please take care of and believe in yourselves. There are degrees of madness and the more fucked up you are the more obvious it will be to other people, what did Bukowski say?, "the worthy accomplishment would be to not have entirely wasted ones life"? I guess I must sound like a broken record, a pathetic lost soul, I am tired. I only want all the parts to be in harmony like animals next to the river flowing down from the mountain. I want to resonate with the universe in a way that makes the pain all make sense. I want to be at peace with and champion my own soul. I can't say anymore, it's your chess move and the threat of a violent hangover sprinkled with what tears my dehydrated body has left is looming.
Love ya guys,
Snafu
What the hell, I'm slowly becoming Bukowski; they're filling my pockets with gorilla turds while sizing me up for a cheap Walmart coffin and I'm holding on to a couple of empty 5 cent bottles. These bill collectors are still wanting to add to their collection, that's shitty enough and I'm hobbling around like a 3 legged cat next to an empty food bowl. Dusty baggies, piss bottles, bed sheets covered with sweat and blood, UGH! What I mean is, don't be like me– when I write these silly poems, I write them because I think some of you might be as sad and as broken as me and you might be able to understand, and look, look... I am drinking here now and I think the sky will fall down, static paranoid stasis, 32 viscous years dripping like blood from from my ears and I hold on to a couple of fading memories, it's that, it's the collection, and shit, it may be my only chance for salvation.
When I write these poems I write them to you and by you I mean myself because as you must know I am very confused and disheartened, yet, some of you might find interest in these drunken wailings. Are you going to look at me with my mother's eyes after I've been caught stealing for "the last time"? Are you going to half-kill me like a life crushing cocaine comedown at 2pm last Tuesday? Are you going to fire me like that pig fucker Jimmy because my meds gave me narcolepsy? Are you going to kick me out like that bitch landlord Jessica because I can't pay the rent? What I am trying to say is this: are you going to be like the rest of the world or are you going to be like the people who I think I am writing to? If this sounds like I am desperate, it's because I am. I am begging for a scrap of hope and a little bit left to go on with.
I don't know the actualities, maybe this fucked up kafkaesque tragedy is all in my head, maybe my life is just brown shit smeared onto the wall with long sharp fingernails, but when I speak with you people, the community and realness of you, the you you you, myself directing the arrow, my heart, the broken music of what was left after the drugs and the hurt, whatever, whatever. I can't feel you'll let me down; even if my best is only the absolute bare minimum, if it's only money, sex and drugs, my God, I'll try to persevere a little longer, day by day; whatever I have left at the bottom of the black bucket to distill, scrape up and surrender on a golden platter next to some red onions.
I ask you out of whatever is left of my soul, out of what tiny bit of essence and mirror of a sunray I have left, please take care of and believe in yourselves. There are degrees of madness and the more fucked up you are the more obvious it will be to other people, what did Bukowski say?, "the worthy accomplishment would be to not have entirely wasted ones life"? I guess I must sound like a broken record, a pathetic lost soul, I am tired. I only want all the parts to be in harmony like animals next to the river flowing down from the mountain. I want to resonate with the universe in a way that makes the pain all make sense. I want to be at peace with and champion my own soul. I can't say anymore, it's your chess move and the threat of a violent hangover sprinkled with what tears my dehydrated body has left is looming.
Love ya guys,
Snafu
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