Shucklak
Ex-Bluelighter
- Joined
- Dec 17, 2001
- Messages
- 3,213
I eat and drink, i read books, i am typing this page, i shit and piss and bathe myself.
i hear music, i converse, i brush my teeth in the morning and ride the bus.
I have sex and wash the sheets and i take three advil when i have a headache.
i learn and forget and write and paint and i smoke marlboro reds.
i breathe.
i get angry i get sad i smile and i dont like any kind of soda.
i am 21 years old. someday i will die.
when i was born i was covered in blood and myconium fluid and my mother carried me inside her for months.
i have stuck needles in my arm and filled my body with chemicals and i have been beaten and robbed and i have drawn blood and robbed too.
i am an american and i eat at mcdonalds and i waste food and i bitch about the price of gasoline.
i am a young man, i want to love and be loved, i have loved and been loved.
i am some things i want to be, i am some things i dont want to be
i am some things that i dont know i am, and i am not some things that i think i am
really though, i have no idea who i am, where i am or what the hell i am doing.
i always get the feeling that just before i was born someone drove me hear, to the middle of nowhere and kicked me out of the car. i must have lost the map.
i am of this world and i see and hear and think in this world, and i taste the bitter ambosia of it.
i am not of this world, im a stranger in a strange land that is a copy of a copy of a copy into infinity. the original is locked in a filing cabinet in an abandoned tenament.
there are no prophets but me and i read gods thoughts on the back of a napkin that i found in a gutter on a rainy day. i forgot what it said, but i couldnt read it anyway, the ink had run.
the world is a metaphor and god is a joke, his creation is a dirty limerick. i wonder if hes laughing at us now, drinking tea with the devil on the back of a leaf that falls from a tree in central park. the devil is an agent of god, they say.
i say neither one exists, and the cosmic joke was that he created us all and then blinked out of existance. my laughter is the echo of his laughter and so is yours and so it will always be.
mathematics and poetry and stale cigar smoke are all the unfoldings of a single point that doesnt exist, and 2+2 = 5.
what am I?
i am a smattering of black paint on white canvas in a dark closet at midnight, and all the questions in the world have a single answer: what was the question again?
i hear music, i converse, i brush my teeth in the morning and ride the bus.
I have sex and wash the sheets and i take three advil when i have a headache.
i learn and forget and write and paint and i smoke marlboro reds.
i breathe.
i get angry i get sad i smile and i dont like any kind of soda.
i am 21 years old. someday i will die.
when i was born i was covered in blood and myconium fluid and my mother carried me inside her for months.
i have stuck needles in my arm and filled my body with chemicals and i have been beaten and robbed and i have drawn blood and robbed too.
i am an american and i eat at mcdonalds and i waste food and i bitch about the price of gasoline.
i am a young man, i want to love and be loved, i have loved and been loved.
i am some things i want to be, i am some things i dont want to be
i am some things that i dont know i am, and i am not some things that i think i am
really though, i have no idea who i am, where i am or what the hell i am doing.
i always get the feeling that just before i was born someone drove me hear, to the middle of nowhere and kicked me out of the car. i must have lost the map.
i am of this world and i see and hear and think in this world, and i taste the bitter ambosia of it.
i am not of this world, im a stranger in a strange land that is a copy of a copy of a copy into infinity. the original is locked in a filing cabinet in an abandoned tenament.
there are no prophets but me and i read gods thoughts on the back of a napkin that i found in a gutter on a rainy day. i forgot what it said, but i couldnt read it anyway, the ink had run.
the world is a metaphor and god is a joke, his creation is a dirty limerick. i wonder if hes laughing at us now, drinking tea with the devil on the back of a leaf that falls from a tree in central park. the devil is an agent of god, they say.
i say neither one exists, and the cosmic joke was that he created us all and then blinked out of existance. my laughter is the echo of his laughter and so is yours and so it will always be.
mathematics and poetry and stale cigar smoke are all the unfoldings of a single point that doesnt exist, and 2+2 = 5.
what am I?
i am a smattering of black paint on white canvas in a dark closet at midnight, and all the questions in the world have a single answer: what was the question again?

