Every day exactly the same.
Only i'm a bit lost, a little bit more lost now, "don't get any ideas" he told me, "don't let'em put any ideas into your stupid head, cos you're worthless" his voice said, so right now i'm lost and afraid that-
Every day will be exactly the same
And what it means, it's scary what this entitles, because my routine will take me to the hospital or the grave, or to the madhouse, or even worse, it might lead me to become another cog in the great machine of things, a cog, turning, a wheel, a thing, on time, waking up the same time every day, brushing teeth, washing face, fast breakfast and wee bit of coffee to get the cog running, car or bus or train to work, same time every day, with the same old tired poor faces everyday, the same strangers, crunching numbers or whatver, "may i help you, ma'am?" and fake smiles to clients, on phone and to colleagues, until the muscles hurt from faking the smiles and the decorum, please, thank you, you're welcome, excuse me, all that stuff, working your ass off, not daring to look out the window, no sign of escape, no distractions please, coffee break, sneaking a cigarette, taste of ash, makes you want to puke, running to the toilets and soaping up your tongue, push the vomit down, stomach and bowels shaiking, making sounds, for years you've been sitting on that chair, trying to push things down, trying to fake smiles and decorum, trying to be a good functioning cog, pushing yourself towards your death, towards steady decay of inner organs with the after-work pints and shots of whiskey and microwave dinner and packs of smoke, a slow, decent death-
This is how every day could be exactly the same-
Ending up in the bog, always in the bog, puking guts out, throat scorched by ejected alcohol and bile and half-digetsed bits of food, shaky legs, back to counter with sour breath, asking for gum, a lozenge maybe, and order another drink, everything just makes it worst, but you shove em down, the poison down, slow death, respectable death, wash em down with another cigarette, everything inside you dizzy and wanting to go home, innards crying for help, bowels wanting to be emptied, frenzied with so much shit crammed up inside, stomach burning up, lungs choking, you laugh, it can come out, the bitter laughter of a cog, a shit-greased cog of a respectable life, a slow life ;eading to slow, respectable death of every organ failing you little by little, this is how your father died, out of a slow, respectable life, girl at corner smiling at you, oh shit, you've been giving wrong signals again, or maybe they're the right ones? and once more you wonder if you could go through it:
the respectable, decent straight fuck in the end of a slow, decent, respectable working daay
Fuck it, I'm outta here, couldn't get it hard anyway, right, and your powers of imagination and recreation and reproduction could not possibly work to reconstruct her cunning, lipsticked, decent mouth into a dude's greedy, ravenous hole, and either way, you'd be on your knees, the eternal do-gooder, the obliger, the little sacrificial lamb wanting to take it all in, please, place your sins and burden upon my back and shoulders.
Exactly the same, it could be.
As it is.
Taking a taxi home, alone, wanted to be with someone but can't be arsed about the glances, words, fake smiles, introductions, touches, doubts, games, kisses, it's all so exhausting, cos i don't want to meet anyone, i don't want to know anyone, not after a slow, decent, respectable day at work, i just need to be an anmal for a while but too tired for that too, scary, back home, retching retching retching and puking and then retching again, scattered clothes in room, half-naked in front of monitor, letters appearing beneath window framing a skinny chest like your chest, letters telling you that they wanna see your arsehole, but you're too drunk for that, fall asleep mid-wank, face aginst keyboards, radiation piercing eyleids, all those fears, all those dangers, when you wake up someone has left a message on your profile, they wanna hook up for the shit you said you're gonna let them do to you, "see you Friday night" you type and log out, and rub the dried drool of your chin and the dried precum of your fingers, miserably logging in to your blog, lost in words and images and worlds of others that make you feel less lonely, but in the same time
just a cog
blogging about nothing, cos nothing happens, nothing's ever different and if sth different happens it's still the same, you can't do nothing about the sameness, and you find this entry, it says, art can save you from your slow, decent, respectable life, it can save you from your slow, respectable, decent death, that would be if everyday was not exactly the same-
Even now, it's the same, even now when you're young and restless and loud and cute and people wanna fuck your body every night, even now when you get get from sleeping the mornings to partying the nights, a night-owl, a butterfly in worn-out sneakers and cartoon boxers, fucking, dancing, sniffing, smoking, injecting, drinking, huffing, moaning, goading, grinding, shoving ass up someone's nose and mouth, your own fingers up yuour own arse for the camera, teasing, a whore, a cunt, a cunt-boy, a dog, on hands and knees after your master, sniffing and licking balls encased in leather, and belt welts rising on back, this is where you disappear, or not,
had it not been for this wound, perhaps we would not have known many of his masterpieces
we need the wounds to make us something, to make us someone, this is a big joke, a gamble, or a delusion,
A life without the longing and suffering of desire, isn't this the poorer life that we can imagine?
But even the longing is exactly the same, even the suffering is exactly the same, even the desire is always the same, and the news on the telly are exactly the same, wars, blood, famine, floods, and the temperature is rising, and all you want to do is something different, you've never been part of sth, and you've seen people, damaged people being redeemed by ART,
but not you, you know this, you can feel it in every broken and badly-healed bone, you can feel it in every warped word you type, in every piercing of the blade across skin, in every drop of blood that leaves your body to make a flower into the marbled sink, in every sharp blow of leather and slide of knife, in every piss of blood coming from torn rectum, in every piss of diarrhea coming from ruined guts, hole-filled guts, pierced, torn, burnt, you know you can not be saved by ART, art like love and friendship are an illusion, something fake like faith, made up to lull you into sleep and ignorance, art is too made-up, is too artificial, and you need holes, great big holes to piss and pour and puke the poison you've gathered inside, from the sameness of it all, from the failed attempts to live, to laugh, to escape, ART cannot save you because you're ugly.
And way too broken.
which was also part of my inspiration-reply-reaction. I lost it along the way, and now can't exactly remember the purpose of this post, but i know its heart. Bleh. Heart.]