63.

You deserve the world,
you said as you plucked a few stars from the sky and shoved them down my throat. Then you held my hair while i puked rainbows.

i walked around with a silly smile on my swollen mouth and the smell of your intestines on my paws and snout. This is the closest thing to love i've known.

Look; you unfolded your palm; my teeth were your blood diamonds.

64.

First thing: the soft crumbly touch of earth. I can feel it around my fingertips and chunky grime gathers beneath my fingernails. Dig, dogboy, dig your way through and out. I would really like to stay here forever in the nourishing soil and let it caress my eyelids and hum against my ears and I would like the earthworms to liven up my mouth with their eggs and incessant elegant wriggling. Life beneath the ground is robust and protective like a cocoon.

There's a call froma bove, a warning, a sign. A voice which commands me to revival. I never belonged up there with the air and the sun and the sounds of cars and drilling machines and laughter and the words coming out from people’s mouths and the light. No matter how dark it gets up there it’s never entirely and ultimately black. There’s no protective surrounding matter. There is no womb, no veil. The act of resurrection doesn't suit me.

My fingertips dig into the softness, they claw like little blind tired insects. Dirt keeps falling into my open mouth. I breathe the last breaths of safety and fear. I rise slowly. My eyelids blink some crumbs of matted earth away and the orbs of my eyes meet not the sky but the ceiling.

I don’t know who my parents are. What do they do for a living. What do they look like. Do they like me? Do they know I’m here? Do they know I sleep underground? Do they know my name? Do I know theirs? Do I know who I am? Do I know my name? Do I want to know?

Do you?

65.

fear in here.
fuck in here.
shit in here.
suck it out of me.
kill in here.
murder in here.
help in here.
tear it out of me.
cut in here.
pummel in here.
stab in here.
tongue it out of me.
tongue of rusted nails, take it out, shove it in, lure the beating muscle which was once called a heart and hammer it against your wall.
make me blind.
make me deaf.
make me still.
make it quiet.

64.

give me another pill.give me another hit.hit hit hit me.take this away.

63.wrote this while asleep

i used to live a life of leisure.a life of quality, i protested but i didn't want it so bad to end. then something happened to it, or it had been happening my entire life, forcing me, moving me, levitating me to this.

an empty morning under the sick yellow light of a bulb, white marble that doesn't look so white, cold, shivers, a sour taste in mouth from too many pills that fuck you up and down and too little food, stomach digesting itself, liver disintegrating, something rotten or rotting, coming out of my mouth and my ass.

i knelt.i obeyed. i submitted.the music was terrible.my life is a song now;cages of rats, walls, worms, breaking bottles, screams that no-one heard bc they were too drowned inside, descent self-annilhilation, slow collapse of inner self, i don't know who i am, who i was, i've changed 3 times and this last change has left me-

a shell, if you put your ear against my chest you'll hear the wind in its void, if you push your tongue in my mouth you'll taste bitter death, and if you cum inside me i won't know a thing. i am a thing. i'm all cold surfaces. i cut and bruise the surface but it's like incising a dead man. no warm blood in here. i'm a necropsy.

feel.trust.obey.
obey obey obey.

evil.sold.soul.beauty.what?another pill.eyes.closing.heavy.mind.racing.another pill.clock.present.time.always present.obey.obey.obey.sleep, and dream of a better place.sleep,and dream of nothing.

ultimately.death.

62.

I tried very hard to be someone else. I tried to be someone you liked. Or somebody you hated. It had to be strong. I tried too hard to be this person or thing. In the process I forgot who I was (when i began). Did I carry inseide me something that was completely my own no matter how silly or inferior? Did I ever think my own thoughts? Did I ever speak my own words? I think so. Maybe i'm just getting older so it's part of maturing: changing, transforming, forsaking, transmuting. Did I ever dream my own dreams which i wasn't ashamed of painting with crude kids' crayons? I don't even remember if I believed I had a soul. If I did, where is it now? Do I want to see it again? Will it evr emerge for bad or for good? I wait with a net. My hands are empty. My mouth is empty but I do not dare silence. I was always afraid of the dark and slept with a light on. Betwwen waking and dreaming, I escaped. I became something else, not entirely human, more like a machine made of disproportionate parts:depression, addiction, illusion, delusion, disillusion.I just wanted to go out and play under the stars. I still do. I want to lie on the

61.

Moving out has been postponed for another year at least: all that seemed old and faded is now another reason for me to be grateful.

Every lie now I love. I have to.

Life is held together by duty and obligation. Sanity is held together.

You can't tell the truth no more except if it's spoken behind a mask.

The fantasy of escape is more potent than the escape itself.

The roads of the world are open to every imbecile who thinks he can walk them. The roads of imagination are only open to few.

The only way to get by and get through is to stick to the plan, get the job done, no complaints, no alarms. The only way to maintain sanity is to bow your head, no questions asked, no doubts laid out.

The only way to be part of the human race is to bow down, pray to God and be thankful. The only sign is the sign of the cross.

Life is nowt but a series of illusions, delusions and, for the unmasked ones, disillusions. It's nice to have illusions and delusions and think of them as charisma. The meek shall inherit the earth. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven -or, certainly, the kingdom of this world.

Who am I? What am I? These are questions i have to erase if I want to survive. I don't need humbleness, I need subtlety.

I want to write and need to write but this doesn't necessarrily mean that I'm going to write or that i possess the gift of writing. Not everything revolves around me and mine. I am not the center of the universe, I am not the world. I am a ghost, I am a no-one. I'm not presumptuous.

I am not I, or shouldn't be, because what does I mean?

Get the job done. No moaning. Adapt. Adjust. Do not open your mouth. Close your eyes, cover your ears. Take a big breath. You're diving deep now.