phthalombrage | This isn't supposed to be straightforward. or even comprehensible.

It's funny how the momentum of the world just keeps goading me forward. Cow tazers. The little pepper grains that flee the wrath of the big, bad soap... I want to spring from the crescent moon-yellow trusting oblivion of the past and tell myself what I did wrong. Exist? I already know one thing: I'll probably never see that one kid ever again. Ha.. wanted to murder me, probably. Sniff. Adventitious. Nonetheless, I haven't fully lapsed yet. Only relatively can the connotation of the situation be determined. Why won't the earth swallow me whole? Whenever it seems like time, orange flashing lights greet me at the beacon of a detour. Academics have become my barometer. They represent the only institution left standing after the famine, scraps of the tower of Babel, the rhinoceros horn of the last DJ slides beneath the waves as the hermit thrush wails between the rungs of Drag's horizontal ladder. It means something to me, only me. Not much, but everything I perceive is interconnected via that which I glean from school, lacing through cobwebbed holes in the sky like tapeworms. Even if it takes a little treachery and deceit, I never fall far from the ominously glistening streak of "crandberry" blood painted on the wall of the squash court. A gaunt arm holding a badminton racquet, the contradictory flower, memories of unbearable summers. It isn't far enough... Why do I want to hear bones snap? I rarely leave the canopy, so I never notice all of the foliage's cast shadows on my face or how far away I am from the ground. The only disappointing thing is that the sky is so asphyxiated with pollution... I can't even tell what color it is. The sunlit shafts that pierce the waving enigma of tangled branches manually light up my eyes but fail to filter through to where they would be an inspiration. The disinterested leaden screens erected to stop the x- rays only increase the bomb threat. I wish time weren't such a cruel mistress. All I can do now is hope, in spite of hope being hopeless. Maybe I'll get constipated enough to empathize with Luther, finding faith in the bottleyard of forsaken souls, along with some historic syringes... shiver. Somehow my mind floats off to where all is luxe, calme, et volupté, as my left hand strokes the back of the minotaur. Level Seven. Ballet as a hierarchy. Staring, blinking back into the southeast corner. Somebody close the lid... I believe I am due for a couple of days of silence, with a small notebook to hide in my insubstantial pocket. Instruments, implements of destruction. Decapitated mannequins sit pretty as polished canned waxed peaches and plastic googly eyes on the Group W bench. Razor blades sewn into lapels parade down the streets of Soho with a two-tone Artemis fishhook close at hand. Decadent chocolate-covered rabbit droppings sparkle like not-so-serious zipper pulls in the headlamp of a corroded Vespa. A mountain of termites crest a chain-link fence to get to the abstract concrete freedom of the other side. This is all crap; my foot itches... sssssss