i can't get any love in this motherfucker language has not failed me yet will it ever this schizophrenic taking down a last will and testament farting over gourgeous piano vibes wonderful wonderful can't but speak how wonderful it is play it again sam you twit fuck shit balls i can't escape my own mind wonderful breaks ah there a rush a breath a nice little lift of a drink of water unbelievable the way it comes in with the slack and then out the motor not failing wonderful can't begin to describe end of all things cutting off too abruptly always in too deep and then they leave you you know? can't send the messages all mixed up always at the wrong time 9 in the morning no the right time to send a love letter they'll never know it was you don't worry you were watching steve mcqueen in that caper movie thomas crowne affair remade recently but not as good can't really capture the vibe of that "windmills in my mind song" oh bother it's not time yet the drunkard hasn't even paid all the saucers stacked up in the well-lit place, bartenders aching to go home to a soft mattress and the folds of a wife wonderful sleep always itch for sleep redundancies and chastizations do i send it do i ask for love there is nothing returned you are aware of that correct? can't even write anything anyone else can read sorrow and pity forthcoming sherman's march fucker i wish the thing has been hammered out in multiple dimensions the folds not coming near enough to entrap me forgetting the symbols surrounding me the people and the colors forgetting all of that to try the voice to exercise once more in that hypnotic state a sort of thing that makes you want to blow your fucking brains out maybe that is a little much but you get the picture of where you have to be to write stuff like this so constrained to the self and its voice to complain about the pain in a finger or in the liver, maybe when the beddy-byes go i will be better, hunters gracchuses, phoebes and phenomes and phermones, pleasing me pleasing me underscore the things dump down into sadness trace the moods that is what you are paid to do brain can you hear me speaking when it is time to go i will tell you we will get in the van and depart the holy family athletic facilities, dump down duck down goose, blow up your whole era. relax and take notes, playing the beat backwards then the needle drop crossover epmd always stealing from other people copyright is a dirty word when will the song begin again harping over and over and over again in the twilight of the modern world songs that's all we got left playing at my black and white keyboard playing the piece "Peace" tommy flanagan played it better that means nothing to you then look it up and look up the chase vs the hunt as it's mentioned in on the road that is a good waste of time well spent harping over and over again still this unbelieveable residual energy this stamina that i don't know comes from where i don't quite understand how i got to this place must have crossed a few too many bridges probably somewhere by the ni or the po river look those up to the results are always edifying i love how this thing works never the right time women still untimely as usual but trying to get along better with that writing in this note form but that is ok too everything ok even the people i hate and have horrible visions of that's ok too it's all ok everyone and everything is ok i won't harbor hate or at least i'll try maybe it is this vibraphone music that is intoxicating me they knew they hated me but they couldn't tell why well i'll tell you it's because i'm not as beautiful as dostoyevsky well whatever i will never be so good as that so you might as well stop here and stop trying because there is no end to it is like the femme nikita it never really ends cigarette in mouth it never really ends wish there was more to say that could be understood, autocratic rhythms.

rapping over this funky beat nothing left to say that's how it always started typing fast but barely thinking food full of stomach errors errors all over crunched up laughing dying home from the movie you know last king of scotland seen it maybe in your own brain space dictator killer who you don't see kill but you take his word for it how does he use his physicality to report and retouch things writing to myself as usual only one listening flying birds track playing in the background no dogs to come home to what does it matter have to shower and do my thing people hate me it's all the same song is over bring you in and out of the beat funkdified why are they afraid of me who would you be most likely to make love to and why would it matter white romantics learned people but what have they killed no one loves you no one has the real love or time not even a little bit the headaches coming on where is the sympathy did dostoyevsky want sympathy or pity during his dark times was he a fast writer when he spoke of spiders too many symbols crowding the page got into a labyrinth i can't get out now the thing is sown old and sold looked at my teeth and at my crotch to make sure everything was working no one left to write things to, no good words, only the blogs to read and to get back imaginary emails so fuck them i should just write anyway whatever i will call.

Seven years later, this break is still bananas.

you can't post that man - there is no ending to it......just keep on building, the frame won't hold, don't you think i know that man it's bigger than hip hop, freaks, turkeys and turnkeys, joyce would be proud, buggering nietzsche again, stealing all the afterglow from the naughty-headed freaks, one-trick wonders, and NASCAR drivers who are driving for the lost souls in invisible cars, wonder woman come down off the hilltop, reading in the voice of william burroughs, a junkie gone, another rock to sell, we are all doing that, messing around with our surplus angst, trying to understand Marx, bending out fingers this way and that in hopes that we don't contract carpal tunnel, missing the railway systems of more sophisticated countries, not to mention their cheese-making technology, blowing the whole thing over for the love of the anglo-american writer, making a brass statue out of Kerouac and Steinbeck and whoever else i don't even know taking the dogs out for walks blowing out candles descending mountains over and over again with the hope of never climbing another one missing the whole point when it was lying directly under your face no sense of aesthetics that is all implicit wish i could layer this over a photo that would bring it all home for you instead i have to trust that this is good enough love letters thrown away ready to begin anew making time for the drinks never again took us over once and then no more only beckett left telling us of the virtues of soccer hot tea and small sandwiches who knows what's in them i don't ask for fear of dissapointment maybe pizza tomorrow always the hope of the eternal pizza in the sky looking down at us with anticipation and bemused dissaproval maybe metaphors gone too far in hope of the break the good song that will let you finish and annihilate yourself and rise from this chair right here but instead on on on we go into the unknown dashing up memories with the hope that love is on its way the poor male romantic always facing either a tragic or comic death never neutral never vain always untimely unlike women but no matter it is only a trifling thing death.

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