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/ wasteland & further; waiting for a slaughter

/ november is a month of ghosts

a grey knive lurking on the corner of the bathroom counter, incongruously balanced on the edge - just about to fall - the light of day leaked into the room like dish detergent being squeezed gently out of a bottle, and over in the corner, rats rustled in a paper bag. he walked into the room to the sound of the ceiling fan slowly misunderstood. his left sneaker squeaked slightly. paper in his pocket crumpled up and a blue crayon behind one ear. a muddy cigarette in one hand and no lighter. his eyes are silently stained-glass windows inside a church with no congregation, waiting for the hollow bellpulls - the doorbell of the Almighty. he takes out a sharpie and marks an x on the wall. moments later a fly buzzes fatly in and lands on the                                             spot, preening and humming to itself. below, at the baseboard, an ant trundles in. he looks at the mirror. he looks away. outside, a bird hits the window, and all things still, in hushed                                          mourning. an ignorant cricket looses a selfish mating call and
2003-11-08, 12:20 p.m.

wasteland & further; waiting for a slaughter

               back to the unfriendly maelstrom of fist-clenched thoughts.

accompanied by the everpresent saviour alcohol. the bottles that line the shelves, the unfond memories that slip into them like psychic djinns, in & out to plague dreams by sliding a finger into your ear. it feels like it should be summer, if you were to look out the window & see the bright day - the slight breeze. but catch a glimpse of the bare branches sticking into the blue expanse and suddenly you are plunged back down into a sombre state.

tonight is the so-called harmonic convergence. and a total lunar eclipse. i hope i get to see that. i'm sure it would be inspiring. rife with raw nerves lately. shaved right down to the bone, explosive like a wired bomb and clippers hovering over the wrong section of colour -

if i knew all the words, i would write myself out of here -

sick to my stomach. the acid burns its way up my throat and the haunts of previous evenings and previous sarcasms revolve around my head. a demonic carousel replete with deafening music. we thought we'd rid ourselves of this masochism. i can only imagine what it's like on the outside, looking in - i find the need to be the demon - a demon cannot be hurt

is it happening again? the slow collection of objects that remind, the blackening of eyes against a gray template, a sooty, ash-coloured residue that palls over my head and creates the dun of night even at midday? a laceration here, a subtle knife there. i don't want to talk about it. as it gets colder. will it end up the same way as usual? disclaimer: i don't know. metaphor always comes when honesty doesn't want to reveal itself.

so many bottles. i'm not drinking again for a long time. cody makes fun of me for the manic-depressive time i had at amanda's house. halloween. why this lonely why this lonely // halloween // carry on - burial burial burial burial burial burial burial burial - "what's going on in my head, what's going on in my head," he jokes. prods at me with the fact that he "took care" of me while i was drunk. the constant prodding. i guess i deserve it. i'm an asshole to people. because i enjoy it. because it makes me happy to see them wriggle. that's not so much asshole as it is sadist.

a happy sadist, then. bright eyes, then.

pestering, sickening acid in my throat like fireflies burning the sides of it. it rises when i hear people talk. when i hear things said in a specific tone, when i feel the presence of people. the terrifying hatred. i have small foam graves cut out on my desk for "suicide: the board game" - a project for d for the p. a few nights ago, drunk, i played it by myself.

natalia would say "wow, melodramatic much?"

kaylen would say, in a slightly worried tone, "x. i hate it when you're upset ... you should come live with zainab and i." and i would say "i want to" and never do anything about it. i would sit here and never do anything about it.

dark & distant place; and the moon it bleeds silver but never sleeps

i want a lover i don't have to love, i want a girl who's just out to GET A FUCK / hey where's the kid with the chemicals, i thought he said to meet him here but i'm not sure -

tired.

bad habits collecting around my head. sticking to me like clouds sticking to the edges of buildings instead of passing behind them. dreamed of kissing a guy last night. on a couch where everyone was mostly silent. and we were all waiting for the end of the world. and it was my grandmother's living room. outside the world was collapsing, melting, and dali was god, tired with the lack of lobsters in the world. it was a kid i know, but have never talked to. all the kids in the room were kids i knew but don't talk to. so i was silent. i didn't say anything but if they needed something i would help them get something.

there never was a sadder dream.

walking back from the snack shack last night with cody. looking up at the haze-colored moon. "full moon," i remark.

"no, it's waning a little."

"no, it's full. full tonight & tomorrow."

"oh."

we continue walking. all around, the leaves should be crisp in their piles. but they're soaked to the ground with leftover rain. the air should be colder, but it isn't. well they kicked you around like a rodeo clown and it echoed through town they were beating you down, and as they spread the word that you liked to be hurt

all at once you were cause for a pitiful cure -



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