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I think
writing
can be a way
of getting off

one time/ had one hell of a #)$(*gasm
and as we lay there sweating panting rolling around minds just gone gone gone
all of those houses, those rows and rows of gap-toothed windows [clay] [brick] [steel] [concrete][painted stucco]
that construct/ that sim-city world we live in-
really only see maybe truly when we're trying to see over the nose of the asshole who took the window seat-
that moment when the plane's wing dips- and you see that amoeba-like mass of crap and slums and industrial force-

all of it
made sense
briefly

and it doesn't even fucking matter if anyone has the time to even see what you're saying
because

well

it's your page
your little corner

your sperm dangling in that sick moment suspended in a condom
lol
but it's your screen/page/pen/whatever.

just playing the game of playing the persistence and thinking bukowski-
it's a nice way
of embracing one's inner rediculous fool
the thought that all of this ends up in a cardboard box- previous threads- yeah I have my gripes with it. but

meh
why keep count.
why keep score.

in a month or so
I suck nicotine lozenges
sit in that goddamned airplane for 20 hours
queue indiana jones travel montage with the plane/map/red dots
back

finally
to that sick as hell totally fucking fucked yet beautiful world that is the spaghetti western meets samurai movie that is cambodia

so

dear anonymous reader
who might stumble on this

I have my past, you have yours
but the stew is fun

try the stew
or
don't

be that invisible, roving eye that is the interweb, that is america, that is insulated, safe, unspeaking, channel surfing through life

(yes doktor, as said before, I pretty much do hate america. the last 8 & way too much time on politics forums will do it. as I've said before. They call it the american dream- because really- it is an urge to sleep. to insulate oneself. diaspora-based cultural hegemony & homogyny & yeah fuck it I can't spell. The only thing this place has is a shared urge for affluence. woop woop. why try to defend it or even let it raise your hackles.)

or
maybe

well

I'm sure you see my point
why belabor it

but... until this point... did I truly 'get off' on just writing crap?

nah not really. and that's like ten years of doing it... the virgin who masturbates constantly but never quite manages to seal the deal- would be a close analogy

oy

cheers.

closing thought.

bukowski lived it and became a caricature-
and perhaps- in a small way, think of it as a pedagogical, enabling caricature...

(swap out the drinking for yoga!)

your loving hack,
thug

final words to the chinaski.
"There's nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don't live up until their death. They don't honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can't hear it. Most people's deaths are a sham. There's nothing left to die."

such a sweetie, isn't he