Big knock out eyes. Play in the fields of sorrow. Period. Sometimes, maybe never. Last time I was here, I borrowed a quarter and I don't remember too much. Don't forget me, I've already forgotten me.
My hands look better when they cover your mouth. Your eyes twinkle so, glimmer they do. A tear runs down your pale blue cheeks and now it's time for bed.
The warm light rolls me over, opening my eyes, realizing that I am cold. The light is no longer warm. My feet are cold and my blanket is gone. I curl into a small ball, struggling to keep warmth near. It has fallen off the bed. I cover myself with the pillow. That too soon goes. I jump off my bed and look at the clock. The time on the clock says three fifteen. I yell, "I HAVE TO GET UP FOR WORK IN TWO HOURS!" For the love of God, why am I awake? I proceed to let my anger consume me. There is no reason for me to be awake. Then I blame the obvious. "It is all your fault!" I grab the alarm clock off the desk. I slam it into the floor. I jump on it. "IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!" I
pull the extension out of the wall and throw it to the floor. I then grab the phone. I attack with the same anger as the alarm clock. I throw into the floor and jump on it. I run outside of my house, wearing nothing but shorts, with my phone in my hand and swinging it by the cord smashing it the floor of the driveway. I leave it on the floor and run to my car. I pop my trunk and take out my Louisville slugger. "YOU DON'T LET ME SLEEP, YOU PIECE OF JUNK!" I yelled at the top of my lungs, at three thirty in morning, as I beat this damn thing into fifty-million pieces. I drop the bat, and look at the damn thing.
Pieces are on top on car, the driveway, the lawn, in the garage, on top of my aunt's car. My work here is done. I crawl back into bed, hoping that the clock was lying the last time I saw it. No such luck...
I love the end when it is near, but the time is now. Let us copulate. The grass in our hair, the warmth of your bosom fills my need. Fear is here, building a home near the lake. This time of year, the ice fishing is pretty good.
Sometimes I wake up, sometimes I hope I don't. Other people wonder why I've got no luck at all. And then I tell a story of how I came. It starts with a little verse and ends with a bang.
Rabid encrusted holocaust, smite thy brow. Permafrost flared cake, diseased with platonic plague, doubling as an ashtray. This is what I am made up of. This is why I cry. The nights are long and the women are old. The money is good though.
Much thanks to Sarah (my wonderful girlfriend) who typed up part of this on 10/4 very late at night. Thanks to my mom, for not having my locked up after flipping out and trashing the electronic devices in my room and yelling around the neighborhood at 3 in the morning. No thanks to my alarm clock and phone...
