day fifty eight.

if you want to
make a statement
you often have to
be it.

use your body and
your mind -->
become your statement
and


that's how you make one.

day fifty seven.

skipped a day like a
leap year.


not any younger.

day fifty six.

write it down write it down
okay okay
no
i'll remember.

ugh.

like a story starting
on good friday
in a fish and chips shop
or a bald man in
burger king.

day fifty five.

out of one bed
into another,
leaving one house,
entering my own.
the nice ride
was a
nice change
to have something nice
happen
and be done.
the other one
was dead.

day fifty four.

old friends and older ones

they are both golden.

being around the nice

and the half full

of themselves

and the others

and the old

in the old

town bar.

i had too much

but it's never really enough

is it?

made a past

boy's day

in the present day.

more unexpected 

slumbers.

it's not just on a day.

we want to write
what we're not told to.

and do the opposite
of what we are.

day fifty three.

the essay suffocates
with slime
as it drags by
like a slug
on gravel
towards the finish line;
the point of its death.

a million roughs
like the million pieces
of gravel
and pebbles
get in the way
of a polished
ribbon
and the trophy
of a 'C'.

day fifty two.

wilson must
take his revenge
for being kicked out
of school
without even
applying
himself
to writing
the application.

is there any?

perfect mornings are when
you have no will to live because
the rum is all gone.


goodnight guys.

.

the best weekend is the one in the middle of the week.



i went to bed at early o'clock.

day fifty one.

pizza whore
#pepperoniwhore

day fifty.

alex is coming today.
the scrubby servants
will
deliver her gold.

day forty nine - same shit.

and still
the award
for kindest
thing to do
to a drowning person
is to
bake them a pixxa.
the award
three times
winning
champion
not to be defeated.
who needs a noodle?

day forty eight - one day late.

i wonder how many times
this will happen throughout the
year.
i should make a tally afterwards,
of my failures
of following the rules.
bend them
so far
that i can still
participate.
they're practically my own now
(they always were).

it's always right now.

i don't want to be objectified,
i don't want to be sexualized,
i just want to be in the
state of mind,
as when i'm drinking tea
with sugar.

day forty seven

whats not on that bus
im not
on the slow bus
instead
cant think of what
to put
so much else to put
one more check
this is lots
of sense
lots of sense
HERMIT.

this must be romantic.

i like to drink for a kiss.
sucking on my bottle,
it sucking me in,
then pulling away -
shhmwack.

day forty six.

it is a curious thing
to think.
send signals and
non words
through my head
and sort through
them
one pile
for the words
i can use
and the other
for those better
more descriptive
and accurate
non words.
i can't write in the lines
that's why i buy
blank paper.

day forty five.

dear theo
i am troubled
and looking in a strange
place.
a lady with glass
over her eyes
asks
questions
and hands me a paper
with a nearing expiry
date.
i left theo,
like a beast
and went to the place
of many old beasts
and left.
there is nothing for me
anymore
nothing
here.
goodbye.
three days later.

day forty four.

valentaroni
cupid is coming
he's bringing
his arrows
of cheese
once
stuck
you're pulled
in
to the fire
of
replacement
tamales.

day forty three.

plans of no reply
turn to
plans of
no return
while plans of
returning favours
ensue.

day forty two.

i become a cowboy
by the fridge
i had just searched through
by the pringles
i didn't want
by the people
i didn't know
after a
shock.

day forty one.

went to
bellevue
the thai was
good
the compliments
sputtering
the beer
no.

day forty.

standing in a crowded
university hall
wondering
what it would be like
if we were all
just babies.

dear diary

todAy
I
plAyed
A mUsIcal
iNstruMent
anD it
mAde my
HAndS
fEEl
prEtY

day thirty nine.

five x6
seven x2
two x6
open x2
two x8
five x8
open x8

repeat.

day thirty eight.

i never would have gone
for a scent
like that.
i would have walked in
and gone straight to the
chemical sluts
and if i did
perchance
pass by that one
i would have thought it
too sophisticated for me
back then.
but maybe i am a little bit
more sophisticated
right now.
but not too much so.
the crystal ball bottle
yells fancy but
the broken pump
is more me.
maybe i am just a
broken crystal
waiting to be found
in this dump of society,
wanting to just come off as
emotionally androgynous,
wanting to stink out
the purses
of something other
than just money.
i'm just a
stink water soul.

day thirty seven

dreams in dreams
really like
to linger
with you
throughout the day.
clamping your hand
without asking
if you'd like them
to come along with
you.

day thirty six.

not much to say today
been living in
the dream world
many
nice
and unusual
conversations.

big baboon baby
couldn't
warm the
fish and chips.

squish.

day thirty five

not enough wine
not enough time.

day thirty four

had too much wine
lost track of time.

day thirty three.

so much to do
while the sax man
he sits
in his little corner
safe
a student of many
christmas' past
many songs played.

he plays for twelve minutes
applause
appl-
ause
the sax man
again.
alive with the horn
by a thread
(he's still dead).

to most.

eat with the
speaker
walk with
the stick
and assistance
and
the golden sax.

day thirty two.

he doesn't always come up,
you see.
he usually needs at least one
good push,
sometimes a couple.
he's a lazy fellow, soft pokes won't get him
to come out.

he's fat and viscous,
this slug,
he often gets stuck on the
way out -
one more push
and yes
here he is
flying out of your mouth
and onto the ground
or into a sink.

that green and yellow
fat
juicy
slug.