I need to brew another pot of tea or at least wrest out these last two molars before they ratchet back up into my skull because there are too goddamned many of me in this room, grappling over this stale machine, jabbing our fingers into each other’s eyes, swapping out skin-grafts, tapping me on the shoulder every nineteen seconds, using up all the good oxygen, ripping ribbons out of our way-up-yonder TWENTY FOUR HOURS the house is filling with flies, they pour screeching at me out of the furnace, dumping down in crisp black static-electric mats on our faces, and by the time I discover just which one of us is writing this, we’ll all have run out of air in here SPLIT THREE WAYS [this text has been modified from its original aspect ratio and formatted to fit a two-dimensional space
exactly eleven hours have elapsed since I first set out to delete this hackneyed rot, eleven hours that folded my brain over upon itself exactly eleven times: 1] I need to purchase a firearm 2] sleep is wasted on me 3] I am incapable of doing anything real 4] I said to the doctor, “Doctor, I feel a vast chilling emptiness inside me,” to which he replied , “Have you tried pouring liquor into it?” 5] I need to remind my old friends to remind me to find new friends 6] I’m gradually becoming more comfortable with my intolerance 7] in the past fourteen days I have slept for an estimated total of ten hours 8] sleep needs me; I don’t 9] a drink needs me... 10] abandon all hope 11] make me a sandwich ] but whoever is writing this has left me a trail of typographical errors and idiosyncratic punctuation habits SINCE YOU BOUGHT ONE THIRD for which I can surmise the following: 1] he is leaving me this trail intentionally 2] to throw suspicion not on himself but upon the man whom he is so abysmally and humorlessly impersonating 3] but even behind this intention is a deeper motive, a need to be discovered for the poor imposteur that he his [as I comb through his scribble, erasing, cutting and pasting, marking his misspellings with a red Sharpie, I realize that I have taken him out of his own writing and gently, insidiously interpolated myself like compacted sour lozenges between his dim words; in being almost laughably unsuccessful at impersonating me, his would-be-scapegoat, he has impersonated himself impeccably, thus, proving to us once again just how precisely unreal a man he is] 4] and this need is, in itself, a message, though not necessarily to me, but you, his gentle reader YOU OWN EVERYTHING
there are too goddamned many of me in this room, grappling over this stale machine - between the armless one with the blunt scissor-segment prosthesis, the one-legged three-dog-headed man, barking, belching, shitting out the words, “That’s it, I’m done!” like a suspect being interrogated under purple high-beams, the blue corpses keep piling, their faces matted in dry, dead flies - there are less of us now - there air is sweet; it is not a good sweet: bones of each other’s that we’d broken in these last skirmishes now healing into bricks and pipes, limbs sawed off above the joint with bitten leather strips and 90-proof-backyard-still-applejack now growing into floor lamps, table legs and window frames, a rattling in the attic, the man in starched shirt and black suspenders is lumbering down the stairs, I hear him just outside our door, now, black phlegm rattling in his black lungs, wheezing, barking, shitting out the words, “I’ll take it with me to my grave!” I'LL TAKE IT WITH ME TO MY GRAVE
exactly eleven hours have elapsed since I first set out to delete this hackneyed rot, eleven hours that folded my brain over upon itself exactly eleven times: 1] I need to purchase a firearm 2] sleep is wasted on me 3] I am incapable of doing anything real 4] I said to the doctor, “Doctor, I feel a vast chilling emptiness inside me,” to which he replied , “Have you tried pouring liquor into it?” 5] I need to remind my old friends to remind me to find new friends 6] I’m gradually becoming more comfortable with my intolerance 7] in the past fourteen days I have slept for an estimated total of ten hours 8] sleep needs me; I don’t 9] a drink needs me... 10] abandon all hope 11] make me a sandwich ] but whoever is writing this has left me a trail of typographical errors and idiosyncratic punctuation habits SINCE YOU BOUGHT ONE THIRD for which I can surmise the following: 1] he is leaving me this trail intentionally 2] to throw suspicion not on himself but upon the man whom he is so abysmally and humorlessly impersonating 3] but even behind this intention is a deeper motive, a need to be discovered for the poor imposteur that he his [as I comb through his scribble, erasing, cutting and pasting, marking his misspellings with a red Sharpie, I realize that I have taken him out of his own writing and gently, insidiously interpolated myself like compacted sour lozenges between his dim words; in being almost laughably unsuccessful at impersonating me, his would-be-scapegoat, he has impersonated himself impeccably, thus, proving to us once again just how precisely unreal a man he is] 4] and this need is, in itself, a message, though not necessarily to me, but you, his gentle reader YOU OWN EVERYTHING
there are too goddamned many of me in this room, grappling over this stale machine - between the armless one with the blunt scissor-segment prosthesis, the one-legged three-dog-headed man, barking, belching, shitting out the words, “That’s it, I’m done!” like a suspect being interrogated under purple high-beams, the blue corpses keep piling, their faces matted in dry, dead flies - there are less of us now - there air is sweet; it is not a good sweet: bones of each other’s that we’d broken in these last skirmishes now healing into bricks and pipes, limbs sawed off above the joint with bitten leather strips and 90-proof-backyard-still-applejack now growing into floor lamps, table legs and window frames, a rattling in the attic, the man in starched shirt and black suspenders is lumbering down the stairs, I hear him just outside our door, now, black phlegm rattling in his black lungs, wheezing, barking, shitting out the words, “I’ll take it with me to my grave!” I'LL TAKE IT WITH ME TO MY GRAVE
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Re: please keep your tongue out of my ear its wet..
Tue, May 2, 2006 - 11:33 PMThere were too goddamned many of Bob in this room, grappling over that stale machine. Between the armless one with the blunt scissor-segment prosthesis, the one-legged three-dog-headed man, barking, belching, shitting out the words, “That’s it, I’m done!” like a suspect being interrogated under purple high-beams, the blue corpses keep piling, their faces matted in dry, dead flies - then, there hideously there was less - but more grimy whore red lace there squirting fine in a mist where the air is sweet crimson; it is not a good sweet: bones of each other’s that we’d broken in these last skirmishes They, now are healing into bricks and pipes. No these limbs sawed off above the joint with bitten leather strips were ready to become 90-proof-backyard-still-applejack. The pile growing into floor lamps, table legs and window frame all that felt so soft, From a distance like the scent of a rat rattling in the attic, the man in starched shirt and black suspenders is lumbering down the stairs. One step, one step, I hear him just outside our door, now, black phlegm rattling in his black lungs, wheezing, barking, shitting out the words, “I’ll take it with me to my grave!” I'LL TAKE IT WITH ME TO MY GRAVE . His daughter called on wednesday and perfusely appologized said his medication had run out.
