2017 pictoral


keeping sane is a job in itself. 

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Noise

flailing under weighted blankets with the world’s sniggering vitriol dampening my resolve which never was up to it anyway like everything else or everyone I’ve known, few as they may be, and diminished by time and the noise of my tentacled senses holding me under, I can’t breathe. 

Release me. 

Say Aaaah

She’ll let her tooth rot out until it reaches peak-pain and then have it removed

She’s never had rest from her teeth; they’ve brought nothing but misery. From their disorderly alignment to their susceptibility to decay.

In many ways they’ve been a reflection of her own internal rot. No matter how hard she’s swung at the blood thirsty bats of life they get a bite, draw blood, come back for more.

And the professionals say “you should take better care”, what the fuck do they think she’s been doing? Eating rocks?

Two times a day, for two minutes. futile. But the professional with a degree dishes this bullshit advice out like a condom dispenser.

Surround yourself with positive things; don’t fixate on the negative (yeah I can do that, why didn’t i think of it?)

It isn’t at all like cutting yourself really (letting the teeth rot away); the ramifications of that are not as great

She’ll probably end up with dentures before she even touches the age of fifty

If she even cares to make it there

Left handed people on average die sooner than right handed people; she hopes so.

Happy people live longer they say (if only this were true. It isn’t)

She scoops a tiny portion of toothpaste with the tip of her tongue and guides it carefully to the crater in her tooth and dumps the numbing paste into the void.

The tingle dies away; she’ll live to eat another day

Hold aloft the crown of thyn jovial Constipations

A Can of bathtub infusions
Salts the essence of my tears,
How they scrub me deeply, firstly
and undo me, only, in the second act of this unholy, theory,
Sullen, drowsy,

Take pity with a drink for a knock on my liver
sprouts a bloom in my urethra

A Tongue lashing from my lover,
in the mirror
Who stares when I close my eyes, only…
Only…
I am hungry for my one and only.
My Last breath. My empty eternity.

If you do not mind me, death sang, then I am lonely
But I do mind you, I began, ’tis living I abhor mostly

OH NO…

Dear Muthafudgin Diary
This is really bad,
I used to be one of those people who boasted about not getting addicted to stuff but…
That has changed, apparently
I’m addicted to Coffee. Yes; how do I know?
It isn’t an itch, I’m not telling people I’ll suck them off for some beans, no
As the caffeine wears off at night, I find myself floating in a murky pool of loathing, there’s a dark sense of self, I am acutely aware of the slow pace of my existence and its blaring disgrace. And I can’t write for jack.
I wish I were dead.
My first thought was “you better not have any coffee tomorrow,”
But I needed to sort this apocalypse now and figured “see if it’s the coffee, have some now.”
And sure enough, half a cup of half a teaspoon of some good ol’ roasted beans and I’m typing away with a lit mind and a brighter disposition
It doesn’t sound all that bad, really. It’s not cocaine or meth or death
I’ve never liked depending on things though…

So I’m hooked on coffee, and for some reason out of all of these years it has only recently started to be profoundly psychoactive on my brain, what a way to usher in the new year!

P.S. To think just thirty minutes ago I was struggling to write a sentence and here I am having written quite a bit!

Cheerio! Coffeenoid out

La nuit du café noir.