July 31, 2013 by Wayne.
you too shall pass
no more worrying over tests (words and blood)
whether I’ll ever reach my literary potential
if my potential turns out be an anemic leper walking circles in an abandoned playground where the red slide’s been frictioned down to a pinkish hue
so that part’s good
not so good:
I fell for a girl who played bobby summers and the wailers and wore beach makeup
so leaving her would be kind of sad – or the thought of leaving her, at least. By which I mean the concept of leaving someone who can only be defined in terms relative to me, by which i mean every girl
I met her in March and by February she was whispering lines from French novellas about talking kettles and some absurdist bullshit, who cares, she told me to leave food for her because she was rushing off to fetch her brother home from art class, who cares, she said she loves me and I cared, because
I know this is all there is, but there’s a tiny unkempt portion of my irrational mind that refuses to believe it, like I refuse to believe I can get + from her, it won’t happen, the chances are less than 1%, for -‘s sake!
Oh life, play fair.
You asked for a lot. A daily ritual of bulging veins to ripple them around my vaguely phallus-shaped forearms and (doing something with) chlorophyll – unreasonable, but I compromised and gave all I could, which was nothing
you don’t think maybe you’re complaining a tiny bit too much?
Thank god emotions are for lesser men than me.
So, yeah, you can sit there whining about paucity because you don’t have enough for a Eurotrip after you spent the week’s allowance on flimsy vslingerie that’ll fall to bits within 2 months of regular usage, which is okay because you’re only going to wear it on select occasions when you’ll be wrapping them around his cock, and also the Chanel bag you saw on display because it looked cute – on display meaning on your fave site with your credit card credentials logged to reduce friction – like come on, you’re not even trying anymore – but do at least acknowledge the fact you’re diluting the fucking word when you use it so completely out of context, like that prude in the office calling me an alcoholic when i drink once a week – well, while you do that, some people actually do live under the fog-of-poverty
it’s summer, you’re supposed to be carefree, which is impossible because there’s no such thing when you have to constantly worry about m
blow up somewhere else
litter your bullshit amoxycillin and lies click-clacking on sharp tongues somewhere fucking else, mmkay
pretty sick of you
i’m pretty sick of you