Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Two knuckles deep; unapolagetically so.

I was two knuckles deep, and unapolagetically so.

I could hear my breath.  My bref so harsh.

It was in a survival shelter in the Hamptons where my musing of the future came back to me as but a dream, or like a dream.  So much meaningless fluff.

The future had been washed away by fire.

So many gone.  So many empty bodies left behind.

In the survival shelter I can scream and sing and do a little routine, just to keep normal, to keep sane.  But I digress away from the two knuckles.

I like to get into something.  Sometimes.  Good for a lark, and a bane of boredom.

My bref come so hard.  My heart is slamming into the sides of my meat like thunder!

Freeze-dried soups, a powder with sodium added for flavor.  Turns out sodium is an essential nutrient, and you can, if you have a maladjusted diet, find yourself wanting.

The empty static of the FM radio is like a white-noise generator, helping me sleep.  The station stayed on autoplay a long time before the transmitter went down.  I was impressed as I sat there idly appreciating the playlist the station built.

I shoot my trashpile with a flare and listen to the sicky-whoosh of the fire jut from the flare's ass.  Trash is wet.  Won't burn.

So I have started The Last Dump On Earth.  I muse about this as I take The Next Piss On The Earth.  I muse how everything has become so superlative, official, important.  I regret that.



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