last nights liquids kick my ass
burning their way back into the world, through my nasal cavitiy, inbetween my teeth,
falling heavy and loud with expression into the the public restroom shitter,
i let it all out, trying my best not to damage my buisness attire,
a public stall, my morning confession booth, i let out all my sin,
only to have it stare back at me, floating in agony, nasty, dirty, grimy,
its my bodies argument against how i treat it,
flush it down, adjust my tie, look around frantically in investigation,
hoping i wasnt caught by a co worker,
i stumble back into place, making my way to the office chair
finger through my workshop of paperwork to that fine felt tip pen
use the flesh of my hand as a canvas and scratch down the words that are choking to get out,
"get real"
simple but a meaning so important it deserves to be written no where else but in plain sight on my hand, catching my eye with every use of my mitts,
if only it could call some action,
"get real"
get real, dan
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I'm either listening to Baroque or Hardcore Powernoise, I'm either dressed like a early 19th century romanticist or a anarcho punk, I'm either drinking tea or water, I'm either reading an essay on semiotics or watching trash TV, I'm either lonely and bitter or obsessive and naive, I'm either shunning all social activity or chatting up a room full of people...
ReplyDeleteI wish I knew what it was to "Get Real". I'm not sure I'll ever know really, in a dialectical sense of the argument. How did things get so black and white? I guess the sum is made up of its parts. Unfortunately, it's ALL a part of the sum. I guess this is something we have a hard time admitting to ourselves.