Bastard Blog Focker
The house is a sinister bitch
a coffin-closet of creeping white walls
Twisting vines on rugs and curtains in floral patterns
Swelling to occupy my vision as my mind's eye is clouded black
Combative and twitching, I wait for someone to roll me onto my stomach
as foam froths past my lips and my brain is reduced to snortable powder
Anthrax isotopes boiling through my swollen pupils
I struggle for a lightswitch to illiminate these shadows
Purple blacklight bruises tainting yellowed walls
This house is an anemic pestillance
Too lazy to consume me quickly
And on the floor I lie twisted
As I am devoured, breathed in and smoked up
Blotted out and erased from existance
Time is the only real disease
And this place is stealing mine
Wrapping me in a warm blanket of complacancy
Like a baby smothered in the safety of its crib
This house is a public restroom
And everyone just shits on the floor
Waiting for the weather to warm
For the money to pile up
For the cats to quit peeing in the hallway
For evolution to lead us back to a vagabond existance
I'm a crippled nomad. I'm a goose with its wings clipped.
Staring at the sky as I fight to ignore my urge to migrate
fly south to warmer climates.
My mom called twenty-two times. Friendly No One's got me good'n rocked. Ben is playing the guitar and I have -301 dollars in my account. Today I cried because the cat represents everything I hate about this place. I want to live in a wigwam. I want to mutilate sheep.