Slathered Thru the Slats
in the brain
like a pool of water
in the left hand corner
of that dark space
beneath the sink.
am I a Charlie Kaufman?
am I the ouroboros chasing himself, swallowing his tail? putting on a play of his own life, with decadent set designs, a velvet curtain, trained actors, writers, costumes, casting himself as himself, the star of his own play. a narcissistic artistic reflection—the only way to truly understand one’s existential position.
hating himself, hating his neighbors, (the one with the two teslas) yet celebrating all aspects of the life force that flows thru him and manifests itself uniquely as endearing quirks and ticks.
I like sports, im dumb, i admit.
I’m crazy, im unwell, i know, but being aware that I’m crazy inherently makes me less crazy, right?
i can’t booze, i won’t booze, i could booze, but i don’t, so I say I can’t.
i bathe standing up, i lay sitting down, my only regret is that I don’t feel more regret. ive found a loophole to morality: if you toe the line of right and wrong and cross it too many times, you can salvage your humanity by submerging your conscience into the soothing, blazing shades of the setting sun. you can absolve yourself of sin by a catharsis under pale moon, the pull of the waves yank the wonky karma from your chest and slather it back to you thru the window slats of a rising sun.
i’m working on an opus, the one to end them all, and it can only be written when time has told me that I’m ready, then it’ll