free your mind

Unrelentingly

he stared me down unrelentingly, like he was trying to pull some fucking guilt trip, but I didn't give in because I never give in, and I didn't let him fuck me, I never let him fuck me. He won't understand why I stick around, but he keeps me around because I'm pretty.
pretty
petty.
patted down his hair and left the room so I sprawled across the couch.
I hadn't slept since I left Detroit.





Resume

    "I printed you out a resume."
fuck him
  fuck you.
    "You need a job, I'm not going to support you, I hope you understand that."
I grabbed my canvas bag and rummaged
notepad
his housekeys
peter jacksons
            "those are my cigarettes."
and I put them in my canvas bag, the one he bought me, he asked where I was going as if it were his business and mumbled "out."
I couldn't bring myself to carry out a conversation even if I wanted to because I was so fucking hungover and I hadn't had a latte since I left Detroit.
cough.
coffee, I grabbed the five off the coffee table and stumbled out the door. He said something that I chose not to comprehend cause, like I said, I was fucking hungover and I needed some caffeine and some fresh air.

the village.

the last environment I wanted to be in was one in which I was surrounded by homos. I go to that small cafe that's down the street and around the corner because he might not find me there and because there aren't so many homos, I hate it when they stare into my face as if they could have me and I desperately want to gauge them eyes out with the butterknife sitting on the bistro-style table in front of me.
I also like it because it's cute and it makes me feel like I'm one of those indie-film-watching artists who sit there all day typing up fake essays on the laptops their parents bought them before they left home for university.

my legs are itchy.




Deeper

We began walking further and deeper underground and he kept telling me that it wasn't much further and deeper and it was colder and darker and the walls and steps got dirtier and that made me wonder if we would ever stop sinking and falling or if we would reach China soon.
Isn't that what they say?
But the stairs ended quite abruptly at the door, and maybe I was high or drunk or fucked up completely because I don't remember the door ever being that far underground.
At the bottom I told him to open the door and he gave me a funny look because I think he was thinking that was scared, so I said I'm scared
scared
scarred, he had scars, and long ratty brown hair and faded bleached highlights so I trusted him a little more 'cause it made him look a little more classy than he probably was. I heard music and I could feel heat escaping onto my feet, from the floor.
He opened the door and I noticed a girl I knew.
I think I went to high school with her, she dated some ugly bloke with a nice car and he had some wierd name like Buzzer or Benton.
She looked good.
A fat girl and her lesbian writhed in the middle of the room to Sunshine of Your Love on the record player and I realized this wasn't the place and I had never been here before in my life.
The rank aroma of stale pot was all I could focus on because I was fiending for a bowl, I hadn't smoked up since I left Detroit, I was so hungover I didn't even think to buy some. But I'm getting hooked up here, from the guy wearing the brown beanie.
What was the girl's name?

    "Nicki, are you still dealing? He wants to buy. Man...?"

oh yeah, sorry, yeah I want to buy.
Nicki, is it?

    "Yeah. Man, it's cool, do you want to smoke a bowl right now?"

uh, yeah, sure. Whatever, they seemed like decent druggies, and as he packs a bowl I notice there are more girls sitting on the floor and some of them are really fucking pretty and some of them have dreads.
and there is a man with short black hair shooting up in a corner and a girl with no hair in his lap, Nicki notices I'm staring so I tell him I'm not into that.
I look around and realize these people try really hard to be hippies, because the fat lesbian with a black go-go dancer haircut puts on Electric Ladyland, and the walls are painted brown and orange and sometimes green and someone painted a rainbow and a blue woman in a tree on the ceiling. As I was looking up, Nicki must have noticed because he smiled and told me that they painted it.
I didn't know who they were. I glanced back at the girl, trying to remember her name and she caught my eyes.
gave me a blank, stupid look, and her face suddenly lit up as if she just realized that she was high.

    "Brian!" She stumbled out of a lime-green beanbag chair and stammered over to me
    "brian!? Your name is Brian, you went to Preston Collegiate!"

uh, no, no I'm not brian but I know you.

    "Michelle."

Tietz, right.
  
     "That's really funny, you know! How are you, man?"
  
She clung onto my shoulder to keep herself up, to keep herself from falling to the deep orange shag rug, she doesn't know my name.
I felt sick and my legs were still itchy.
scratchy.
 
  "Whatever happened to you Brian?"

Across the room, a boy I thought had passed out sat up and looked right at me, I noticed he had nice hair, it was blonde and shaggy like the carpet and I forgot that she asked me something
    sorry, what? I'll be right back.






[                         ]

I walked all the way back up the endless stairs before I realized that they weren't actually that long and that I had sobered up, quite a bit.
I'm outside and the sun hasn't come up yet, I was touching my face because my skin felt so, so warm against my cold fingertips, I was burning up in the brisk air, pulled my mobile from my back pocket.

digits, fuck.
my hands are more drunk than I am.
the dialtone was so loud, so I listened to it ringing intently for a few moments and it made the moments seem a little less chaotic.
chaos.

                -click-

    Hi it's me. No, don't say anything just listen, okay? I'm drunk.
    I'm drunk but I need to tell you something, I need to tell you that I don't love you and the reason I'm telling you this is because there's a boy at this party I'm at and he has nice hair. It's blonde and he's drunk, and I really wish you had blonde hair but you don't, okay, I don't need you and I'm going to fuck him tonight.
        I wish you had blonde hair.

                -click.-

you are trapped because you choose to be.

put baby in the washing machine,
momma likes the smell of fabric softener
late at night.

father sits the night out.
pulling wires from the vacant field next door
making money for leisure.

"don't wait up," he shouts back
as the door skims his ass,
as crude oil bleeds from his fingertips.

baby sleeps quietly,
her skin welded to the hot, metal of the dryer tub walls.
momma likes the smell of clean laundry.

"You, Mister Happy-go-lucky, you do not deserve to be dead on the inside."

Where do you go when you do not exist? When this "reality" is no longer amusing?
What do you seek when you have realized there is nothing to seek?
What do you strive to be when you know your existence is completely meaningless?
How can you keep on going when it's so easy not to? When there is no point?
When can i tell myself, "I have tried. I am exhausted,"
When can you finally give up?

"trust me. if i was sleeping around, i wouldn't be so shaky right now."


                   lie.

the philosophy is simple:

indulge yourself in sweet "suicide"
as they term it.

your life is not a movie. you are not indispensable.
your "existence" is little, and meaningless.

"you must be watching
too much television or something."

                           blackbird cult. 

                 ------------------------



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

my wild sweet orange has gone cold.
if i slurp, it hits my tongue with almost a bitter taste.
or something.
maybe stinginess.
free your mind with boldness,
and lose your way.


(be strong enough to pick me up.)

VERMILLION.

you are not real.
you are in my head.
perhaps, people do not know this. but i should enlighten them.
i create this moment, including you and your inane interference in my existence
(which i have yet to define.)

however, i have come to terms with this fact.
and i have decided to amuse myself with it, and take part in the unimportant festivities of the imaginary.
at this point, what other choice do i have?

obviously, "you" is a useless term.
"you" does not exist.
 



but i might be wrong.
in fact, i know that i am.