pizza is my favorite food group.

poets, faggots, and fashionable cunts:

i like to be around them, inside them,

between them;

and the truth

is that this fever won't break

and i will die standing here

thinking that i finished a thing

wanting to know the end

of this project

projectile/projection — has come.


life feels slow and jittery

so will my eyes focus or will they blur

just before my last exhalation?

and the moment that i feel

that i'm sure that i want you,

maybe for the rest of my life,

you'll turn around and walk away from me

the difference between feeling alienated and being alienated and boredom and depression and sleep and death.

i am a liquid

almost all of me is water

i change and am different after

short periods of time

you are similar

and similarly autonomous

i can't control your body

like how i control my body

but would like to

and would move you close to me

and you and i would turn away from each other

and only feel the radiation

of our bloodstreams creating heat

with rhythmic liquid movements

and currents would be produced

between our hair strands

and taste buds

and concrete thoughts would form

and feelings would arise

from the chemicals released

in the course of our attachment

to ourselves and our self's anguished lover

who would invariably be us

i was right this entire time.

everyone on earth

got laid last night

except for me

and i can feel

a distinct sense

of alienation, emanating

from my balls

those poor balls,

those poor balls

those poor balls;

i'm going to smash them with

the mechanical part

of a blender, i think

my poor, poor balls

they feel really bad,

and have missed you a lot

since the winter started

threatening everybody again,

with loneliness

and nights that are cold

so everyone forms up

and branches off into small groups

of two and four

against this awful winter

this is what happens

when humans don't nest properly

their balls freeze

and nipples arch

and all is right with the world

very close, but not quite.

when looking tenderly

at a lover

my eyes cross a little

and staring closely, her eyes cross also

she smiles and thinks 'i want you'

i kiss her

my thinking becomes extremely unclear

as of yet, untitled.

every poem i have written

over the course of my life

is absolute shit

you can see them all on a website

and subjectively critique their shittiness

and i'm okay

with there being a camel

on my doorstep

because normality

is also arbitrary

where are my shoes

what is this. is this really occuring.

i didn't solicit life

why is life happening

decided to 'turn' this into a massive, incomprehensible poem

had trouble spelling 'incomprehensible'

there is no title for this.

i'm drunkenly redundant

and laughing, still blackout from last night

at everything on the internet

i hate myself

looked up the definition for 'jilted' twice in twenty-four hours

smoking a new blend camel filter cigarette

might have another

it's really hard to believe some of the shit you say.

half of what comes from my mouth

sounds distinctly like what retarded humans say

it seems i vomit out-of-control, poorly crafted clauses and exclamations


and in my own voice, no less

if i'm going to do this on a regular basis

i at least want to sound like 'an actual retard'

i'm curious what bagels a-la-mode taste like

probably really shitty

they may be really good; we'll find out together won't we

i want hot fudge on mine

apologizing incessantly pisses people off

light-years of one shitty apology preceding subsequently shittier apologies

i'm unsure what this phenomenon is;

sorry that your apologies are shitty and piss people off

your incessant apologizing makes you an asshole

an asshole that shits insecurity,

making me an hemorrhoid

trapped in your never-ending, apologetic rectum

otherwise you make me feel really good

like when you hold me close to you and whisper 'i like you'

and things like that

do you want to go out for bagels and ice cream?

or maybe coffee with chocolate:

a double venti hot mocha

will get me into the mood

to hold you and make love

all day and forever, i think

megan has a psychological disorder.

megan has a psychological disorder, the symptoms of which include eating, shitting, and sleeping on a regular basis. megan finds out that her mother is dying. her grandmother calls her on her cell phone and tells her this. her grandmother says that her mother is at high risk for conjunctive heart failure in addition to the bacterial infection that is causing her to die. megan wishes she were a microscopic biomechanical nanite designed to combat bacterial infection and heart failure. megan does not exist in the distant future. there is nothing that megan can do to prevent her mother from dying. megan feels that making a mildly destructive series of decisions involving interpersonal relationships is the only form of therapy for the emotions she associates with the possibility of her mother dying (especially her mother ‘dying slowly’ due to bacteria, as opposed to dying in a car accident or of a heroin overdose or something).

megan calls her friend dandelion, a hippie priestess, on her cell phone, and solicits her for sex. dandelion says no, but is intrigued by megan's desperation and suggests that they get really drunk and see what happens. dandelion drives across town to the quasi-suburban apartment complex megan is staying at. it is a place of rampant squalor and degeneracy. dandelion gets out of her car and calls megan on her cell phone. megan answers her cell phone.

‘hey, i'm here,’ says dandelion.

‘good. i'm coming down,’ says megan.

‘where are you,’ asks dandelion. ‘what complex are you in?’

‘i don't know,’ says megan. megan feels confused. ‘there are turquoise doors. the doors are turquoise where i am.

‘i don't see you,’ says dandelion.

‘do you see turquoise doors with piñata lamps above them?’

‘there are piñata lamps everywhere,’ says dandelion. ‘where are there not piñata lamps?’

megan and dandelion walk in the opposite direction of each other on parallel sidewalks and on different sides of the same block. if megan moved exactly fifty meters left, she would be permanently conjoined with dandelion at the brain, and their heads would make a combined head with dandelion's face on the front and megan's face on the back, like a severely deformed transsexual janus or something. dandelion feels confused and unattractive and walks down a street perpendicular to megan away from the apartment parking lot.

‘i'm not here anymore,’ says dandelion. ‘i'm not here anymore,’ she says again for existential validation.

‘what,’ says megan. ‘i can hear you. where are you? i know where you are. i see you. i'm right behind you.’

‘oh,’ says dandelion. ‘talk to you soon.’ dandelion hangs up her cell phone. ‘hi,’ she says emphatically.

they get into dandelion's car and drive recklessly through downtown philadelphia, screaming and cavorting wildly and with no regard for the local police force. dandelion runs eight red lights and honks at passing mexicans. we are beasts, thinks megan. mobile, electric, kinetic beasts. we are beasts that move. when megan thinks ‘move’ she adds a strong inflection on the ‘oo’ sound and extends it indefinitely in her head, knowing she will finish eventually, but is interrupted by dandelion.

‘do you want to get beers,’ asks dandelion.

‘ooooooooooooooove,’ says megan by accident. ‘i mean, no. yes!’

‘there is a bar somewhere,’ says dandelion. ‘there are bars here. do you recognize this place? where are we?’

‘i've been here,’ yells megan. she lowers her voice to almost a whisper. ‘i've been here before.’

‘what is this place,’ asks dandelion. ‘is this a place with new beginnings? can we start over here? i want alcohol,’ she says.

‘i don't think so,’ says megan.

they park and walk with perfectly synchronized movements, like in a sixties musical, to the bar while singing ‘stars are blind’ by paris hilton. they are one block from the bar. dandelion stops singing abruptly and megan gets confused and sings the first verse again instead of the second verse. megan feels embarrassed. she looks at dandelion. dandelion does not look back at megan. dandelion looks forward with a neutral facial expression. megan interprets this as disdain and a complacent disposition as a result of dandelion’s acknowledgment of the absurd nature of the universe. megan nervously lights a cigarette.

‘i'm leaving,’ says dandelion. ‘i'm leaving you here.’

‘okay,’ says megan.

dandelion runs away.

‘even though the gods are crazy, even though the stars are blind,’ says megan. she takes a drag from her cigarette and then smashes it onto the concrete. ‘you show me your love baby, i’ll show you mine,’ she screams. she looks around anxiously. everyone around her looks profoundly judgmental and in control of their lives.

somewhere, maybe angola, a horse runs in circles and repeats ‘i’m in los angeles’ and whinnies and kind of jumps periodically while a crowd of on-lookers drink pumpkin spice coffee and think the words motherfucker motherfucker in a sort of psychic game of telephone or in some perverse derivative of ‘row, row, row your boat,’ in a circular sequence.

somewhere else, almost definitely not angola, a rather fat amoeba is projecting embarrassment and slight intrigue due to the prospect of it going on a weight-loss program, advertised in a gossip magazine it’s reading, that involves rigorous ballet warm-up exercises, conversations that consist mostly of tongue-twisters, and ritually burning sage to appease the obesity gods.

dandelion arrives at her car and becomes highly aware of there being a person inside the driver’s seat. she feels afraid, paralyzed, terrified even. her eyes go out of focus and cross a little. she thinks about megan’s ass vaguely. her heart begins to palpitate. there is no one in the driver’s seat. the day is saved. she gets into the car and drives to her apartment where she has to physically squeeze her car into a small alleyway, through what could be considered a corridor, and into a parking space. she gets a text message. it’s from megan and says, ‘i had fun, or i like you. hehe.’

fucking niggers, thinks dandelion, then thinks, bitch ass, or, motherfucker motherfucker, regarding bagels.

little 'boxes.'

seems that the internet has propagated the arbitrary placement of unnecessary 'boxes'

intended for descriptive summaries of one's personality and interests

which i feel are things that cannot be succinctly or accurately conveyed

and replacing 'actual descriptions' with 'pithy witticisms' seems strikingly more absurd


it's raining.

cat allergy-induced paranoia vs insomnia-induced hallucination.

i feel cold and amorphous

like my bones are becoming soft serve ice cream or something


and paper cuts suck really bad

i suck on them, ‘hehe’

they don’t feel better when i do this

seems impossible to control how one reacts to pain without focusing on the source of that pain

unless the mind and body acclimate to it or something;

it becomes ‘normal’

or if an immediate goal supersedes it.

little bursts of pain are not meant to be ignored

that’s how the germs will defeat us.

i feel afraid of a potential massacre

dealt by bacteria assassins

preceded by the pan-human acquisition

of the ability to ignore tiny stabbings

i can hear train whistles and dog barks and cricket chirps and where the hell is your voice?

i am having extreme feelings of embarrassment and emasculation

resulting in wanting desperately to cry

i will either fall asleep crying or masturbating, i think

or maybe just not wake up ever

i feel immobilized by extreme embarrassment

embarrassment is slowly making me sad

and sadness is slowly making me angry

anger needs to be addressed physically

addressing feelings physically is dangerous and potentially life-altering

so i will jerk off

or i'll break something; no

i will cry

i'll cry like a newborn baby thing cries

and this action will cause me to remain equally embarrassed

and feel exponentially more emasculated

and everything will seem fucked

this is what alienation does to a person

embarrassment and not being able to have sex are making me weak

the only way i can address emasculation without embarrassment is through sex

millions of hours of it

as a trade

in order to not mindlessly break something precious

and apologize for weeks

and maybe not be able to be friends anymore

and potentially spend money on the person whose shit i broke

as a gesture

due to broke-your-shit guilt

sex is fun and is aggression and is friendship at the same time, i think

i am wrong about this, how could i not be wrong about this

is everything okay? does everything seem okay to you?

scientists recently discovered a previously unknown organ in humans

it is a second brain located near the aorta

that functions in near complete isolation

and does not communicate well with the primary brain

it is in charge of irrational fits of sadness and feelings of alienation

due to extended periods of anti-social behavior

if the heart beats too regularly for days at a time

the second brain releases chemicals that make everything seem okay

and then immediately and extremely not okay

inversely throughout the week

activity in this little brain is considered a psychological disorder

due to its effects

when two people isolate themselves for extended periods of time

the little brain remains dormant

and wonders why it does not feel alone

and there are strange periods of euphoria and feelings of objective existential security

the doctor who conducted the study said 'love someone, please'

'then there will be less psychological disorders everywhere and everything will, perhaps, actually be okay'