the last of days

a broken, beaten man, bearded from lack of ability to move razor over face sits in a fragrant stench of senility and immobility. Warplanes can shoot at my chest but don't cut open my heart with your smiling bullets or you'll drown in a sea of chocolate oil. Spontaneous combustion of rags is not common but frequently warned about and if this library is my prison then the tea I am drinking in great quantities to make myself pee every 20 minutes is my savior-canary. Wind sprints outside to awaken the soul but the wheels turn in a low gear and you realize you forgot to upgrade to 1 million speed, just smart enough to know you're not smart enough is the worst place to be on god's good gangrene earth, and then the flick of some keys, some useless observations to be read by one or two people at most and freedom is here, mass consumption of beer and the sickening thought that I will never publish this post and I have another final in 2.5 hours and 5 pages due at 4 and nothing really matters that much because it is warm as fuck in the bathrooms and I feel a kindred spirit connection to the night lady in the library and sunrise is a placebo that keeps us alert and alive and young. I have a small mole on my arm that changes color quite frequently and maybe if I look hard enough into it I can make a few wishes, none of them would be whiny, i have too much work make it go away wishes because quite honestly I am a fucking masochist for all time, or if enjoying your own pain is another word then I meant that. We are only young once, staying up all night doing 15 pages of work and then taking a final is memorable and if it lowers my grade in a class from a plus to a minus then watch me give a fuck because when the dawn breaks I will have lived a life less ordinary for just a moment and taken some pleasure in that while I still can because I know I have to wake up and mow the lawn and change the diaper of my mind because like my lips, my brain is chapped, it's a reaction to elements, but not the kind on a periodic table, elements of lives and the balm is not blistex but the comfortable slide back into a routine that is preprogrammed and accepted, like not even realizing you are on drugs but being really fucked up we are programmed to receive and maybe we gain strength from the deviations. I don't have worry about getting attacked by a rodent right now because my body odor is creating the kind of permanent force field around me that first person video gamers only dream about. Earth cry in the keyholes of doors that open to nothing but chairs and paintings but where the last line never should have existed and a yearning for more may be inherently place -based and needing to be done away with. mommy.