theD.M.C. method
Posted: January 25th, 2006, 10:24 pm
I decided to flip through the pages of the dictionary and find something to write about. The pages were spinning and I laid my thumb down on the pages whizzing by-Drunk came up and the again I do the same thing and my thumb lands on meaningless and the third lands on custom. I decided that that method of inspirational searching would not work. So I am just sitting here with a pain in my gut of emptiness just waiting to be turned in to something.
Wanting to smash the keys. Who every said write your way through it, well maybe they said right your was through it meaning do the right thing and not document all th shitty dull shit you can't write about.
Like the dead man on the street on the way to work today and the kids poking him with stick and how you ran up and yelled for the kids to leave and started to cry and burying your face in the man jacket that was covered in feces and booze. And then you feel a hand on you ass and the dead guy is not dead-so you grab another stick and beat the not so dead man back to death.
Your feeling kind of shifty now and waiting for the cops to come.
Drunk, meaningless, custom...
Nobody comes. Another dead homeless man frozen on the street. The alcohol spurting out of that hole you punctured in his stomach and remember the gases or whatever it was that hissed for a couple seconds that is now pounding like Poe's tale tale heart in head. Hissssssssssssssss
Looking at your self in the mirror and your smile is so fake and sad and angry and there is nothing behind it but a murderous bastard drunk, meaningless, custom... Custom to hiding and self loathing and madness and badness.
The cat is looking at the string hanging from your sock and trying to claw at it with contractible claws of deathly pain if they were to get anywhere near your balls and sack--Drunk, meaningless, custom.
Drinking meaning from custom.
The dogs out back howl at you window and known only to you for not a soul hears them but you in you solitary cabin in the woods buy the interstate and the cars roll by with out a thought that there would be anyone thinking of them going by certainly not a drunken meaningless a typist accustomed to over thinking...
Drunk, meaningless, custom...
In black midnight gleaming lights of the pit out the back with the carnivorous sad lost souls of underground movements of sad neon lights and inferred army bases long forgotten to anyone!
And this life of--
Drunk, meaningless, custom...
G.A. Parsons
Wanting to smash the keys. Who every said write your way through it, well maybe they said right your was through it meaning do the right thing and not document all th shitty dull shit you can't write about.
Like the dead man on the street on the way to work today and the kids poking him with stick and how you ran up and yelled for the kids to leave and started to cry and burying your face in the man jacket that was covered in feces and booze. And then you feel a hand on you ass and the dead guy is not dead-so you grab another stick and beat the not so dead man back to death.
Your feeling kind of shifty now and waiting for the cops to come.
Drunk, meaningless, custom...
Nobody comes. Another dead homeless man frozen on the street. The alcohol spurting out of that hole you punctured in his stomach and remember the gases or whatever it was that hissed for a couple seconds that is now pounding like Poe's tale tale heart in head. Hissssssssssssssss
Looking at your self in the mirror and your smile is so fake and sad and angry and there is nothing behind it but a murderous bastard drunk, meaningless, custom... Custom to hiding and self loathing and madness and badness.
The cat is looking at the string hanging from your sock and trying to claw at it with contractible claws of deathly pain if they were to get anywhere near your balls and sack--Drunk, meaningless, custom.
Drinking meaning from custom.
The dogs out back howl at you window and known only to you for not a soul hears them but you in you solitary cabin in the woods buy the interstate and the cars roll by with out a thought that there would be anyone thinking of them going by certainly not a drunken meaningless a typist accustomed to over thinking...
Drunk, meaningless, custom...
In black midnight gleaming lights of the pit out the back with the carnivorous sad lost souls of underground movements of sad neon lights and inferred army bases long forgotten to anyone!
And this life of--
Drunk, meaningless, custom...
G.A. Parsons