2001-10-23 & 10:40 a.m. : i think of mankind in quotation marks
once i start to listen to mood swing whiskey, it's at least three or four hours before i am able to listen to anything else. sometimes, it takes all day and night for me to get it out of my mouth and to keep it from hanging onto my eyelashes like shower water or sweat from frenzied aching motion. it's angry and alive, and it twists me up, i can taste it on my tongue, hot and hungry, making me swallow slower, with concentration. it's not romantic, but it is longing. it makes me want to indulge in all my vices with abandon, to laugh at my striving for virtue; to live in dark, warm, soft wet places. lick-like brush strokes along arched backs and along strained necks, long hard drags on cigarettes, burning liquid sliding down my throat again and again to get dizzier, everything more blurred, not prudent, not safe, not clean, disappearing in the lines smudged and clouded. leave this place where people know my history and have pictures attached to my name and find someplace new to reinvent myself wholly different, not bound by what people know of me or what they think they know i would and would not do. turn into someone who i would not recognize, not use my ideals as a way to avoid experience, break down my safe pretty little snowglobe walls and let all the fake static and steril scenes spill out across a dirty floor, dripping down into the cracks to be forgotten. learn to use my hands to break things apart to see their secrets, find their sticky insides, spread them like honey to be tasted with half-lidded eyes. not be afraid of heat and uncontrolled burning, welcome consumption, disappear into it.
once i start to listen to mood swing whiskey, it's at least three or four hours before i am able to listen to anything else. sometimes, it takes all day and night for me to get it out of my mouth and to keep it from hanging onto my eyelashes like shower water or sweat from frenzied aching motion. it's angry and alive, and it twists me up, i can taste it on my tongue, hot and hungry, making me swallow slower, with concentration. it's not romantic, but it is longing. it makes me want to indulge in all my vices with abandon, to laugh at my striving for virtue; to live in dark, warm, soft wet places. lick-like brush strokes along arched backs and along strained necks, long hard drags on cigarettes, burning liquid sliding down my throat again and again to get dizzier, everything more blurred, not prudent, not safe, not clean, disappearing in the lines smudged and clouded. leave this place where people know my history and have pictures attached to my name and find someplace new to reinvent myself wholly different, not bound by what people know of me or what they think they know i would and would not do. turn into someone who i would not recognize, not use my ideals as a way to avoid experience, break down my safe pretty little snowglobe walls and let all the fake static and steril scenes spill out across a dirty floor, dripping down into the cracks to be forgotten. learn to use my hands to break things apart to see their secrets, find their sticky insides, spread them like honey to be tasted with half-lidded eyes. not be afraid of heat and uncontrolled burning, welcome consumption, disappear into it.
forget myself
forget myself
forget myself.
