a free ride inside my diseased mind.

a flesh watch

a  flesh watch

This time of year the old flesh watch seems to sound its pink  armed alarm a little more louder

long gone is the comfort of rainy afternoons, art filled evenings, films, and other such mechanisms created for filling in those human loneliness gaps

A pink wood filler if you will

strange exercises, constant jerking olympics, and smash heading wall against face recipes

Art is a whore that reaps little to know reward these days

a means to an end

a source of in cum

a dwindling drying up river

a river so polluted only the most famished, parched and  wretched desert lizard creature would even think to drink  from its loins

its not cute at 34

was it ever

should have moved to a city when i was young

full of fuck pancakes and piss whistles

being normal is my new weird

feel like i have become some kind of digital ghost

constantly zapping myself with other peoples sexuality

short circuiting

rather stab my self with a pen than write again

the cleaner my bed is the worse my art is

pink clock

milking out cream colored filth

just so i can think for more than a minute

constant arousal towels

backwards showers that dry you with a dry husky filth

skeleton dust ejaculate

the only letter i have received in the mail

was to warn me

that my mailbox is unfit  and dangerous

until it is emptied mail will not be delivered to me.

jokes on them

I don’t want



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