Finding myself without poetry, prose or anything else of worth written in the past several months, I'm drawn back to something I wrote in July, when, to my credit, I knew it; it followed a joyously positive night, and a morning where I tried vainly to hang on to that particular exuberance;
I'm really dead
But my body forgot
And my mind is
Six feet under your boots
And waiting and
Impassive.
(Wishful thinking, cunt)
Yes, so it transpired during my dissociative fantasies, before the grand epiphany, the realisation that I really am connected to this skinny corpse, and I'm no happier about it now, having considered it, than I was back in the old days, however long ago it might have been, the last time I felt connected to my body. I hope it either passes or I find a new body. A new mind would suffice, I suppose.
Please do look out for my sober, or at least non-gin drunk de facto denial of this shite. Truth be told, it was written by the fourteen year old, smooth-skinned, slack-sphinctered boywhore down the street. I really ought to have credited him; fuck it; he's hardly in a position to sue.
I'm really dead
But my body forgot
And my mind is
Six feet under your boots
And waiting and
Impassive.
(Wishful thinking, cunt)
Yes, so it transpired during my dissociative fantasies, before the grand epiphany, the realisation that I really am connected to this skinny corpse, and I'm no happier about it now, having considered it, than I was back in the old days, however long ago it might have been, the last time I felt connected to my body. I hope it either passes or I find a new body. A new mind would suffice, I suppose.
Please do look out for my sober, or at least non-gin drunk de facto denial of this shite. Truth be told, it was written by the fourteen year old, smooth-skinned, slack-sphinctered boywhore down the street. I really ought to have credited him; fuck it; he's hardly in a position to sue.
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