reading #107

AME AND THE TANGY ENERGETIC

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world full of plastic

the greens are alive

and you know

only turn red when

you’re not looking

 

red is a just a mask

for how they really

feel

 

blue

 

in a world full of plastic

you would be

too

Journal # 04.04.17

Good to get yourself on ‘a mission from god’  (Akroyd and Belushi). Or a mission from the buddha, or just on a spiritual mission. You can rise above this mundanity, all the plastic bullshit we encounter out in the world. I tell you what! I would not even get out of bed and didn’t!  For several years rarely! I was shooting plastic into my arm. I was snorting plastic up my nose. I was fucking plastic dummies! I was smoking plastic. I was seeing plastic. I had to railroad myself into my personal mission from god. god was lowercase matte finish and unrefined. god had to be a weed that would drop roots and take hold. god only came when i fertilized my soil with shit. Wet plasticine dream semantics. And that’s why I do what I do. Not that I don’t love you. I do. You deserve every bit as much higher altitude, greater bandwidth consciousness as anybody. Settle at your own risk. I did and I could not get out of bed anymore. What gets you out of bed in the morning? The answer was nothing. Maybe plastic for a time. Still I decided to live, I don’t know why. 12.12.12 came and went, and my heart kept pushing the blood through my extremities. My altitude was underground. So I was an unusual kinda freak and I’m sure I still am. But I was no pushover and they would have to make room for me. I ate my spinach and took my pills, so I could get out of bed and get on a mission. The mission was clear. You see it everyday. You can find me. Right here…

Pop Girl Sap Song

His hands in his hair, he wished he could call her, she who fucked around behind his back, betrayed him with her bullshit hypocrisy, who he feared would plunge the needle to the vinyl vein,  to drown out her pain with some Pop Girl Sap Song. Very plastic of her. She listened to Courtney Love and Hole, and became a better victim. She smeared candy-colored lipstick on her face and tore her clothes in the right places. She thought she was tough. She drew candy-colored hearts by Maybelline all over the mirrors in her apartment, and dropped her knee and hip and lay her elbow down and blew kisses to herself all day long to a waterfall of sound. She did not have any trouble enjoying silence. She never gave herself the opportunity. She had him break the seal on the painted over window in her bathroom so she could hang her head out and scream for everyone to hear her. She was a scratch lottery winner and loser all in the same day. She was a brilliant mess. An idiot savant. A fool to cry. And no one cared to know why. She was the inspiration for many a vexation. The muse of the frustrated sigh.