multiple feelings can over whelm even the strongest human zombie
love is only a word somebody made up. Isn't it? has no real meaning anymore, just turns to sour milk and memories gone.
i was not made this way, I was molded this way over time, slowly, one disappointment after another, till one walks the expression he always had on face, ( violins play, how pathetic my human is) even in pre school pictures, I'd be the kid with the crooked haircut, & the frown , looking down at the ground. Destiny is a fuk, a real fuk.
one must curl back into cold box & eat nothing all day while reading rimbaud in the very back of bookstore as stupid fat disgusting tick like house wives still have to ask me how much the magazines are. The name of the store is half price books. Figure it fukin out; it's half of the original price! I yell, putting down a seasons in hell. Buy your fukin Daniel steel books and don't u ever touch my shoulders u sick people. An old man came up to me today at work, put his hand on my shoulder, and started rubbing it, one of those touchy feely freaks, asking me where the kipling was. Never feel sorry for ones self. Never. My first thought was to grab his hand, and squash the bones, and hear them crack, or to punch him in the face. That's just me, I don't like to be touched by old men, or anyone I don't know a little, I mean he was just an old grandpa, just innocent shit, but still. Don't fuking touch my shoulders dude!, gawd, whats wrong with me, I have gone insane before. But I must not snap completely, each time one feels nuts. And gets through it, will come out twice as strong. Its all about that cold box I once owned, its all about a heart that was half eaten, & left on the freeway with the fiddle playing midget monkey man throwing violins in some puked out told u all that before blues tune of so called living & almost loving. It aint nothing really, its sitting in the back of a bookstore u work at trying to read classics, while cock roaches with no souls waddle around u, trying to get some sort of reaction from the frown. Its life, all the cracks of love in between, it's a growth that rots in mark twain jack the bean stalk john barley corn jack of all londons stoned on break nibbles of tc boyle nightmare bookshelves and smiles made of visa's, its bullshit, all of it, im bullshit. The resin of ones last hit floating around in over used sinks. Dad's hot tub, and chili cook outs alone and loaded. Leave me the keys to the jimmy folks, oh yes, every thing is just fine. Life is dandy. Like a carmel apple at a corn dog auction. In control in an out of control way. She left me. i didn't leave her. Hung up on me three times. I went to a bar tonight and saw a band called kitty spankwaknker or some shit at a place called the loose moose that just opened, for my boss's 40th b day. All I did was suck on drinks and frown, bloody maries, whiskeys, hairy papa's, buttery nipples filling my gut, as some retarded 80's chick danced around singing about old rock songs. They say im the ultimate pessimist, the Chinese do. She left me, I left me, don't look so miserable this lady said at the bar who I work with, touching my shoulders and asking me what was wrong..
"would u just not touch my shoulders dammit!, what the fuk! Nothing is wrong with me. something is wrong with this hole bar! Fuk!" I screamed,
& drove home. Well not right away. I drove out these back woods smoking cigs, and blasting deep purples greatest hits, it reminded me of doing crank when I was 17 with my skuzzy apartment neighbor paul, who had a bitchin trans am, and this weird twitch his mouth would ALWAYS DO. Who knows. Im climbing back into my shell like box, and there is no heater to turn on. Anyone tries to touch me at work tomorrow, they are gonna get a knuckle sandwich. With a mayonnaise smile. U stupid fukin pickle head violin playing piano shit bar, stupid college fukin town .. just watch people, no longer speak at work, just watch people, and try and read in the back.. alone..get off my shoulders. Watch my lips move, see my smile open, then look at my eyes. & only notice black sockets where glitter use to dwell. She walked out on me. dumped like a wet bloody pair of underwear on the side of the freeway with thumb pointing travel time & the truckers all honk past you yelling about it's only a word, as they run over your tomb stone without a tear in their eye, dancing like retarded mongloids - caves covered in bat crappled tried agains. All that's left is pawn shop pictures of elvis next to a portrait of a drunken jesus with a name tag falling off the boats in bookstore questions.
This story Copyright 2002 Nicholas Morgan.
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