18.Feb.2003

tone this, america.

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nadir of surreal blasphemy

My shoulder blades ask curiously from the bottom of these mechanic aerobics, "Why do you even bother?"

I'm on a mission to make sure you are lethal. I could wear heroin chic so well.

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These herbal throat drops are no longer combating my nicotine addiction. I should smoke them instead.

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Old Navy. Diet pills. Barbiturates. I told Dustin subconsciously it was called "selling out". In response, amidst this REM glory, he said, "Fuck that." And then, he did. Multitude of beer bottles. Hazy, languid flesh against hazier, more languid flesh. He was braced beneath my hip-knives. The conscious doesn't receive the buzz. Dissipate, dissipate, dissipate.

I don't like my dreams. They make my left eyelid twitch and my back ache. His images make my thighs July.

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Confluence:

These pieces of your shattered ventricles endeavor to find new life blood. As much as I adore you, I cannot be your distraction. To what fairness? To what slipping cincture?

"I want to tell you to write," I said. "Indite this. Love this. Hate this. Lick this. Frame this. Catharsis."

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And so, a new cycle dawns. We are all hoping you can keep your fists closed.

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I know you're exhausted, but I want to freeze your cells awake until the mitochondria burst.

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Welcome to Ravebot Project 2003. Move her emotions like a machine.

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time & machine