Journal 1

Listening to the gurgle of the universe on this Saturday morning

waking up next to the horror under my arm

the worst kind of wake up call

when real life starts to resemble a dream

several glitches moments out of time

out of space, out of syntax

well I can’t stop for them

I can’t keep trying to understand so much

sunken face, bloodshot eyes

pupils as wide as saucers

another town hit by the plague

jesus the walking junkie

he lives, he breathes,

his brain has holes from the junk

controlled by the junk

circus of fuck ups produced

from apathy, from  yearning to be numb

above anything and everything else

when being present in your mind

for just a second isn’t an option

because the voices have claws

and their tearing my brain into ribbons

echoes of confetti as I wonder

if this is the confession

that I’d been meaning to write

but I couldn’t tally up my sins

so I’ll let modern guilt consume me

it’s the only way I’m truly full.


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