I lie naked in an empty bathtub comparing the differences between me and it. What is a bathtub without water? it is useless, it has no reason to exist until it is once again filled with water to cleanse a body.
Maybe the same is true of a man, maybe without being filled with a sense of being. by sense of being i mean understanding, meaning, purpose, love and happiness. i am an empty bathtub in a cold house. i have no sense of being. i am not writing to complain, i simply don't know who the hell i am or what i plan to do with myself. I am an empty bathtub.
new subject.
electronics
more, more, more pleads the man they call Public. he has an imaginary friend named Truth and kicks his dog named Creativity. he is the inventor of the garage door opener and the killer of aids victims.
The man usually locks into his favorite television program for hours and forgets to feed his dog. The program kills Truth because he requires to much concentration. On the television he watches Pleasure and Lust preform a duet after king of the hill and before the simpsons.
Public enjoys shopping and clubbing, Dreams scare him and Art confuses him. Public doesn't worry about his wife Future because the gas prices worry him so and she doesn't tell him what she's thinking if he doesn't ask. Public loves to recieve "stuff", but giving is strenuous and he sees no benifits. Public is tempermental and lets his emotions get the better of his head. Sometimes he gets into fights before he thinks and tries to quit halfway through even though the damage is already done.
most of all, Public has few friends, his best one being himself.
Monday, April 23, 2007
thats educational
sitting in seats sweating and waiting for time to pass while dreaming of ice cream bars and social events. i don't dislike classes, i dislike teachers. my brain builds walls to block out rants of off subject teachers that facinate mediocre students with talk of puppies and new cars. i want to learn about the great men and women that walked the earth, as well as the terrible ones. i want to learn of wonderful writers and paintings in paris. i have places to go and things to do, i have no time to waste on small talk and offsubjectness.
teachers are the most assuming of any. class subjects change at the speed swallowed gum digests while kids doodle sketches of a masterpiece on thier math homework. thats education today.
the teenage brain is so under estimated and so ill advised, and i am finding it hard to continue cooperating. i think i may just snap
one day i will snap, i will stand up on my desk and say "fuck you and your kids social problems. fuck the new car you got and fuck the fact that your husband hates the dishes. fuck this goddamn textbook and fuck the corrupt news that speaks of a boy stealing a balloon in a theme park while people die in iraq because bob jones has to be a good christian and drive his oil guzzling monster truck to church on sundays and wednesdays.
we are in a prison with teachers that rape our thoughts and hold back our inspirations. how are we to cope?
teachers are the most assuming of any. class subjects change at the speed swallowed gum digests while kids doodle sketches of a masterpiece on thier math homework. thats education today.
the teenage brain is so under estimated and so ill advised, and i am finding it hard to continue cooperating. i think i may just snap
one day i will snap, i will stand up on my desk and say "fuck you and your kids social problems. fuck the new car you got and fuck the fact that your husband hates the dishes. fuck this goddamn textbook and fuck the corrupt news that speaks of a boy stealing a balloon in a theme park while people die in iraq because bob jones has to be a good christian and drive his oil guzzling monster truck to church on sundays and wednesdays.
we are in a prison with teachers that rape our thoughts and hold back our inspirations. how are we to cope?
sunshine and glory days
writing accross the walls of his mind, the soggy cheerios taste the same as the salsberry steak durring his depression. his hair is the jungle of rat nests held together with circus grease and old skin. the butterflys are dead in the emporium. empty cocoons and dead plants are all thats left. beats echo in his head, usually a waltz comes to him in his dreams with lovers, but only when he doesnt perscribe himself with the fixers.
his mind produces a nice trail to walk along, otherwise known as a pain dampener. the leaves blow acrossed it in hues of orange and sad brown. the trees wind the path, branchs looming so low as to say hello, but not close enough shake hands. the door into the cave is open, a place to hide from the nightsnakes and guilting mothers. a place where morals, ethics and selfishness are lost for the sake of the teenager wanting a sip from the cup of sane.
to drunk to sleep, but to tired to think. he lays his head on the table and waits for the axe to come down, the day is such a dream.
his feet are cold and he wants to shower, but he doesn't feel like being clean. the water is stale with plastic and it burns his chapped lips when he tries to refresh. he needs sunshine and the wistle of wind against the car window. the glare on the dashboard and the feel of sun warmth on bare skin.
firelight on smiling dirty drunken faces mixed with the smell of pine needles and cheap tobbaco smoke. wool shirt wearing boys with brown sandaled feet warming next to the fire talk of god and the girls that they haven't met, farther away than the stars above. the bruised ribs from sleeping on the ground and a cold nose from the crisp chill of a beautiful night half slept, half lived.
he takes his head of the table and greets spring with a smile.
his mind produces a nice trail to walk along, otherwise known as a pain dampener. the leaves blow acrossed it in hues of orange and sad brown. the trees wind the path, branchs looming so low as to say hello, but not close enough shake hands. the door into the cave is open, a place to hide from the nightsnakes and guilting mothers. a place where morals, ethics and selfishness are lost for the sake of the teenager wanting a sip from the cup of sane.
to drunk to sleep, but to tired to think. he lays his head on the table and waits for the axe to come down, the day is such a dream.
his feet are cold and he wants to shower, but he doesn't feel like being clean. the water is stale with plastic and it burns his chapped lips when he tries to refresh. he needs sunshine and the wistle of wind against the car window. the glare on the dashboard and the feel of sun warmth on bare skin.
firelight on smiling dirty drunken faces mixed with the smell of pine needles and cheap tobbaco smoke. wool shirt wearing boys with brown sandaled feet warming next to the fire talk of god and the girls that they haven't met, farther away than the stars above. the bruised ribs from sleeping on the ground and a cold nose from the crisp chill of a beautiful night half slept, half lived.
he takes his head of the table and greets spring with a smile.
counting costs
perhaps things are much easier than most think. perhaps when one realizes what they really want out of being, things relax a bit and items fall into place.
if im wrong however, you might end up in the gutter with old newspaper boats and molding leaves.
ahh the collective 'you.' journalists hate it. i just think its preachy, but i use it anyway.
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