Blue Book 071793

Fresh paper. Slightly chewed, but a sufficiently full pen.  Mostly steady hand. Fingers capable of manipulating the aforementioned pen.  And there is something unsaid, perhaps unthought...

...i struggle to form the lines and dots which you have just read, are still reading. Each word is nothing grander than a bargain-rate illusion - a puff air of heavily made-up to appear more attractive, more worthy of your attention. But in reality, these pretty, vibrant, often angry words that pretend to fill every page in this notebook evaporate and are reclaimed by the very air from which they were stolen. In essence, my words convey nothing. No meaning. No truth. No deception. I suffer their inadequacies.

For every hour of sleep lost, nothing was gained.  All my frustration, hours spent sorting through a lifetime's worth of random thoughts and mostly useless ideas, enduring the pulsing throb of recollection -- memories that had dulled little (if at all) since their birth --  only to produce the meaningless scribble of a perverse mind. How I shimmer with the proud superiority of an ARTIST!  A woman seeing, with they eyes of a true visionary, her mind reflected on the pages smeared with ink.  As I near the end of another book, having traveled not nearly as far as I had hoped, I indulge in a brief review of these insightful essays, which PROVE my objective intellect, or so I thought!

Instead, i found a few moments of shining clarity, surrounded by abusive manipulation, serving only to repeat...reiterate...reassess a singular truth. The entirety of this book has been plagiarized.  I plagiarize myself, constantly. It is my most inexhaustible skill.

Blue Book 071693

There are moments like these, strange and juicy, waiting effortlessly to be popped.  If we should happen across one such small thread of time, the challenge shall remain undefined.  To stretch a second, to fuck the ring of all eternity -- there is no truth more real -- except perhaps in the sticky, slippery wetness of sex.

Pretend to clear away the moldy cobwebs of indifferent disgust. But I, for one, sense insincerity behind that plentiful smile you wear day after day after (blah, blah, blah...).  Deceit, unadulterated, reflects flatteringly in your eyes, as I would have expected.

Age seldom mellows those who most need it. Yet, a fire can learn to burn sparingly. It can be taught to destroy only that which it does not need to survive. This is the path taken by some sadists and nearly all freaks.

Sequins catch the light and hold it for ransom. No one pays and the light is set free. It nibbles like little rodents at its own embarrassment, but cannot coax even a small tear in the fabric that shields its nakedness.

Another lesson learned; another dream explodes into the sunlight, unseen. The sleeping cannot see their crimes.  So, I shut my guilty lids and try to seduce a new dream. One lies beneath another, each dream reflecting the one before.