far too nothing

Killed my old blog dead, I did.
Awhile back now.
I was so compelled for reasons I'm loath to cite,
because I chose them.
That guy Craughmby was a drag anyway, but he is me
(and we are all together).

Candor is what counts.
File that away.

Fuck it,
I don't feel
like working; I feel like
straightening my head out.
Yeah. I

keep going around
with these broken lines,
the brute routine, day in and day out.
Everything you do and think,

I mean everything.
For instance,
beer is like water
and I yearn for feelings gone
that can never be again.
Who the fuck wants to hear
that?

Better to substitute disguises
made from words, magical
self-conceits leavened by crumbs
of strange being, devout desire.

Crippled guitar sounds
bleeding out, backward emotions
trapped in the bare air,
sounds of ore,
cauterized,
immune
to logic.

(OK, you have your anonymity back:
now what the fuck did you want it for?
For explaining
how crippled triangulate
methodologies of seeing, wanting,
but not doing can color an entire
human experience?)

show, don't tell.

delete