wildcat

Okay, fine, this day is a wasted bone-meal heap on the lawn of the world. Can I do nothing but be gripped by this fatigue that cools in my bones and - gasp - subjects me to cliche? I haven't been able to do anything and I can barely move my limbs or hold my head up. I'm listening to Ginsberg and reading Ginsberg and Veitch's The Question comic books and poems for workshop and I need to write poems. Caroline said the other day that my poetry is the opposite of Casey's, it is free-flow versus poised and constructed. I can't write poetry like I'm supposed to write poetry, I want to just spit it out in venomous volleys or let it leak from between my legs out the tip of my pen. Everybody's serious, Allen Ginsberg, and I'm expected to find criticism about you. I didn't go to class this morning, Allen Ginsberg, and I didn't go to the reading tonight either because I can barely operate these transistor limbs and mechanoid body parts. I wish I could be drawn and quartered and then pickled, thrown in jars. I have to replace the lightbulb in my bedroom because there is nothing here but darkness and I'm trying to function again but I seem to be trapped in a STEEL BOX, which is probably a metaphor for something but I can't seem to stand up. Allen, why don't you spell your name with two A's?

And Hunter S. Thompson, why the fuck are you levelling that fucking shotgun to my fucking brow? I feel like I'm in a fucking movie with Frances McDormand. I'm going to talk to my mother on the phone if I can, but that's miserable. Look, Doc, I don't care if you thought Kerouac was the shit. I don't care. I don't care. Okay, so I care. Fuck you. Look? Look, I'm listening to the Clash because I don't want to hear your voice. You make think of Burroughs and that makes me sad. I don't know.

And talking to my mother. Fuck. Fuck. Do I listen to yet another rant amount female hair loss? Do I need to listen to her drunk again? Rambling? I can't stand that, I can't, I'm about to collapse. I want sleep.