Inflammation Blues


Each life makes its own immitation of immortality. -Stephen King

So hard to write, my thoughts are so confused.
Madness. Hatred. Lust I guess. My thoughts
they sprawl like concrete in America. Heavy
and fast. I was going to say what would I
do if it wasn’t for money? Art-wise that is.
How this culture of doom. Won’t let me be.
The town, the neighborhood. Not my home.
Never could be. The people here. Build
your houses. Say “Hey you doin’?” Talk like
that. And loud b/c they can’t hear themselves
anymore (It’s a loud place). Never enough
respect for this crew. I have been repeating
these ideas for over a decade. Any person
with any intelligence would have left a habitat
like this already, unless you are an animal
trapped in a zoo. It seems I exaggerate, but
that depends on the time of day. The hour or
minute. It is a nightmare. Girls. They are
vicious creatures. Maybe this place more so.
Maybe they have too much testosterone in
their macaroni. The children of these places
should be culled. The teenage boom is. Proud
little dipshits. Parents made the batter. I repeat
too often. Better to keep this post on top. It’s a
vicious cycle. Intolerance tested? I can continue
into some of my conspiracy, more like an evolution
of the Greater NYC Area. This always makes me
sad, divide and conquer. That leaves what? Just
black, maybe Prussian blue. Eggplant red. Channel
surf like I am immortal.