as well, my favorite lines. very well done. excellent job of conveying emotion through imagery.

Betty: What's the problem, Ted?

Ted: Hello, Betty. What's the problem? I haven't got a problem. I've got ****ing problems - plural.

Betty: Sure.

Ted: Well, most recently, there's room 309, there's this scary Mexican gangster dude poking his finger in my chest. There's his hooligan kids snapping their fingers at me. There's a putrid, rotting corpse of a dead whore stuck in the springs of the bed. There's rooms blazing afire. There's a big fat needle from God knows where, stuck in my leg, infecting me with God knows what. And finally there's me, walking out the door, right ****ing now. Buenas noches.

- Four Rooms

incur ye hangovers while ye may

this is awkward.

i type for a living.

thanks for posting. that was hilarious.

i'm not sure if I'm supposed to have plans tonight or not.

writer's block.

i tried to mix two types of noodle dishes and it ended really badly.

I used to love god when he paid for my drinks
but he swallowed his liver and left me alone.
The devil and I then gave dating a try -
gallons of cigarettes, packets of Rye -
searched for harlequin girls with their hammering eyes,
but we stammered, enamored by subsequent tones.

But when god got the tab it seemed all that I had
was as wide as the world and as deep as my dreams.
Before I could tell what the silent soul thinks,
before I got handcuffed to work out my kinks,
and the devil denounced me in all of his inks,
I could paint up my love in a thousand bright streams.

The devil was smooth, though - no, - don't get me wrong,
like vodka on ice with a strawberry twist.
Despite having all of the wrong dreams go right,
as pragmatic pretension invaded my sight,
and I tried to stay grounded, tied tight to a kite,
I had love in my veins and new chains on my wrist.

But god's credit ran dry like the lakes of my eyes,
and together we ran our souls down through the sinks.
And the devil won't question despair if it's free.
No, especially when empathy answers for me.
So I'm swallowing sorrow while sorrow's still free,
as I stalk out my god to ask him what he thinks.

I give a damn. But the more I think about it the more I realize the less I care and feel like I don't care at all.

So - no.

my ribs are broken
one of my fists is broken
in a silky and stubbly haze
the last of these few days appears like a slide-show
right before me

my lungs rot like deadwood
oak
pine
needles
soak up in me

avant-garde obituaries
sit on my wall
and stare back at me in pastel prisons

ink like kisses of inexcusable phone calls
3 am
no more meaning
significant chapters
in a mediocre life

carved out of oak
smells like pine wood

desire empties
the bank account
and smiles leeringly
behind the counter

answers are half-bred truths
the sun breaks down too early

this motor is tired

and it's stellar in the desert
but i'm nowhere close
this letter doesn't have a destination

This is brilliant.