Death in Debt

I wanna go back to sleep but clicking and clacking is the only true safety so I suppose such dreams of dreams are a bit beyond me. I am ok. I trust myself to resolve any insomniac mania, to disabuse all delusions of idiocy and live and breathe as I sit and am. Sometimes writing is just typing the word fuck over and over again to get it out of your system, that’s how it oughta be, that’s how you know you trust the page as a companion, as something more intimate than merely a business partner. It is a place to confide vulnerability, not simply a launching pad for your ego. You do not speak only to appear, fuck you fuck you fuck you. We are all dying all consuming all nothing forever forever forever death in debt. It is very late and it is also very early, and today we will work, we will work like it works. We work as though this is a state of forgiveness for the sin of accepting monotony. We work as though these hours don’t count in the tally of mortality. We work as though this is some sort of extra day to subsidize the life we don’t live. At least I can afford a steak, in theory. At least I can take a break, in theory. I am going to get a nice massage soon. Even though it’s awkward, almost like prostitution to me. Paid intimacy always feels like a crime regardless of what is designated as acceptable. I don’t care, my back wishes to be treaded with beautiful hand prints. I want to be chewed raw. I want to be molded to the will of health by someone trained in the art of beauty and convergence. Harmony between hands and back in a dance of delight, imagine your flowing blood like a river rushing to ecstasy guided by gold palms shoving skin along its natural tractions. In all honesty, now, as I am, I care about nothing anymore, everything is healing and I am beautifully tame and calmed within myself. Now and today and as it is my distress level has plummeted and the weight of the water of my wonders have balanced out and I am joyous and kind within these things and these paradigms and the mess does not bother me as once it might’ve because everything everything everything is in the place it oughta operate within, everything is a joy and damnation be damned. I ceasen’t to be my created beauty, this carved nest where the pittering and pattering of rushing rain only shivers the dryness of my skin to peace and gratitude. I wish for a dime a dozen medallion to commemorate that I have found wealth within myself, and gold and silver mean nothing to one content with bronze or less. Paper is fertile for flowers because I feel guilty that it was once something alive and now I mark it with all my excess dreams as though they matter more than whatever centuries of growth and clawing at the sky this corpse once had before it was cut and carved and melted and molded and pounded into paper for me to bleed onto in metaphor. Those elders make my house and many things within it. We are never grateful for these things as we ought to be. We are never provoked to guilt or gratitude because these bodies we broke to maintain our own had no mouths with which to scream, and for no other reason.