Call It September

This is delayed and belated. I've split my time since the last post (call it a month) drunk/with school/with work/with band; sloppy on all accounts. I wouldn't say writing has taken a back seat to anything, but it has taken the form of scribbles on scrap paper. I tell myself, "Don't work on writing, there is school to be done!" But nothing is ever finished. So for this, I will gather up the few papers and translate. I'm certainly not promising any of it is good. These are only the papers I can find that were between me and the beer.




Scratch That



She cut my hand
  where the blood line crosses
I moved it back and
  P  U  L  L  E  D
my nails over the wound

Otis Redding came on
and we fucked the whole
thing up

He can't stand beside me
while I write this
dumb shit
all of the time
As if this is
Genius



One Cat, New Cat, Red Fish


She's barely new
to this world
has ripped my curtains
D
  O
    W
      N

She's pissed
all over my brown robe
I ask her

"Can you act
like a lady for once?"

Vomit on the floor
rubbing her vagina
on my new typewriter

There's that joke
Take me out to dinner first
But I can't even get a collar
that will stay tight



Sheets


I worry
I don't know
where she is
what pain is

I see it
I feel her
Continually
Is this
the worst
What I call
pain?
life?

Am I
thin
skinned
the others
are so
calloused



BrNSINNNNNN, R, E=R  IXG!!!
(I Was Drunk For This One)


After I fucked her
In the shower
I looked down
on myself

I asked if she had
a chainsaw somewhere
in her vagina

She had
it seemed

So we washed off
we dried off
had a cigarette
drank a beer
and turned on
the music




The last piece I was going to include isn't that great and could lead toward another intervention so I have chosen to omit the whole thing. I assure you, it was actually hinting towards my own fear of death. Oh hell.... Unfortunately/ Considering death/ but when it comes/ I know I won't/ want it.

That wasn't so bad. Was it.