A rebel without a clue.

Do we wear clothes, as apparently, We'd grow so bored of our natural Appearance? Sometimes there are people who Match Their apparel to be one because Out And in season do blow hot and Cold Shivering or sweating apart, creaselessly, Ceaseless.

If I ever buy you flowers Then Our love must be Dead Wilted and dusty. Poorly and Deflowered. No longer eager or touching Fingers Tenderly reaching beyond ways Means Hourly, daily, weekly seeming Barred Where nothing may be Ever.

Goodbye sweetness I say She stares downcast at bright White Sneakers shining into her Black Face quizzical and catching Words Which like a boomerang came Back.

Oh, for a little walk. Surely I'm able to contain my explicit need? Some literate greed Stampedes my feet away To eat the mystery up As slothing is a muzzle upon freedom. * Like this? Like that? Like is always like It's stiff, like.

Humiliation @ school. No lock on the toilet door. Shitting myself walking home alone with poo in my pants. Not sure who it @was at home who helped me ... Perhaps dad, but more likely mother. One of the first times I walked home alone. Perpetually an outsider. Clusters of people stood in doorways and supposed homeless people on all the corners. I feel pushed away. There is no way back. But how can I move on?

Inconsistency. Fluctuation between going forward and returning to what is keeping me limited. I am limiting myself. Is there any limit to me really... Other than the ones I create?

Every morning I walk through a canyon to catch my bus and like rock pigeons millions of slaves crawl onto their ledge. All these people heading to their assigned cells, wilting flowers in place. The effort of climbing down from my level in the hive and cutting through the world I ceased to touch so long since. I've a flask of coffee for the road ahead, but here I sit; mug in one hand and head in the other: oh the badness filling my waking hours. Music rings out the banality of it all and is perpetual in its stalking. My ears are never free of the fever and my eyes never rest on calmness. Oh a pretty face. It's another face in the meaningless crowd. It flows forever indented but vanishing vanquished out of sight and beyond redemption. To write I must. This I must not forget. All my venom is passing out, down and easily trodden, but I must keep conveying the horror, the horror. Then a song I recall from half a world away and am I subtly appeased. Are these few tracks the tracks...