death lesson - 20
"If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don't have to worry about the answers." -Thomas Pynchon.
"Aesthetic erectile dysfunction, for which there has yet to be invented a viagra." - Tom Robbins.
"you don't need viagra to go fuck yourself," I said that, though I am still unsure as to what it means. Though I can say it has very little to do with masturbation, and that it still makes me laugh to this day. As a matter of fact, after reading what I have typed to this point, I said aloud "that is pathetically funny."
The bed bugs are keeping me company; one is smoking a cigarette after drinking my blood. swelled to the size of a softball and telling me I am the one with a weight problem "you have a point, but I am still cleaning, so they can come and kill you." I say defiantly. "why are you typing what you say after you say it, hey quit staring at the computer and talk to me." says the bed bug which goes by the name Joseph Stalin.
I ignore him even as I feel his friends gorging themselves on me; I feel them latched on the fat of my shoulder blade. Drinking away my life force and mocking how pale I have become. I imagine they are as large as baseballs. Long have I given up on arguing with them thinking that I will win, though have sympathy for the one that goes by the name Leon Trotsky. They will not allow him to feed, so he starves. So small that he has nearly faded away from view.
I cannot tell if I am delusional from a lack of blood, but I think I saw god. Not the cosmic Santa clause but a black woman, Kali. She is wearing a skirt made of severed arms and a belt of severed heads. "they are going to kill the weak one." she said. I crush Trotsky under my thumb. "No, I put him out of his misery." "Your the weak one drew." "They are just bed bugs." "no, like all things they are weak or strong. They will outlive you because symbols are alive in the way God is." "why are you in my book?" "I am everywhere." "Why are you saying they will outlive me?" "I am not, your typing this as always. Making it up as you go along, making fun of how much of a disappointment your life has been for yourself and others. But in the end unable to prove any of them wrong. Because you can not escape the context that created you. So you cry out to god and when he won't listen you invent one to comfort yourself. Delusions define you as a multitude of voices defines god. Cry out in the wilderness and see how little good it does for you." So wheathered down by his failings, he falls without a destination, to a pit so dark that it swallows the light of the flames that your soul is kindling for.
"Aesthetic erectile dysfunction, for which there has yet to be invented a viagra." - Tom Robbins.
"you don't need viagra to go fuck yourself," I said that, though I am still unsure as to what it means. Though I can say it has very little to do with masturbation, and that it still makes me laugh to this day. As a matter of fact, after reading what I have typed to this point, I said aloud "that is pathetically funny."
The bed bugs are keeping me company; one is smoking a cigarette after drinking my blood. swelled to the size of a softball and telling me I am the one with a weight problem "you have a point, but I am still cleaning, so they can come and kill you." I say defiantly. "why are you typing what you say after you say it, hey quit staring at the computer and talk to me." says the bed bug which goes by the name Joseph Stalin.
I ignore him even as I feel his friends gorging themselves on me; I feel them latched on the fat of my shoulder blade. Drinking away my life force and mocking how pale I have become. I imagine they are as large as baseballs. Long have I given up on arguing with them thinking that I will win, though have sympathy for the one that goes by the name Leon Trotsky. They will not allow him to feed, so he starves. So small that he has nearly faded away from view.
I cannot tell if I am delusional from a lack of blood, but I think I saw god. Not the cosmic Santa clause but a black woman, Kali. She is wearing a skirt made of severed arms and a belt of severed heads. "they are going to kill the weak one." she said. I crush Trotsky under my thumb. "No, I put him out of his misery." "Your the weak one drew." "They are just bed bugs." "no, like all things they are weak or strong. They will outlive you because symbols are alive in the way God is." "why are you in my book?" "I am everywhere." "Why are you saying they will outlive me?" "I am not, your typing this as always. Making it up as you go along, making fun of how much of a disappointment your life has been for yourself and others. But in the end unable to prove any of them wrong. Because you can not escape the context that created you. So you cry out to god and when he won't listen you invent one to comfort yourself. Delusions define you as a multitude of voices defines god. Cry out in the wilderness and see how little good it does for you." So wheathered down by his failings, he falls without a destination, to a pit so dark that it swallows the light of the flames that your soul is kindling for.
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