quasi_sean

Dear Doc. Jewish Angel,

You can no longer be my muse puppet lingering around inside my head playing hopscotch or tiddlywinks anymore because truth be known you just dont love me and never did and someday someone will love the fat artistand you must contact me for permission if you ever try to sell a book about me to line your own pockets to fund your cocaine habit. Im sorry for you Doctor. Hope everything turns out okay.

sean

I started writing.
What were these words coming out of me and hardly recognizable in this foreign scrawl? There were more than a couple short instances when I was aware that they might be the last words I ever wrote...and for some reason I wasnt concerned really with what I was saying. Maybe it had importance, and maybe it didnt.
make believe this fairy-tale w/o the iodine sance. chopping vegetables silly powder ways making omelets in the bathroom goddamn broken chairs and locked hospitals entrance ways to the utility rooms and magazine racks thrown across the room hitting the janitors and tubes giant anaconda fucking snakes being forced down my throat to swallow my colon and vomit my life back onto my bed and smile with purple coated crusted teeth of a hobo spent smashing their fingers in alleyway guitar sideways against the grain taking twenty shots of whiskey powder coughing for hours and swimming thru the sunlight and shitting wine-snot for age after age make me happy for just nine seconds to catch my breathp.l.e.a.s.e. this is all going to happen to me.

GONE.