I would make love to you if I could. but I can't. On these nights there is rarely anything that can keep me from wanting to evaporate into the stratosphere, into the humid summer horizon. Maybe I should smoke cigarettes so that my life can be a complete cliche of pain and tragedy and everything could play over and over in my head while I take a drag and then another
and another
the images could curl like smoke, my life burning in front of my eyes, sometimes it would be so quiet that I would be able to hear the paper burning of my cigarette.
I would make a clever metaphor the ashes that are now my past picture of the future, my hopes and dreams turned gray and lifeless. Yes, that would be clever. I could go through packs upon packs of cigarettes wishing to evaporate like the smoke, letting the finished ones drop unto the wet pavement and sizzle out like like the meaningless moment in a pretentious movie that everyone who wants to be someone says means everything and that moment would somehow become a small dirama of my life, that sizzle and then the moment of extinguishment representing the finality of my death, the meaninglesss of all of this, the meaningless of every moment. I could base my entire life on cigarettes, my entire being filled with nicotine and tar, my life philosophy based on cigarettes how they may never understand why they are made and destroyed so easily.
This is about want and wishes, not cigarettes. But then those want and wishes can be related to cigarette cravings, once again cigarettes can act as the basis for every metaphor for every part of life imaginable. Life would be simple, cigarettes and coffee, cigarettes and coffee, repeat, rinse, repeat, when you finally die from being full of toxins your body will get its final rinsing on the inside and out, all of your contaminated blood replaced with pure chemicals so that you are left to evaporate in a biohazardous waste bin, like smoke.
the only problem
smoke disappates
Instead every night I do stupid and inane things just to do stupid and inane things. I don't read hard books like Faulkner and Kafka, I read children's books, really bad teen novels, romance novels with no real romance, I run through the house with bubbles in one hand and the dog running after me and barking and Elvis's Christmas album blasting from the stereo. I watch the greatest commercials ever special on network television, trying to somehow find myself. I don't go the conventional methods of drinking green tea and meditating, I dont' dream of going to the more sophisicated Europe, instead I make plans to have a holiday in Terrell County, Alabama.
I have a rubber band around my wrist.
I snap it every time I use a four syllable word unnecessarily. Everytime I consider ordering a dish I can't pronounce just because it sounds good.
and another
the images could curl like smoke, my life burning in front of my eyes, sometimes it would be so quiet that I would be able to hear the paper burning of my cigarette.
I would make a clever metaphor the ashes that are now my past picture of the future, my hopes and dreams turned gray and lifeless. Yes, that would be clever. I could go through packs upon packs of cigarettes wishing to evaporate like the smoke, letting the finished ones drop unto the wet pavement and sizzle out like like the meaningless moment in a pretentious movie that everyone who wants to be someone says means everything and that moment would somehow become a small dirama of my life, that sizzle and then the moment of extinguishment representing the finality of my death, the meaninglesss of all of this, the meaningless of every moment. I could base my entire life on cigarettes, my entire being filled with nicotine and tar, my life philosophy based on cigarettes how they may never understand why they are made and destroyed so easily.
This is about want and wishes, not cigarettes. But then those want and wishes can be related to cigarette cravings, once again cigarettes can act as the basis for every metaphor for every part of life imaginable. Life would be simple, cigarettes and coffee, cigarettes and coffee, repeat, rinse, repeat, when you finally die from being full of toxins your body will get its final rinsing on the inside and out, all of your contaminated blood replaced with pure chemicals so that you are left to evaporate in a biohazardous waste bin, like smoke.
the only problem
smoke disappates
Instead every night I do stupid and inane things just to do stupid and inane things. I don't read hard books like Faulkner and Kafka, I read children's books, really bad teen novels, romance novels with no real romance, I run through the house with bubbles in one hand and the dog running after me and barking and Elvis's Christmas album blasting from the stereo. I watch the greatest commercials ever special on network television, trying to somehow find myself. I don't go the conventional methods of drinking green tea and meditating, I dont' dream of going to the more sophisicated Europe, instead I make plans to have a holiday in Terrell County, Alabama.
I have a rubber band around my wrist.
I snap it every time I use a four syllable word unnecessarily. Everytime I consider ordering a dish I can't pronounce just because it sounds good.
