self-portrait, yet again, as always
This notion
has become a comic sense, becoming what a whip of the word is to only become an
industrialized society.
I live the
life of a 12-inch solver, only by my feet. The records of career ump tempts
careered upon as inevitable and collapsing.
Some times I want to fuck and sometimes I
don’t.
And the
times between them are littered with mothers and friends and frank
conversations about toast.
I like my
toast, toasted, with avocado and big flakes of sea salt, strewn like little
children clothes, all over the edible.
I am an
asshole.
(That is a
persona I present, from time to time.)
I am a
loveable bear.
(That is a
personal I present, from time to time, depending.)
I am what
you want me to be.
(That is,
when you want me to be something I can do; something that is disrupted when
what you ask is something you want me to be and I have to say, no, I cannot be
that which you want me to me.)
This thing
called self: such a wonderful waste of
an image altogether.
