turn me on my head

I start too many fucking sentences like this, but, I mean, sunglasses indoors makes me feel like I could do anything. I could look directly at someone and they wouldn't have a clue. I promised myself I wouldn't write that word. But lets contemplate this. Like I said, I could look at anyone and be so person aware. I begin to second guess myself.
Is the tilt of my head too on point? Are my lens' dark enough, or are they cheap like tinted car windows for normal people? Jesus, she tells me keyboards are faster than this. Well I think she is wrong. Words fucking drip and my knuckles and sides of my fingertips begin to burst. You know, how you hold a pen. Three magical indents. When I was younger, teachers told me I don't hold a pen right. It's because I strangle it by the neck. Ink splurges. Blood resides. Can you feel that with some plastic keys? This is permanent - this is print - this is what I lug around. And not to be cliche, but this is my baggage and it's carry on. I've said this all before, right?
Stream of consciousness running around. But how can I stay in the lines when there are no lines on this page?
Laying in bed, you told me you liked this song. Even though that song reminds me of my youth and being naive. Who am I kidding? It still kills me. How about that? Jesus.
This song is all too fucking cliche for right now - for you - for me - Jesus, Fuck, Shit.
I like that pattern of words.
Now I really can feel the heat of people starting to see me. See that's the thing about keyboards, you're behind them. It is so ridiculously easy to shock people. Why is it so hard to for it to hit me like a bombshell. Bombshell beauties and panicky turtles.
The truth is, I hate to recycle words. I really am a Freudian slip and all of this is garbage. Lying for a living; he's right.
The thing is though, keyboard wordplay gives me incentive. Strike a nerve. But here, I could vomit all over these pages. These words are bulimic by now.
I'll never reread this anyway. I lie. Of course I will.
This doesn't get me anywhere. My leg has fallen asleep. Pins and needles. And I have arrived.
Stop now.

Waits

Quick, get it down before you loose it. Be the needle to a heroin addicts veins. Quick, now, press down, hard, and slide.
Whip down and around past blue veins and red veins and intertwining places, it's knotted there, you might loose your way.
I find myself diagonally crossing through a dated box on my calendar before the day even ends. Is this what it all has come to? Before I blink, I'm gone.
Get inspired in the middle of the day - the afternoon of a Tuesday, with the sun beaming and Tom Waits ringing. Lonely eyes, lonely face.
I want you to believe me that layers of glue really says Iloveyou. Construction paper - cornflower blue, indian red, antique brass, pine green, outer space. Have your pick.
Elmers to colored trees and horse's hooves stuck to Natalie's knees.
Lonely, lonely place.

a chamber and a cellar and a vault

Do you want the specifics?
We all have traumatic head spins. It is like being in a crowded room, watching everyone engaging and smiling and hearing their voices spray out of their mouths like toxins to the air. Parasitic.
And then there is you, alone. Wandering eyes, trying to make yourself invisible, but let's face it, invisible eyes penetrate through these people so quick.
Like I said, there you are. And you're cursing so loud inside your head.
Shit, Fuck, Jesus, Fuck.
You make a fist and you press the tips of your fingers directly into the palms of your hands, and you squash all the embarrassment down to size. But it's still there. A slight buzzing rings in and out of your ears, and you think I need to get out of here. I just have to.
Well that's the point.
To get out.
We're constantly inside our heads, constantly living regressively. It's like the obscure particles that drip off of my fingers and onto your face that allow you to feel me. It's like those very particles are shooting back inside myself, preventing you from ever knowing indentions. Because I am in here.
One of the most glorious feelings is when you're not there anymore. When you're brain is moving so fast that the synapses are flying down to your ankles and you can't even think. It's when the words sliding out of your mouth, just slide. It's being outside of yourself.
It's being so outside of yourself and so into someone else.
That's the point isn't it. To put all of me into you.
All this back and forth makes me dizzy. But I like it in this cave because my palms and knees always get dirty.
You can come inside, but good luck finding your way out.

stop this,

In truth, I hate first sentences. Do you want to inquire? I mean, how compelling am I allowed to be here?
I mean, am I supposed to be you?
If I could only fall in love with beginnings, I'd cut your throat every time. But who says it is a waste to drink alone? I am only conjuring a feeling of certainty. A paradise for a placid person. But am I? Because I believe and I do believe that there is never a dull moment between my fingertips and the skits of your back. I have only skits of your face. Skits are sharp and you are slicing my heart out.
Is this getting all too bloody?
Too slasher?
Well let me tell you something about slasher films - not enough thought goes into them. They are made poorly and for people who burst out of their skin by the slightest movement.
I am all thought.
And I detonate when you breathe on me.
I am made crudely and I am a box-office hit.
But we all get old and tired and go from VHS to DVD to YOU to DIE.
Read that as letters only.
And read me as full complete thoughts in one of Descartes meditations, that goes on for 7 lines at a time with about three commas. Pretend this is just that. Pretend I am not abrupt and make believe I'll stay all night.