When I said I'm uptight, here we go, my thoughts distilled into a half of vodka. Oh Serena, I don't even know what they say about you. Though I hold my vomit until after you leave, you can strip with any kind of body. The occasional proof is only given as a buffer or prop for the next lie. Police exist to protect private property, no? Is that a symptom of a larger problem? I've been mischaracterised so many times... The Beach and Lolita were meant to be critiques, not celebrations, but the world will take what you say in a million incorrect ways first, even for those so eloquent. And now all the waxing and waning, the burgeoning, the doubt, rage and incapacity, even the ambivalence fades to lacking disinterest and boredom. In my dead daydreams: Rewatching Death of a Nymphette with the new girlfriend. I've been dreaming of an ex's rejections. At night they become so lucid. And it's so cliché, like the glamour of the spinster with the army of ghosts and demons to go home to overdose alone when they'd rather be going out in the evening to fuck Pretty White(s), violent against a backdrop of blue: the cornerstone of any behavioural therapy is not to engage in shameful behaviour, but my, wouldn't it be sweet to caress those cheekbones and listen to the pitter patter of his nicotine ashtray heart? How constant anxiety doesn't just put one in situations that should be avoided, my dreams of public execution by godless nihilistic dystopian catastrophe evolves my own backdrop to something that is eternally a situation I wish I could abscond from. Your vernacular is trite. And I? I know it's all been done before, I want to do it again. This is not a justification, this is messy pathetic need. Accidental manslaughter, I'm the wrong target. Are there any needles here? Something like pregabalin clouds my mind, like a corrupt police officer flooring my brain with the sharpened eyelash butt of his gun. This is how riots are started, downers in the grapefruit juice. The jury's out? On what is the verdict of cytochrome P450? It's a few decades post-Fergusson, something slips and my respective distance from the steering wheel is cut clean in two. Abuse of power is universally ugly, so here I take out my not-impartial lack of guilt for contributing to the killing of four thousand kids last year to get my offspring into day-care where they can condition themselves to be aggressive and loud and scream for attention. Oh for the bitter sake of all fucking, I hate to prove Stalin right but one life is far too much to literally take without disassociation of some kind. So I'll plan for the traffic to mangle my body on the M11 or the A407. Please don't leave them with my parents while you grieve. And mother dear, present and future, I never asked. Did you hold your rapist as they came inside you? Did you stroke their hair as they cried, growing soft inside you? Did you walk a few steps to your bathroom to wash down the plughole what was nurturing inside you? Did you change your mind, and why? Letting them in first, la petit mort, amplified by the fact that apart from this, every man you've been with has always wanted to shower as soon as possible after orgasm. Negative inner voices whisper. You want to be better than that. Do we all always come full circle? Post-romantic utilitarianism, I'm told of the conflict of love and honesty, pull up the drawbridge. I'll settle for quiet loneliness and self-repression again. Demisexuality and autochorisexuality, rejection, sublimation & second bests, secrets in love, alprazolam and clinically ineffective reboxetine, I have reference thoughts for them all, not just the anxiolytics that never apologise for anything. With the teeth, with the teeth, with the teeth. And metal comes apart in the rapist's mouth that you met where the smell of institution furniture mingles, trying to subtly shift the chair away from the creep paedophile cunt in the other suicide room where all you can do is hope for the propagation of lung cancer that all your conjugal visits paid for. The chairs are too heavy to flip but you'll still try, come on, get mad - doesn't this make you fucking mad - try and flip it. Medication knocks you out by evening and you wilt before the flowers I brought you. There was nothing to put them in in case you tried to drown yourself in two inches of sink water in fifteen minutes slipping lax to half an hour. I remember drugged hands carpet burned and coffee banned, no caffeine or drugs for the sick. Scars on Broadway will get you fired but a diet of embalming fluid beats pulling on a pack of slimline phallics lit loosely dangling between your lips that wilt at wetness. You're a fucking cheap whore. You're a fucking cheap whore. But it's fine, my insecurities can't afford you. Dull everything to gas lighting from the sun that we hate. The most iconic scene in cinema is meaningless. Satire breaks the fifth wall and the critics are still yelling at the end product because it didn't turn out the way they wanted it to. Antagonise the pregnant whores. You've been there before, but some things you just can't take back though you can make much from the semen of a heroin addict with hepatitis C. Fall forward. As I was micropipetting for what must've been the two hundredth time that day I thought hey, maybe everyone wants to be good at something, really good at doing one thing. Ten years ago I'd have wished it to be you, fucking face down on the carpet in the living room. Pinned, your bunch of hair balled into my fist, but I've grown to be dissonant with my understanding that I don't care. And why should I care? Why should I give a fuck about sex? Tell me what makes you afraid when you can't fall asleep at night. Teach me dialectics and the oversights of Madonnas' ex-intimates I don't need to know this yearning to be safe like this hasn't got you frenzied higher thoughtless and disgusted about how you'd been used when you were too drunk to know what day of the week it was and you can still display your "fuck me" shoes on top of the bookcase. I don't want to be the kind of fool that feels incapacity that you've never dressed up that way for me or taught me about PVC culture through dulled friction, drugged up with the lights down low in the TG as people fuck each other three hundred and sixty. Vapid uselessness. Emptiness and manipulation. I am done with you. Discard the dregs. Not pretty enough. Feel proud to be a cheap useless spectacle. I felt her scars. Convince the world that you're necessary. But you're not - you're the middleman of a door-to-door salesman for insecurity I didn't want but now saturates my ether. This is naked in three swift moments. I'll probably never know who with half a brain and a sliver of integrity cares about God? And did no one tell Nietzsche that love died with the rise of romanticism in the eighteenth century? The greats siphon its emaciated corpse to sell us the idea that we can fall and happily remain. Tentative angels tiptoe along the periphery, waiting for the cold clean taste of bloodless flesh, kisses seized from a preening face pressed hard against the winter glass invisible until claimed by another half puzzle of a soul but the jigsaw pieces never fit right; there's always something missing. And as the routine of summer picnics laying in the grass, hands entwined over cheque, red and white and wine stains, light filtering through palisade into eyes that see duller and duller until they finally realise why. But the angels are gone again. I forget everything cyclically. Is this how it goes? Is this how it goes? Is this how it goes? I close at the seam. I fade away. I abscond. Exeunt.