and we shackled ourselves to rainbows and killed the night with dancing so frenzied.


was a bright moon.
but a dead night

do nothing, watch and believe

i drank a 5th of whiskey. I threw myself into a bottle and swam around inside. god, disappointment is an expensive emotion.

i managed to get my trunk open. i haven't been able to do that. i opened it up, and retreived my punching bag. i figure i'll sleep with it from here on out. maybe for the rest of my life. it's big and red, like an indian. a big red motherfucking indian punching bag lover. i don't question his undying love, despite my hatred of his ridiculous shape and joyous color. I don't even have to pay attention to him, he's always there. waiting. waiting. I say to him, "Hey. I'm glad you're here." and he stares in all directions at once. i carass him, he accepts it.

then i fucking beat the shit out him, i pound and pound and pound. i don't brace my wrists right, they start to hurt more and more with each frenzied blow. i continue. slam, slam. the dry resonant sound of a clean hit turns into the wet splat of a monster. my knuckles are bleeding, and everytime i throw back my arm for another painful attack, blood flies off, splattering bright red on the floor. little bits of shredded skin are in every brush stroke. i imagine he's the one whose bleeding, he's the one whose falling apart. but its my blood. i start to get tired, my blows get sloppy. every third strike smears blood and sweat on the side of my face as i hit myself. eventually, my face bleeds its own blood. it stings. i think my left wrist is broken. splat! splat! splat! 3 splats. three more. no pause. my indian lover shows no sign of letting up. I WILL BREAK HIM. my arms burn. their weight becomes hard to lift, and i twist my torso more than I should have to to add more force to each blow. my arms are dying, they protest. they give up. I just flail at my giant indian now. i throw my arm on his chest, dig in and twist my body to tear off his canvas skin. it doesn't work. it will never work. my lover is invincible. that's why i love him like I do. now i can only pound my head aganist his body. i do so, 65 dubious attacks. i break my nose on attack #24. I almost stop at #39. My brain feels loose and mistaken. i have a hard time remembering the reason for this bloodshed. I continue to #64. I cough up blood. I spit on him. A bit of my tounge. The gooey mixture lands on him and rolls off his side. This is attack #65. I stare in disbelief. I get frustrated and step back a few steps. I circle around twice, i imagine my feet cutting a 2 meter wide circle. exactly 2 meters. All along this circle, intermittant drops of blood. if you connected the dots, you would have a saw blade, not a circle. and then i kick him. the first kick, i break my largest toe, it snaps under my foot, i lose my balance and immediatly have to put the broken foot down to avoid falling over. I slam it to the ground. It snaps more vividly. the skin isn't broken, but i can see blood pouring out underneath. brighter than it should be, under all that skin. I collapse in my bed with my indian beside me. i take my time and thrust my knee at him. it doesn't cause me any pain. 108 more attacks. my leg refuses to move anymore. it's already swelling. i just lie there.

"So this is self destruction." I address him.
"Yes it is." He responds. There's enough of my blood on him, he's become me. I realize I'm talking to myself.

I move enough to let my right arm fall off the edge of the bed. I fish methodically for a cigarette. I find one. I manage to get it to my mouth. I realize I dont have anything to light it with. He reaches over and lights it for me. Cigarette smoke and blood, merged in my laboring lungs, create a suculent taste. I exhale and smile.

"Thank you."

another one to top the last one, i should start an emo band like yellowcard and join the fucking cunts

times dies.

i'm sorry.
you're sorry.

you for action.
me for words.

i will lure you into homosexual activities
because women are fucked.