THE THOUSAND POEM YEAR

[thousandpoemyear]

outpopular

Conspicuous in absentia, I removed myself to be so. Am I Marc Maron Mark II? I don't think so. I'm unpopular and ashamed of my dirt. Talking a small game, do you/they see right thru? Your dick is a tabernacle, cum right thru. My brain's a receptacle. I'm not proud enough of me to turn down love or its offshoot oddities. I want this to be known, clearly. All of it. I'm much too hard for me. I'm ashamed I'm unpopular. My dirt can be flung free of comeuppance, I cordially invite you to do so.

[thousandpoemyear]

in/outside F r I ends

In the end, my friends are people outside me.

There's more to heart than others -- mostly inside's always

clean and simple orange sparks, opening up

the portal(s) to walking away from interdependence,

straight to your hell: my haven. Regardless of warning,

you're all killing me. I want more than the less that's more.

[thousandpoemyear]

oceans of Isity inside the head

Man has bent the face of study to for-the-sake-of, simply to self-woo, to point to it's-a-thing-to-do.

When thinking of the sea of Isity, think -- don't feel forced to act anew because motion means goals and aims.

I hope to feel a sense of sanctuary in my marrow when the safest sunset lurks at half-past five in the morning,

promising and simultaneously prising away mystery. I still want to think that beauty is worthwhile in its meaninglessness.

[thousandpoemyear]

no cow

Lead these prescient jitters into Costa, Wednesday after work.

Green tea, coffee's not required. There's no chance of tiredness.

Can we meet 2 speak on Thurs? No, let's not have cowardice command what's left of us.

[thousandpoemyear]

workth

I don't expect to be paid anything for my quirks, attention, forgiveness, compliments or courtesy

If you don't like me then you don't like me, don't pay me any of the above

Just pay me for my work.

[thousandpoemyear]

workwatchTELLme

you work then watch tv you work then watch tv you show no ambition I know it's not easy

you work then watch tv you work then watch tv you never inspired me I know it's not easy

you work then watch tv you work then watch tv you recount minor achievements I know it's not easy

you work then watch tv you work then watch tv you eat and clean and chat shit I know it's not easy

you work and watch tv you work and watch tv you tell people to work harder like the people on tv

[thousandpoemyear]

the E A S Y

On days where there's nothing to write about, imbibe some fanciful wine, preferably red, and make yourself a problem.

I am now drunk, and slightly more alcoholic than last night, which was, also, one of such nights. Fancy that, more than

chuckling at the tv with a stick up my sizeable ass as an act of rebelling against the creative validation system.

Bang, bang! The sound of my chimp at the door, having escaped the vestibule of temporary caretaking, or chimp-sitting. Whatever.

He's back and I'm back on my bullshit. The page gets covered in ink of the dark purple pigment of wholesome fuckedupness,

such is self-assisted mental corruption, thank you.

[thousandpoemyear]

not NEARLY

I don't drink nearly enough

my fingers quiver a mug of tea

adorns my grip it's skinny

I'm skinny and brittle today

I don't drink nearly enough

a cafe isn't a bar rum isn't a choice

fun isn't a choice my love is, at best

a clutch of caffeine isn't (enough) stress

I don't drink nearly enough

[thousandpoemyear]

a peace of present

The weird thing about goals & aims is I don't want them, I need them, or so I'm told by self-help books.

I'd like to lay, and be laid with, eat pepperoni and play Splatoon with the one I want (who probably

doesn't exist). The urges and desires and self-drive mechanisms take the place of two Greek masks coming together:

Fun & Tragedy. There can be less to life, I'm certain, outside an intellectualism scratching at raw vulnerability.

I guess, without the milestone markers, time would fly, stimuli would be the same, and the lack of change would crystallise

the peace of present.

[thousandpoemyear]

y UM

snippety, snackety, sclat your foreskin fell in my lap

you latched onto it before I could peruse its

appropriateness as a snack

[thousandpoemyear]

O C t o B E R

Gave away everything in my arsenal to raise my head slightly higher than usual

forgive me for my nothing whims mercurial measurements of self- development, I think I'm

better off than October I think the tap of pen tips against 20gsm paper on a tabletop designed

for work bigger than me will never mean more than in October

my work is no longer for me, no longer mine I think that's alright

[thousandpoemyear]

et hic

Are you able to function at such a capacity that life becomes limbo-free and quasi-predictable, close-ended, unambiguous, derived purely from perfectly executed principle(s)?

Maybe the life of consistency is Instagram fable. Maybe that work ethic is grounded in illusion, or subterfugation of the malleable mind. I don't have those qualities in me.

I'm generally unimpressed with myself, though my self-worth isn't perceptibly depleted. Some days, I'll have had enough of lackadaisy; others, I want to be lazy.

Maybe it's my fallback. Maybe I'm unafraid of failure and success, because, ultimately, it's all pretty much meaningless. Maybe I don't care for derision, and I'm ok with despising me.

[thousandpoemyear]

magicomedian

[thousandpoemyear]

elemental correctness

[thousandpoemyear]

sigh(t)

under a different name, the art dream died.

the family felt elation; "she shall live [and maybe prosper]!"

alimentary canal lining flaked, and flaked some more,

shedding mites of instinct, dead on sigh(t).

[thousandpoemyear]

who better than me?

[thousandpoemyear]

bold, musical, red