Incredulous Drunk.

The knife of my mind continues to pare down my heart like a coin operated fortune teller with automated responses. And the coins I insert are my memories. And I will nurture my vices like children and give over every rapturous moment to the reckless abandon of a bottle getting drained while the gutters run and the alleys sag and the buildings loom and the men slink. The cutlery hangs upon the magnetic knife holders nailed into the particle board. You have this passion around you like a static charge and you don't know where it goes or why it's there. You have this sense of pain that lets the blues ink your vision very slowly. You have this way of letting me know that I am not going anywhere with the self deception turning in my mind slow like a cement mixer. It's all there, waiting to be laid out and leveled out, but it's liquid now. It hasn't hardened, this silly sense of sorrow. Those bottles and those smokes are a double edged blade that sends those thoughts running while inviting them in. I want to live a life with a real sense of pain. Not an imagined one. I want to pare down my melodrama into a catastrophe of reality. I want the car wreck out there on the plains where the ever droning countryside wraps itself about the misery like an electric fence to be something fictional and forgotten until it's real. Until it's real, I want this tired dramatic affair to lose itself amongst the branches of my temporal thought patterns. The forehead is like some runty little child holding a magnificent object behind its back, clutched in its sticky hands the source of that which causes us to be what we are. So here we are, hiding everything behind our skulls, leaving behind that which torments us only to turn the corner to fall straight into the loving grip of systematic sadness. The realization that the drama is self imposed is a quiet victory.