The Internet II

between my eyes & the screen

float hundreds of silent little vibes

& these little vibes are screaming

at me to get out before it’s too

Anonymous asked: do you do drugs?

Sometimes when I experience indigestion.

An Escapist’s Jacked-Up Dream About A Hobby Shop

I have lost the use of my imagination.

Should any living being locate/find/discover/hunt-down-and-subsequently-capture/otherwise come across this variably valuable skill/curse/talent, please return it to its rightful owner in space.

Needless to say, albeit cathartic to express, I ostensibly feel adolescently stupid.

Anonymous asked: What inspires you?? And do you do drugs to get you in a writing mood?? I love your stuff..

You inspire me. Therefore, feel proud to reblog anything and everything you claim to love.

Your anonymity is mysterious.

Regnum Asturorum

His hands were rusty & his suitcase was full of nothing. The train was long gone. His eyes were half-closed as he hummed an unfamiliar tune of no consequence. Still, those around him found themselves with the inclination to immortalize the orphan-haired vagabond waiting by the railroad tracks with a head full of hope. He fidgeted with the rhythm of a catachretic fatalist suffering from a vengeful wave of insomnia.

A man in a thick coat, a remarkable fashion-statement in midsummer Spain, offered the vagabond a small warning, a taste of apocalypse to be merely shrugged-off in favor of a discreet Honduran cigar. Every person waiting at the station, from railroad men to leather politicians, was well aware that there would be no train passing through for weeks. Not one soul would wait out the long & blistering days, but they would sit motionless until the train arrived. In their minds were insubordination and brass. They weren’t sure where they were, but they remembered all too well how they got there. Not that any would live to tell the tale.

Back then, it was a sign of weakness if you couldn’t change your name at will. The Mexican poets could do it & that’s why they’re all buried in the ground. The vagabond knew a Mexican poet, but that just proves that he wasn’t really Spanish. He had actually never been to the place of his birth. Instead, he spent his life searching for his place of death. And, despite his doubts, he was sure he was a capitalist, though this didn’t keep him from singing songs to the dusty patrons of the train station. His inhibition did. Furthermore, he didn’t have much talent as far as death goes. He was just a wanderer. God knows he needed to board that train. That engine was headed for Iberia & there he was, trapped in northern Spain.

A woman and her child approached the young vagabond & asked for spare change. He indirectly proposed that change may or may not be what she was in need of & that she would have to remain the same, should she desire to drown in wealth. Immediately, the woman ordered her son to hand-over to the vagabond every last bit of gold she owned. The man in the thick coat promptly fell into cardiac arrest & died. He was blind & deaf.

Almost visible down the tracks were two Italian men filming the thermal stillness that burns images into the memory of dying old people.