turn off that smokestack and
that goddamn radio: hum… along with me…

Oh, I don’t care what the letter reads, I don’t believe in Adderall. I don’t use it; I don’t prescribe it; Adderall has a very high potential for addiction. I’ll give you Concerta. Concerta is the same thing— [nevermind the self-contradicting statement, so much double-talkin’ jive, spilt all over you just now—and please, can’t you see I’ve got patients waiting? Now that I’ve opened the door, won’t you please just go away—leaving payment on your way out, of course!]

I think I know what’s going on. Come back in three months. [hmm… I need a good, stock phrase for salutation. I’ve got it!:]

We’ll get to the bottom of this.

Of Running Sheep

These aren’t electric

Uneven, steady,
crooked and kind, this.
Freud stoop’d in, blurry-eyed
in time, an infant
sever, ending Never
in beginning
we be damned
echo voices
come behind
the dampening and flutter
quarrels, logo
fell on icey
hell rise on
intangible
what i write
about it thirsty
great big chocolate
nail the vein
inner fluffer
ever present,
rings out reason:
thinnest line.

(Some of these are set to music, as was the aforementioned.)

smear
I feel bad about the fact that I can get some scibble-paper.
A little bit would be okay, and all i need a few lines–
but the fear of losing them / having the :bugged” in some way–
and then, on again to the next thing,
never having finished; not even to think of anything grand coming of Harold.
But that’s not it.
or Is it?

C’omon Sarah, I’ve got other things I need ‘be doing.
Don’t have all this time to jse in, how you say?:____Fe doa.

Goddamn distinguishing

between “default”, and that which is “supposed to be”.
Either, in theory is excpted to work, but of the tre…
and then I preview it in my mind–
this whole “Landscape” orientation of images–
like a storyboard– and different characters interact, etc .

I’m going to charge you a “3″, if NoviceNotes doesn’t get it together soon–
you’re getting a “C”.
no, i understand– it’s all reative to the project

[damn having-to-back-track–
again–
lost track…
where was I ?
FUCK!]

It feels good though–
i mean– the only good thing about it,
is that it feels good– like sleeping.
It’s refreshing. and when it’s finally over,
and i’ve gained, and lost so many thoughts on stuff,
non-stuff- virtual nothingness, i —
though longing-for, and therefore, oft’imes
(panzy’s not coming!) “eh… don’t wory abotu him.
we’ll get to him later. “.

Damnit damn opening the eyes. it’s so much easier with them closesed.
opening the eyes is sure to bring on confusion,
and the throbbin, dull, but ominous pain of forcing itself in,
gaining control, as I proportionally, lose my own.
and that is so very disheartening- so frustrating– so maddening.
should I continue?
what point?
is there pleasure in it? is there purpose; a practical function? that sucks.

once in a while,
a really great idea comes to mind– but it’s always lost.
and what you, Head ?
through past script queries– accessibility…
oh– shit, and then, there’s the damn “Upstairs”
(eyes open now) noise [i.e. Upstairs-Noise]
for all automatic complete-letion of that-houghts / variables —
sometimes good– more often bad– and would me l–
temploate– very important– the proper template,
so much can be affect… ban the un-trustworthy, and make it into a baloon,
now it up, and mail it to the Sun.

no .
all too much time-consuming–
too much for time
(i would NEVER believe her. never. “never trust a junkie”, and she’s just the same…)
i’ll have to try it somewhere-else. the Valkyries
(Lord of the Val… shit… another interjection. damnit. trying to match words in my head.)
random (i think), and unrelated to this….

look– she’s dying. she needs some sleep!. she’s not right.
version 8. not right. needing sleep. — oh yeah, taking One dssssss–
interesting: I spoke to my wallet and, ba… too far gone.
save file, or lose it.
bye bye.

Pure lies. The purer did lay.
Laid, for fun, feigned that femme
‘fore future yon ye flowering, flushed
As this flies,
lingering load, blue
‘fore that blew, had blown so many
yet none so well,
N’er could I, even lusting,
yearned as I before her precious mouth:
femme lips
mowed lust.

Luscious lips most believed;
most deceived

lusting for love, and so it did die.

Sadly, not ‘ware,
When that died for naught,
‘Deed yon, worn true, to be not through
yet lives, not lost; flung.

For that flight, none did she either bleed,
but for an encore,
pitiful esteem,
By applause, sustaining.

Stage bound,
she sustained
Bound to stage
Maintains famous petty pace
those pretty pets, she with
so caged, painting face.

Would that, I yea, but for all of Hades
Confounded thought– that whence evil
Serpentine did flow, before her blood
Not mine only, but two wounded.
Wicked, this way and that
She comes,
And came wet, so whetted this palette too much,
And, wet, seems I did not scar, callus:

Fortune by circumstance
turn unfortunate craft:
Balanced, congruent, to take
’bout one-eighty degrees
from natural, intimate,
therefore to break.

Then twenty too, fabricate,
dramatic bitches,
so-called family
one of three Wicked Witches, a role but she played
She wicked
Whip smart he to taste

Aimless for lease:
read ‘tween the lines
How is it, as washed, cut and dried
once innocent mind, naive
matriculated to Master
brewed not to believe.

Destined encounter,
counter elements, not we,
wicked cunt.

Death’s fortune: truth.
Far beyond cast, and crew
Reality broadcast, and laughable too
,
How learned, became malice
one wonders of you

Dare I this day feel,
yet some hunger, by wicked passion whetted:
to slide, i’d slip
And slip
As many as before, i beckon
recklessly as you,
this reckless unto thee.

The Male animal slobbers
to sink teeth once more,
made n’er lullaby
as sweet as She roar.
She animal drips
bawling sweet melody:
methinks, how ’bout once more!

Confessed, each

unto each
Of less percent valued.
Few men / many women

Yet with dual purpose, Faculty
So less of thee i required
Truth in that number
Amongst pets, he does sicken,
Found then, yet hidden
Not lust, for what vomit.

What else?
I wax now toward giggling!

But too much. yet this may be
N’er could dote thee again,
but yet to come
knocking many
As jerked ‘way by too much
precipitation,
but breathless by wonder
toward your destination.

Lower there, in the valley–
where all this, a fantasy
So much, soft and lovely,
but loathing the thought;
and loathed too, said she,
never believer.

Fool, so fine,
fine thing, so alive,
sensibility of sight, a fine piece of ass
yet n’er since a night.

Suffering insensible,
suffering is sense, and sense I
must suffer,
for I taste thee at night–
true, only this
if time renders right.

Tear out those which make ye
so clingy to sin,
or Broadway,
the beneath bitch.

Into the mirror, harken:
we fuck.
Fantastically, filthy, merged, single willed
we weightless,
your session, my cloud
blown, as white drug
Ugly, your sinners face,
Oblivious, one powder-puff
One powder blurred.

From you, femme, reach Fin now:
In that Death,
Cleansed; Freedom

©

I’M ON THE SHELF:
‘Cause it SEEMS to help
If I can Keep a little bit o’ DISEASE
– Shannon Hoone

Once upon a time
in Eibreaetion,
Dozens, they did say,
for every dime.

Fools lost loves last as long
as “pour another glass”

©2008 ~ j sabare.