Because sometimes We just Wanna' fuck The world.

Urban renewal. It's a dream, no? Then why don't you just renew my mind? I feel old inside, all shrivelled and gross like an aged leaf. I need so many things, feel like I should be plugged up to multiple machines squirting obnocious liquids into my veins just to keep me awake, pumping life back into my deadened arteries, bringing spruce of life into my brain. I can't keep alive anymore, this is draining me, slowly slowly surely but surely. Today I put on my new tights and lied to myself that hey, I felt like a totally new person. New style, new hair, new clothes, definitely new perspective. But suddenly I look around and all I see is a haze of pain and faces that I can't ever read. I'm not me. I'm this totally blurred and grey image and phantom that believes that change is possible, when it obviously it isn't. I'm not gonna' pretend. I'm not even gonna' try to pretend. Next year will be helleth of hell, and we all know it. For some it'll be an all-you-can-fuck buffet, and for some it'll be the darkest depths of shitty hell. For me I have no idea what's it's gonna' be, but I know it's not gonna' be easy. Peasy like the clouds in heaven, or the down on riverside geese. If I could go back.

I wouldn't.

"I'm on the road to oblivion the pathway to hell. me myself and i

“ I can tell by the way you take your infusion, you’ve spent some time in a mental institution. tea and thorazine, andrew bird

My back arches and in the twilight, feral cat sounds echo from the insides of dark alleys. My fngers explore the hopeless pages of a book, my mind is elsewhere. I sigh, contemplate the surroundings. I wonder, maybe if I worked and plundered harder something good would happen; something other than this deep hole I've somehow led myself into.

The clouds are black.

Hear the printing press against my head, I breathe in the deep acrid smell of the ink they use. Letter by letter the ink jets across the parchment in a flurry of metal and pointed tips. Words press into the scroll as if tattooed, I feel each alphabet press into my skin as if it was I, and not the paper, that was being art-ed. I turn and around me is the sky, I am on a cloud, with naught but my typewriter, and my demons.

Pray hold my hand and tell me how beautiful I am. Tell me how lustrous my hair is. Whisper in my ear how the rustle of my dress makes you feel. Whisper how my skin burns beneath your finger tips, cry. For my knees burn and knock together at your breath, for my eyes and ears redden at your touch. O'! Entomb me.

It's actually midnight and I feel the ground quaking beneath my pawed feet. I am nervously clawing the ground, running my fingers through my hair. As I wait, I wait, I wonder. Because we once were, we now could be. Or maybe as we were once, we now can not be. I think wildly should I wait under the firs for you long enough, I'd hear your cloven hoofs coming towards me. I tremble as I envision your hand on my shoulder behind closed lids. A breath on my neck. The snow drifts up and swifts across my shoe. My teeth chatter and I see you. I see you.

Today I want ginger curls and a chanel t-shirt. Tomorrow I'm going to want chocolate nails and black lips. And in the future, silver box hats and paper shoes.

"You're absolutely out of your tree"And I said"Yes and I'm awfully sad about it, it was really a very nice tree".

It's not easy to think about lush velvet curtains and rich fur rugs when you're living in a dead-end apartment in a dead end town next to a dead-end forest. But that's what I want. I want to think about pink walls and floaty chiffon curtains. I want to wistfully and morosely lament that I have plywood floors that need buffing every good weekend. I want to wail that my beautiful persian carpeting bears the dust from my ivory lamps. I want to proudly yet humbly show off my chandelier, to warmly experiment with my induction cooker and stainless steel pans. I want to live out of a high bed with an iron back, velvet brocade sheets and lush silk hangings. The canopy would be decorated with intricate gold and red thread, the walls mahogany panelling, the floor adorned with a fluffy alpaca rug. There shall be a swing, made of pink wood and fine gold chain. There I shall sit through the balmy summer evenings sipping chai tea and savoury lattes, while burying my nose in the latest thriller or mystery novel. The front yard is brimming with pretty azaleas, green peas and tomatoes. I have a private garden where the red robin christianed Bert sings his tunes out at the top of his voice. The birdhouse is yellow and spacious, and Bert soons makes a home out of it with his new wife Victoria. There they will have tiny red fledgelings, whom I shall call Gardenia, Tulip and Bing respectively. My house shall be warm and inviting, a place of comfort and solace. My house is like my tree. It is supporting and firm. During Hallows Eve I will stand on my porch and smile while handing out gummy bears and gum balls to little children. The wind will whip through my hair and whistle through my chimney. The leaves shall roll across the sidewalk, and I will laugh.