Friday Fuckhead

And the distant flashes capture my image. Their forked tongues lick my sores without regret. I wrote this on the back of a cigarette packet so the words are small. When I ran out of room I continued writing on the blank space of one of my books. I was waiting for the train to roll. If you see a burning bridge I’ll be near by. The contestants line up one by one - but don’t expect me to finish. Plan for second guessing; expect mild disappointment. I’m an hourglass, unable to analyze the passing of sand. Can I write myself out of this; out of this life? Even my own words betray me. There will be no music, no art, no writing and no charms. There will be a calm death, a choking cough, a vascular bang - if I’m lucky. Pretend. Pretend! My frustration is a quicksand that I hope to drown in. I disappoint myself. I’m a 2am film, and nobody can remember the title. What is that actors name? Who could possibly know. And friendship is simply a word for me to set ablaze. Looking in the mirror is a jaw clenching experience. Watch my veins as they flex and pulse. The wet, soggy, stench of failure. I want to write so much more, but trying to capture myself is like a Bombay child searching through garbage for the next meal.

Friday and a fuckhead collide. I hit the ground and realize that it’s me.