The Dead Ope Tree (notes)

the ground forgot how hard fell the rain and the sky’s dementia

My sedan’s roof sunk inches into the interior as a metal bed on which slept or cometed a teenage boy as naked and anemic as the rest of the people under the weather.

too scared to regard what dreadful literature I’d poetise

My brother told me, in another of his stupors, about the dyke who sucked on black clove cigarettes.

It was earlier than what can be defined as late or early, the hour which begs slumber.

A meal of sugar…

Always feel so poor.

Reminder of the size of my little cave.

We human folk abide so dearly to our identities; I think any afterlife would be too scary to enjoy.

It’d be so fucking new.

Too different to adjust to.

If we can’t adjust, which is a marvelous tool of humanity, we linger in madness until something returns to normal.

but… what if there isn’t an afterlife?

Nothing to it, then.

Something completely irrelevant to living here.

A does not connect to B, in that case. (letter A to the animal B?)

Chemicals rule everything around me, CREAM.

little rap joke.

It is funny that our supposed higher consciousness is still the result of quickly streaming electricity and potassium.

Vomited on the carpet, was a goddamn autopsy of contents.

Quicker out the quagmire sober, not lumbering under the ocean in the clear air.

There’s a pool of alcohol under your shadow.

Four energies in the body: carbohydrates, proteins, lipid, and alcohol.

Sweating nerves and guilt, I fish from the haystack my poor-born body of personalities.

A kid with ridges of hardened acne which’ll probably disappear in two months stands, hands in pockets, so aware of himself. He knows, I’m betting, the retarded destinations everyone shuffles to, has understood them more drunk but beheld it less sober. His criticisms die down when he’s sipping much, even if his observations don’t die down. Cares less than ever the catastrophe conveyor which draws its product so close.

Griffin and Seinfeld and Plath, all people who noticed the little things and described them so glancedly it’s easy to think those little things compile the whole city and the cities beyond.

the painted white pole on which strips every manner of dirty thought I can conjure.

I don’t care so much about happiness

Just chemicals anyway

Dopamine is like the floor on which dances your sex drive

Fulfill that shit and you’re floating in the fog

Carry a cup in your pocket

“Incidental homosexuality aside, the classy waif asked me, ‘Sweetness, where have you hid the crescendo?'”

(boys of bitter schooling included?)

Propane as fuel for their little genocidal cookouts…

User on ascendingly pissed drugs? Smoking cannabis like one inhales good mountain air, then freebasing, then meth, then when some bad shit happens he’s in a conscious coma with a morphine drip…

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~ by Jeremy on September 29, 2008.

2 Responses to “The Dead Ope Tree (notes)”

  1. Someday, you’re genius will be recognized. This speaks in volumes as a testament to the feeling of so many of our youth.

    • Someday they’ll recognize him alright… and kill him. Leave him to hang all vertical and wide-eyed. It’ll be a funny sight, though I might cry a little
      tear or two.
      Maybe three.

      No more than four.

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