jello

I'm eating a book.
Feel loose.
Rubber arms.
movement smooth.
Rubbing
belly.
Jewels
jelly.

Chipping away at im
patience
with a toothpick.
'cus i don't need it for my teeth.


weird world.
the job hunt hunts me,
haunts me.
but bukowski made it,hemingway made it.
but im not them.

i'm a turntable.
scratching my head at a heavy gush of thoughts
which i hope will turn to a trickle
so i can catch the drops in my hand
and stare at them
before i roll my tongue across my palm
and laugh hyena-like
through the messy,
no longer thirsty.

where i get anxious at the buzz of a fly
or laugh at the sound of a scream.
so things stop making sense
and i start wanting it-
sense.

and nobody will ever know.

in
sane.
like everyone else.