“I Stared Out Into Pure Nothingness For Hours On End Off The Hot Club Deck In 2013” (.804)

Emotionally attached to crackheads the avatars of true artistic sensibility jay walking the sterility of this contemporary downtown quick glimpse from the cat eyes as I cross the street 
Recalling absolutely atrocious memories of Fourth of July’s past some old fuck is flexing his tanned muscles on an unexpectedly not that dilapidated party boat in an uninhabitable Providence River 
Old bars with old friends are cunt times I’m pondering what the scene’s like at Y Shabu right now checking my three gmail accounts with an ill-advised lack of irony unappealing slices of pizza and a high traffic Trader Joe’s
A middle aged woman my age in white pants wears quite bright red lipstick Freddy spotted me from Xaco Taco across the street lurid nightmares of purchasing American Spirit cigarettes at very specific gas stations
One pipe exhales white vapor while another drips steadily into the black water river fifty something white man in a white tee clearly coked out orders a vodka coke with a stray hundred dollar bill I thought he was fucking homeless
A bum asked for cash and I lied I offered a bum a few bucks and he asked for a little more one bar attains another bar’s aura in a copy-paste fashion only because this is the sensible realm black sweatpants stuck up a bulbous asscrack
Society requires the drug addled to exist they’ll probably end up in heaven as well a fat couple on laptops ripping shots of tequila with salt sprinkled on puffy wrists a subpar Drake single soundtracks the shit
Syrian eyes on a white bitch
Irish bars seem eternal
Two year olds with AGI goatees
Nothing is sacred anymore
Enough

Falling in Love is Such a Bore

Blowing a shit on a city street outside a JWU dorm and then benignly driving up a big hill to buy a bean burrito at Baja’s I fucked up my brand new white vans stepping in a big puddle on New Year’s Eve 

I wish we’d known one another at another time unfortunately now you’re just a memory I’ve recalled like a thousand rewritten rough drafts 

Sometimes the people who fight for just causes are complete pieces of shit possibly because linearity has always been a pipedream for us collectively 

The Madness of a Cloud: First 3 Lines

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Line 1: Cloud was sitting at Seventh Heaven drinking a Fernet on the rocks engaging in light conversation with a cocksucker he’d never even met about a Queen’s Blood play-in game that he’d - this particular cocksucker - requested to be put on the TV at the bar. Well, actually Cloud corrected, for the record, that he’d actually been reading a few pages of Timaeus prior to all this, making a few disparate notes, finding himself puzzled at the sensory information that continued to be relayed into his brain. Cloud basically alleged he was flummoxed about the sensory information that became, in some way, relayed to what he guessed was his brain? - how any of that was corroborated, but more so Cloud contemplated the static nature of said images - that’s what he was specifically contemplating when a guy with a round-ass face leaned onto the bar, seeking to close his tab,  obviously excited to tell the bartender that he may need to show her his ID, just because he took his wife’s last name and hadn’t had a chance to change his license yet? The patron with the round-ass face noted how nice the bartender was (Tifa!), but what was her name again? He could definitely display his ID if she really needed, just because, again, his last name was different now - taking his wife’s name and all! 

Line 2: Of course, Cloud noted, that it was clear that no one gave a fuck about the printed name on a credit card in that bar, and Tifa, for her part, didn’t exactly seem like she was ramping up to suck this dude off just because he was a radical feminist. For Cloud’s part he was still, you know, attempting to get behind the blunt sensations being smuggled relentlessly into his so-called conscious existence. Everything was an image to some extent, right Aerith? Touch itself was a fucking sensory image. It was a quaint Spring evening where Cloud felt more or less destined to philosophize, having started drinking wine in preparation for a Friday night dinner, only to have Tifa bail last minute, because she needed to pick up a bar shift - leaving him completely free to continue this wine drinking in a ritualistic way that would be conducive to philosophical ideas. 

Line 3: Yes, Cloud continued to Aerith, it was basically only via drinking alone, but in a ritualistic fashion, that he’d achieved any sort of philosophical inquiry. You couldn’t just sit at a desk and become philosophical, at least not for Cloud! Maybe some people could! But, no, not Cloud. He’d imagine that there were probably a litany of possible ways of becoming philosophical - like, for instance, for the round-faced albino chap, perhaps telling Tifa that he’d taken his wife’s last name, maybe that could be seen as possibly ritualistic in a way, a gateway to some sort of becoming philosophical. This was actually science, Cloud told her he thought at the bar, successfully avoiding making any eye contact with the round-faced man.