Max is NOW!

i am the fatalist, i am the time bomb winding in reverse \ tock tick tock tick \
the father, the fornicator, the fortunate

//break// i am not your salvation //break// you are not my puncture //end//

another room filled with smoke and musk. one more day’s night and one more time to find truth. nothing. nothing. nothing. epiphany. //break// epiphany? //break//
sobriety is intoxication of the truth.
thoughts enter and vision ends.

i saw myself sitting next to myself touching a woman who i barely knew.
and i faded quickly //break// meaning is the seed we spit from our mouths, life is the juice we suck from under the skin //end//

there i am now, being myself. it is not alienation, it is not rejection, it is none of these really. the only one who alienates is self, and the only one who rejects is the same. if i let the game play out without trying, will the ending be the same?
epiphany.
is the ending what i care about, or is it the something in the middle.
i told myself that i enjoyed baseball not when i won, but i enjoyed baseball merely when i played.
if i let the game play out without trying, will the ending ever matter?
the fatalist is fatal.
//break//

i woke up in the middle of another cigarette. i quit smoking again this morning. but the sleeper always smoked. i woke up and i was standing there starring into the sky above the debauchery.
“what makes a man evil?” he thought, he prayed, he asked.
“what makes a man aware?” god thought, god spoke, god answered.
this is why i whisper. this is why i speak so soft,,,

i turned around into the bar, into the den of social obliteration. i locked eyes with my fate and fate looked far past my eyes, into the back of my skull, behind my frontal lobe and medulla and cerebral cortex. fate starred at the brown spot in my hair that i missed when i dyed it. i looked down at my feet and noticed the white scuff on my black suede vans.
what is the purpose of playing when the game will end the same? what about the peg-people who are never stuck into the tiny little cars on the gameboard? do they play nonetheless. do they yell and scream and cry and pout..pout….
i was accused of pouting. quite a bit really. i never knew i pouted. its not exactly the most admirable quality. actually its quite detracting from my character. my character? whos character?
i am an evil man.
i am an evil man.
i am aware of my truth and i turn around to face the wall.

children are punished this way. they must face the wall for five minutes, sometimes ten or if cruelly ruled sometimes even fifteen.
i punish my inequities that lack manifest presence.

the bar reeks of beautiful women. its an odor that sticks to the sides of your nostrils until you dream about the harems of women touching and rubbing you//ripping and grabbing and tearing you to pieces small enough to fit into the consumable shot of delicious liquor, perhaps vanilla vodka.
i can smell them everywhere. a mixture of perfume, cigarettes, whiskey, and lust.
it excites me, it tingles my libidinal investments and creates a curiosity of exaggerate proportions.

and there i am sitting next to myself touching a woman who i do not know.
this is the story of fatalist youth. and i fade quicker than before. i can see her face of disgust at the view of my horrifying sight.

pain is not in the face of candid truths and proclamations.
pain, rejection, destruction are all the children of internal tensions magnified by the subtleties of an attractive woman.

//break//
they do not scare me because they reject me.
they scare me because there is no me for they to reject.
//break//

i sit in a seat next to the empty corner of the room. it is loud and quiet simultaneously, and i step on the ground as it is ripped from under me.
i look into the eyes of the woman walking towards me, and with perfect clarity i see my own reflection. i am a narcissist, a lover of my own unattractiveness.

and it is over.
//end//