Break Fast

Breakfast

undone, shun. Fetid, decrepit.  Intrepid?  intercede inception.  Why no, wino, I whine OH!  The thoughts that spread through my head have become a bees’ hive of fucking nonsense and buttery insolence.  Interspersed into the broken down walk I flew into.  I rescued a couple of hounds we found out-of-bounds.  Fed and watered them I did.  Made sure they got home, alone.  Violence and the decisions I am forced to ingest.  Who knew that John McCain is badass?  I did, he was a war hero.  I must go.  I don’t know where though.  I once hid a joint in the crack of my ass.  I couldn’t smoke it afterward it was so wet with sweat.  So I just sat there, disheveled and angry.  The funny thing is, I hate pot.  All it does is make me hungry and sleepy.  Quoth the Raven and all of that.  Sometimes I feel like drinking a whole bottle of tequila and fighting a biker gang.  I would then curb a crossing guard and kick a puppy.  Piss on some flowers and spend a few years in jail if the crossing guard didn’t kick my ass or if the biker gang doesn’t kill me.  I don’t believe in fighting with guns.  I like to feel my fists impacting flesh.  People say I’m a killer in a pacifistic place but I feel more like a pacifist at a killer’s wake.  Make no mistake, sometimes it’s what it takes.  Shake the shivers and shivering I shake, I wish I could stop this goddamn racket in my head, it’s at times more than I can take.  The drugs that quiet my mind are out of reach.  I cannot cross that road without getting hit by a bus.  It’s a rush but undermines my mind and control of the now and how.  I’m so sick of the good ol’ boy breakfast club and their stupid insipid games.  Illuminati hashbrowns and CIA pancakes, the NSA biscuits and IRS gravy.  I want to eat clean food Ed Kowalczyk.  Don’t let John Wayne hear me say that, but the man is dead Lisa.  I loved John.  One of a few things my father and I bonded over.  I cry like a baby every time I watch the Shootist.  Great film with a wonderful cast.  I miss my happy days.  You know what I mean?  If you do you’re in the club.  I can’t tell you what club.  I also cannot tell you the name of my hotel, but it has trees in it.  I gotta go, I’m going to scrub my face and stare into the mirror and see if I see my old self, then tell him to fuck off.

 

image courtesy of Pinterest and @gustavoterzaghi

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