Johnny’s Prompt About a Prompt

Thanks and much love to: http://porngirl.blog/2019/01/09/johnnys-prompt/

 

      I wasn’t prompt in my response to a prompt another me created.

          but that’s nothing new.

How many ways can I say there’s nothing left to say?  

i wish I knew.

or simply forgot the thought so I could be free to be me without heed.

Just me! Just B!

I don’t know what that is.

Nobody does.

I am

I was

It’s all been said

It’s all been done.

 

How many ways can I say there’s nothing left to say?

Must I digress from my digressions?

Must I meta-analyze the metadata of my thoughts?

No

I shouldn’t stress over infinite regress.

Maybe that’s new?

No.

Plenty of people care about not caring

and plenty of people care about people who care about not caring.

That doesn’t make sense.

Nothing does.

I am and was and is and did everything life has to offer.

Why bother?

No matter how inane

how insane

it’s all been done.

Einstein was right

and we’re all crazy

doing the same thing over and over again expecting something different

a new position

a new religion

a new vision

How many more times can I multiply my personality before going crazy?

I need a proper division of me’s

but first I have to subtract a few

To reach my prime.

To be whole.

 

How many ways can I say there’s nothing left to say?

                          Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Maybe I should take the advice of an author I can’t think of or find, and write like I’m the first human alive?

 

How many ways can I say there’s nothing left to say?

There’s no new way to say there’s nothing left to say

                  so why say anything at all.

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Poetree….Or Maybe Just a Weed

                                                             I don’t know if I make any sense

         but I like digging in my couch to collect a few cents

             to buy some booze

                                            a black and mild or two

                                                                                    maybe a tiny bit a shrooms

                                                                                       and eighth of an eighth

                                                    Gobble them up

                                               upchuck my thoughts

                                                                                 wake up in a puddle of my past

            My third eye’s mascara is running

let me go to the little boy’s room to powder my nose

                                                     reapply my psychological make up

I need to find a pretty girl to love

                                                          and lust

                                                      and break up

                                                        my dreams

             Shattered thoughts

                                             I need a punctilious princess

                                                       to pick up my pieces

                                                                                           and forge a kintsugi mind

                                                                 to stare at

                                                            and be proud of

               and show off to her friends

             and add to the crystalized museum in her head

Maybe I don’t make any sense right now

                                  but my sixth sense is high off an eighth

                                      Smoke and music floats above me

                                        as I make ash angels on the floor of my garage

Maybe this doesn’t make sense

Maybe I’m rambling.

Maybe I’m in shambles

Maybe I need a revolver and a bullet

                                               to make a gamble

                             Middle finger on the hammer….pull it

                                                       Blow my brains onto an empty canvas.

                         Brain fragments

                            Blood spatter

Does it really matter?

How my loved ones feel?

                                             once I’m gone

I’ll leave a pretty note

                                      written in music notes

                 A sad song singing how I don’t feel like I belong

                                                                                     How I long for acceptance

                               but hate the person people see me as

I hate my past

I hate my wrath

                            I hate that the only thing that’s definite is math

Why do I feel this way?

Why do I feel like a stray?

                                         The runt of a mutt stuck in a muddy rut

What am I?

Who am I?

Where am I?

                     Does any of it matter?

     Am I just a random collection of matter?

I’m rambling again.

Take your pills, B.

Go to sleep, B.

Don’t worry, B.

Tomorrow will B the same.

I Don’t Miss You

I don’t miss you.

I miss my vision of you.

The you from my dreams.

The you who’d stuff large pieces of sushi into your mouth, mid-sentence–despite knowing my pet peeve for people who talk with food in their mouths–while preparing a piece for me with the perfect amount of wasabi and soy sauce, and stuffing it into my mouth, as you finish your train of thought, tempting me to contradict my own pet peeve with a lovely, impish grin.

The you who’d hold me on lovely nights, under lovely skies, and ask me to find the little dipper–despite knowing exactly where it is–just to have me look down, innocently willing to answer your question, and be met with puckered lips, ready for a happily ever after kiss.

The you who’d run your hands through my hair as my head rested on your naked body, while listening to me read out loud–despite knowing I hate reading out loud–an article purporting that the structure of a single human brain cell matches that of the universe so closely that our universe might just be the brain cell of another higher being.

I don’t miss you.

I don’t miss the real you.

I don’t miss the now you.

The you who’d tell be through texts that Somebody else calls me dollface now.

The you who aped my personality–the good, bad and obnoxiously individualist–and incorporated into your own personality like a sartorial accessory.

The you who crushed up my remaining innocence and railed it so you could party for days on end with people I introduced you to, telling them, from a high white pony, about all the fucked up shit I never did, but you say regardless, because it helps you sleep every third night.

I don’t miss you.

I miss my books you kept as your own and show to others to appear interesting and informed.

I miss the records I spent hours and days and weeks scavenging from garage sales, flea markets and Amoeba SF, that you show off despite not having a turntable to play them.

I miss the clothes I bought, which made me stand out, that you decided to cleverly cut into dresses to wear for other men, on other lovely nights, under other lovely skies.

I don’t miss you.

I miss me.

I miss the me you stole and never gave back.

I miss the me that wrote silly, happily ever after poems.

I miss the me that liked to drunkenly tell anyone who wanted to listen about the Greek origin of soul mates…how man was originally created with four arms, four legs, two heads, and one heart, and how they challenged the gods, and nearly won, and because of that, the gods decided that man was too powerful and needed to be split in half so they’d spend their entire lives searching for their other half.

I don’t miss you.



 

I don’t usually write on weekdays, but I needed to get this out.

 

Capsules of Concentrated Sacrifices

I sacrificed my dreams to not have nightmares.

I sacrificed my body to not hate the way I look.

I sacrificed my favorite feature, my changeling eyes, to pills that permanently dilate them, making them appear brown and drab, to not have them half-covered by sleepless eyelids.

I sacrificed my limitless highs to not have crushing lows.

Maybe I should build a pyre of prescription pill bottles and sacrifice my sanity, again, to elevate my psyche back to my pantheon of personality extremes.

Maybe I could find happiness in being Zeus for a few weeks or months, Hades for a few years, Apollo and Athena for a few moments, here and there, all rolled into my primary personality, Dionysus, who drinks wine, takes ecstasy and eats lotus flowers, and live a perpetual life of ritual madness.

Maybe I should just sacrifice myself, and ask to be buried somewhere pretty, with a rose bush growing on top of my grave, not bouquets laying on it to wilt and decay and be blown away.

Maybe sacrifices are stupid.

Maybe I’m stupid for thinking sacrifices are stupid.

Maybe life is a series of protracted sacrifices.

Maybe sacrifices are natural and necessary to advance our lives.

Maybe I don’t like that sacrifices are natural.

Maybe I should burden myself with the sins and sacrifices of others–then sacrifice myself like the scapegoat in the bible.

Yea, maybe I’ll sacrifice myself, my soul, my entire being.

One last sacrifice.

Maybe.

The Abyss

We all have an abyss to stare into on lonely nights and mornings and days.

Some of us, after staring long enough, turn our backs to it and say, “Not Today”.

I…I tend to trip into it.

Other times I sit on the edge of it and wonder what’s truly down there, despite spending most of my life in it.

Occasionally, I crawl down into it, seeing how far I can get before losing my grip.

But on my worst days, when leaden with hate and shame and scorn, I cannonball into it.

Hitting rock bottom.

Filled with broken mirrors I tossed in over the years.

I pick up the shards, with reflections of me, and cut myself each day that I’m there.

If I’m feeling creative, I try to carve in clever quips like HOPE IS A CURSE WORD DOWN HERE, but never get past the H.

A few weeks will pass before anyone notices.

And by the time they do,

I’ve already crawled out,

With a few new tattoos.

She (Slightly Sexual Content)

She hates it when I lock myself in the garage to write and chain-smoke.

She scans my body for fresh burns every night before bed, but I learned to burn the eyes of the skull tattoo on my leg to hide them–so much so that the nerves are dead and each burn is more of an aesthetic contribution than a channeling of psychic pain.

She isn’t allowed to read anything I write so she thinks I’m writing about her.

She screams at me nightly for all the things I never wrote about her.

She questions my love, I answer in pain.

She works my flaccid cock with mouth and hand, getting it hard enough to penetrate her for a few minutes, before going numb. She repeats the process four or five times–until she cums–then, as she dismounts, spots the fresh scars I tried so hard to hide and begins to cry.

She kisses each scar…then leaves a new one. “It’s over,” she said.




This piece was written for my Sanctuary, Sex and Suicidal Silhouettes piece, but I’m having trouble finishing the Suicidal Silhouettes portion.

Please critique this post and my previous and all future posts–I prefer negative feedback.