long stream!

“I went to war last night
With an automatic weapon, don’t nobody call a medic
I’ma do it ’til I get it right”
—Kendrick Lamar, ‘i’

“You’ve broken a seal
What will they think of me”
—Tom Vek, ‘How Am I Meant To Know’

just doing the next thought as it comes to him
telling himself it’s gold, it’s gold, then it’s
gold; if he don’t exist then nor do you then
who can say otherwise? scream into the night
without stopping for months or years or
infinity, feeling it and breaking (no braking)
touch the bottom and nothing is left then;
then he can really go on—and they stare on

and on; and they will say (the masses;
millions of them; you): don’t try; that’s silly;
you can’t do that; i’m normal; i’m normal; i
don’t want someone that takes themselves
too seriously; but why—but why would they
even try that; i’m too old; i’m too young; how
weird; how strange; i wouldn’t bother; why
bother; i can’t be bothered; but why; but why;
but why

and then they’ll be dead

but he’s broke apart—existing nowhere; and
the concepts can just be free about all things
and himself—and itself—with no cares for it
when it’s just a feeling and the stanzas might
stretch but you can use the right indent (you
see; you see) so don’t surround yourself with
any of that old noise from people still gorging
and spoilt and buying into someone else’s
structure

(you see;
        you see)

he that is is not his real name: he can tell fake
truth and good stories and it’s like, what is it;
what is it, with no separation between what’s
here because it ain’t here; but he’s hesitating
—he’s hesitating; so he’s still a bit here too
much; takes a breath; you aren’t ill or manic
or problematic—you’re listening to what you
heard and it’s too bad—too bad—too theirs—

ease in—add and edit later; what he did (he
told me) is wrote “no doubt” over and over
every night while he was screaming and
crying and changed his number and stopped
listening to the average toxicity and it hurt—
bad, bad, bad; not even pain—but it was
sense making and then poof the tablets are
gone and he realises, “hang on; hang on,” and
he’s writing whatever he likes

then he feels the insecurity and hesitation
and sees it here—in all the supposed others—
and the reasons on top of bodies, and
reasons on top of animals: the incongruence
between what they want and think and do
and say: the ingenuity and incredulity: the
contradictions are too vast and easy: it is a
conditional state of being and he never was—

not going to hospital for them no more—
        no way:
                quit your talking to them;

and the rhythm comes to him then as a little
pulse—like a bop—like a head nod—a thrust;
and what’s that but uninterrupted feeling—
who’s in control of that; he hears them still
talking about “choice” in everything they do
unless they need a different narrative after:
he is too much to be around, when alive; but
he dies? oh my god i loved his brain and miss
him so much

so he’s bop nod thrust and creating and you
be doing something creative—the semi-
colons diminish, but don’t edit the tempo lift
—and they be pretending to be interested
and not confused and mistaking confusion for
bemusement but they don’t sleep and get ill
and wonder behind beers and food and bad
sex bodies and schopenhauerean irritability—

o o o and he remembers, inconsistently,
paradoxically, for he exists nowhere and has
done metaphysically open-ended calculations
of oz (which is nowhere too—still semis
gone): they don’t exist, and none of it is here,
for i have decided they do not whilst also
deciding their mindsets, or set minds, but they
shall not exist going forward, as i do not
wan-

and it is like… and it’s like… anditslike…
annitike… there is nothing to really pull out
that he can pull out, and no need to put it
now, or to worry about it, because it firmly
and concret- (he can’t have that either); it is
like that self and that nonsense that begs for
the coherence but bad life: it is absolutely
nothing to worry about, and there is no form
to any of this, to him; and he’ll bring back
semi-colons, as every piece is not flawless,
and he has looked, and he is judging perfectly
and objectively; and we can do whatever we
want; and you can really get out and tell a
story to feel better (because that is it: feeling!
o they get that), so you do build yourself up
and up and up, wanting to do something,
trying to do something, but the flat, perverse,
humanitarian inversion surrounding you—
don’t try; don’t speak; don’t be—baulks you;
they stop you; but you clock that it’s one big
ruse, finally: doctors, teachers, friends,
lovers, writers; and you got to say—he got to
say: they will touch every part of your body,
and stare at you without your consent, and
tell you not to try anything, and that you
didn’t climb the mountain, and that such
words are cringe, and that they really do love
you and are there for you whilst they laugh at
you in kitchens behind your back

and he gives them a little bit to go on: listen
to my different voices; listen to this noise
(bop); here is a funny dance; i’m not serious;
we can all die like this together—and that
might be enough to hide their lies for them
more—concede that gold can feel poor and
therapeutic; that no one can count (they!
aren’t! there!); no one can remember

the mind (come on; come on; o i’m just
giving in and leaving myself on my own up
here now)—who does all the work for… us?

we live in dissonance, and you can say and
make whatever you want, and it can be bold
truth or nonsense, and we have no choice
over whether to take it in or just ignore it

(just ignore it
        if you think you can);

but some will still sit there and say,
        well,
                i didn’t really enjoy
                        that at all

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