Tuesday, June 7, 2011

What is

This. Kinetic Energy. Commuters billowing past, in a fury which they think know one nor thing can attain. But in their arrogance we slowly fabricate the lucid reality. The neurons were spinning so fast that sometimes she thought she could just feel the thoughts. Trenches were there...in the midst of it all.

Bunker down boys

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Part Dos

I don't even know what the fuck these things have become. The depth of my lack of perception can't break this gastly feeling that the rapture has no intention of ever arriving. It's weird. Why wouldn't shit just combust and snuff out Our reality. It's not that we should have ever existed. The mistake of humanity is one people should really start bringing up at dinner parties and social occasion. Politicians should take a stand on it and then debate until the dead forget to walk the Earth. But see even I'm a bigot. I'm simply the messenger. Guilty by association is a bitch.

This urgency to plug my body full of pleasure came to a screeching halt when I discovered the pangs of living such a lifestyle; to be dependent of narcotics is one thing but to completely devoid of all friends, family, education, and common sense is entirely another. This abrupt and much needed wake up call derived from my only source of life outside of substance abuse: the life and times of Hershey chocolate company. The obsession began far before my memory can reach but a tangible light does gleam in the biography of my adoration for the Hershey company. The detail is unimportant at this moment and currently we are running low on time so stick around and we'll get to the grimier details of this incessant diatribe that seems to be my life. So anyway, the company had hit a rough patch some years back and had a weird fucked up sort of national contest going on based around one's ability to sustain and regurgitate Hershey company knowledge. If you were capable as a Hershey consumer to meet the much honored retoric of the Hershey chocolate company, and had a vast knowledge of the biography of the brand, then you were given a test based on such fascinating and trivial dribble. If one were to pass said test round two would be opened to said individual. This consisted of a rigerous process in which the participant would be flown out to Hershey PA and placed through a series of tests. The tests where based around honing said individual to meet whatever qualifications one needs to run a chocolate company. The normal capitalist will tell you a keen wit and intelligence, while the normal street urchin will say nonchalantly, "obesity probably helps." But according to the brilliant minds at Hershey, neither matters too much. The idea being that Hershey could morph and spawn a fucking chocolate monster based on the needs and desires of their company, all the while placing the media spotlight which, Lord knows, focuses so heavily on chocolate companies, back on the ol' Hersh. brand. Two birds would be swiftly murdered with one stone you see. So after this process of tests and other pathetic occurances, the company would then, on national television of course, hold a tournament of sorts focusing on the keen wit and other shit one would assume a CEO of a company would have to have. From this tournament a winner would be chosen and BLAM: Hershey would have a new CEO as well as a new appeal. A turning point if you will. But like most forced turning points, this plotted path of chocolate deviancy went awry. For me it turned out to be a lifesaver. But for the men and woman who make up the dreary town of Hershey PA, it turned out to be the beginning of the end. Who was I to know though? At the time I was a burned out junkie fiend. And I am. Just now I have the means to really not give a damn.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Part one of my story:

It shall become a magnun opus and flood the streets with literary puns and quips.

A long and tainted time has passed since I felt the need to delibertely condition my mind to swell in angst. I mean, shit. This has already started off on the wrong foot. Introductions come before complaints. Least that's the impression I was raised under. My name is Franklin Billingsly. The third. Or turd. Or whatever fucking number spawn you wish me to be. In all honesty what you walk away with from this conversation is irrelevant. In fact it's more than that; it's unnecessary. For you see gents and germs your short termed narrator is not even here. Hasn't been in some time. Franklin was just some label I thought would land on a sense of believability. I've been dead for nearly thirty years now. Or have I? It's hard scratching down numerals when you can't feel shit. So ok, again fucking up is a habit of mine so if you've grown weary of attempting to follow the linear storyline being presented...stop. No one can link the phrases I'm about to regurgitate for you. Not even I. And I live through the damn things. Here's all you need to know: I was and am probably still a fiend. In all senses of the word. I drank, smoked, shot, snooted, you name it. If it released dopamines in the human mind I was in love.

Sunday, April 3, 2011


Returned to college today. Well yip to the fucking doo. I've been having a mixed bag of positive and depressing life experiences lately. I just wanna accomplish something majestic. Should be a sure fire means of clearing a dusty path which has been has been my mind. The things we take for granted in the world when the winds blow a certain way really irritates me. So it goes. I suppose.


Tuesday, March 29, 2011


Well oh looky here. The flaccid crumpet of a bastard. A shell of a man. A half-hasardous attempt at finding loyalty in the saltiest of places. Well fuck off. No one wants your cornbread.

Sunday, March 27, 2011


I've been fucking depressed for a while. The group I associate with now free bases illz. Does this make them complacent? Fun? Hip? Cool, and fulla swag? I don't think so. It reaks of burnt marshmellows everytime I'm around them. I'd rather find the foul lord in a tab o' cid then in silly pharms. Fuck herb. Fuck booze. Do real antidotes. Find the solace. Hunt that grey, lanky bastard. Then; leave. Make the move bitch.

Motion sickness.