Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

human drama (the anti-poem of my life)

hello, everyone, my name does not matter. i would just like to get a couple things off of my chest. first of all, i want to let you know, i'm not a mean person. i just hate the world outside. i'm not saying that i don't love everyone i love, i'm not saying i don't like all the people i like, i'm not saying i am judging all the people i don't know.
and i'll even be in joyous spirits at various points throughout tonight...
but... i'm an angry white man. and since in amerikkka, we don't fight our real problems, i have a bunch of shit to get off of my chest. and so it goes...
email has been ruining my life. my highs come in unrelated pix-elated death-worshiping red white and blue advertisements in which beautiful men sell my non-existent quasi ex-girlfriends body wash. i can't even get what i like doing right most of the time. and all the GREEN lightbulbs are filled with mercury. turns out, APRIL 15TH IS STEAL FROM WORK DAY, and here i was thinking that we steal from the rich any chance we get, but it turns out THERE ARE FUCKING RULES FOR WHEN TO STEAL NOW. don't tell my ex-Probation Agent (this is all too white a term for me) though, him would get extra scary and sentence me to another shoplifting/drug combo class cause there's no institutions set up all around this hell that would have a poor kid indulge in such activities whatsoever. and i swear if i see that bastard with his scum-fuck receding hairline blowing in the breeze of that slimy fuck convertible ever again, well i may just wave from the bus stop, all smiles and suppression like, mass nerves causing spontaneous combustion to the rock destined for his sweaty barbeque covered face. and all the dead white men sit uncomfortably wondering when this skinny queer will shut the fuck up while they patronize themselves a golden coffin. and here i am, trying to be more approachable at shows. fuck, i just remembered, i didn't even have to write this piece of shit rant, all i write is angry poems. well at least i've shied away from all bro-for-bro cumstain references. i'm tired of south city pbr faux bohemia, smoke signal images of an image of an avatar forced into tiny dive spots- totally underground - the epitome of ignorant egos, amerikkkan apparel purchased half on dad's credit card (but he treats you like shit) and half on a cut-out coupon from the RFT (you read the articles, you swear, but why?) on paper made from our source of oxygen. WE CANNOT SURVIVE THIS APATHETIC WORLD TOGETHER HIPSTER. but you can be damned sure i ain't tryin to move out, i was born here.