||[Jun. 20th, 2004|12:53 am]
|||||dave chapelle- i'm going to piss on you||]|
i kept those hollow seraphim at bay for a couple of hours, but you know me. i can't help but stick myself in the fire. i'm ebendigo, practically. but even swarming, i kept my cool, more or less. i mean, i havn't broken into outright hallucination since this morning; my grades read "showing much improvement" but my stomach is filled with that old acid, hungry for my flesh. leads to me squatting over porcelin ready to pull a christopher. i.e. vomit everywhere, dogs licking it up, mouth smeared with sick. olivia talked earlier about the stain; its so lady macbeth. i could say i'm keeping it real, true to my roots. but why do my roots have to reach so deep, beyond the hollow earth & into sheol?
i wish they hadn't only stitched shut the front of my skull; the top of it is where all the stuff pours out of. i'm like a kappa, bowl empty of water, dying. i'm the sidhe with the cold iron bullet lodged in his brain pan, the geased killer eating dog meat. i get solace out of thoughts of knives & swords, mostly; clockwork guns who's smoke smells of brimstone. earlier manhattan was exploding fireworks & i kept pausing the dvd & checking the news just to make sure i wasn't missing the end of the world.