Coby

Why isn't there garbage when I want it? When I need it? I'm tired of
bacon &; eggs and dead-ass frozen yogurt spilling out of the bowl of
my stomach in soft, curdled death. Christ! I wish I could somehow
escape to no-memory lane, where phantoms dwell only to remind you that
you're alive. Somewhere in this moat, there is a feeling. Lost on the
shore like a grain of glass. I am the last of my kind. Nowhere else
will they/we find another so complex in the art of self destruction. I
don't know whether these aliens, to me, can fathom what I am made of:
flowers, leaves, and grass mixed with the festering puss, charred
remains, and soft feces. I am alive in death. These are the
characteristics that pale in favor of the bright, windexed, shiny
fa?ade of our glitterati. Oh, the guilt! Poor, dead soul on the ground
of an off ramp waiting for your quarters. I don't blame the two-time
champ, son-of-money, laying-my girlfriend, bred to win beauty. No, I
just wonder why our shared opposites don't find common ground like the
lonely poles of the Earth. Forever apart but, slowly melting into one
another. God save the Cobain nightmare.