bijou a book of matches

the guns of brixton

god, why do i drive by your house every fucking day? how does that help me?

it's not even on the way.
bijou yeah. still driving by every day.

it's almost on the way.

the ramp off highway 50 is closed anyways.
the clash when they kick in your front door how you gonna come,

with your hands on your head or on the trigger of your gun?
soda pop fuck you litte versions of ourselves
remind us
of who we used to be
god haiku or type
strength in numbers. even if confined to mind
Wasandru Octillions of streaming digits,
a web, surely!
Octillions and octillions
whose meaning is lost
on all but a dozen
(at most).

My games,
my little quips,
perhaps they will strike meaning
in but one or two others,
just as I have been joy-stricken
from curiousities surely overlooked
by the majority of visitors here.

with my zillion solipsisms...
my hall of endlessly reflecting mirrors.
How do I look?
I die and am born again
in the same junky implosion.
(Et tu, Brutus)
ever dumbening thanks for the continuing, and often clustered, reminders of what a fucking loser i am. 110511
lostgirl 100 of them, at least...and the gnawing, raw pit in my gut leaves me wondering what i am doing wrong 110512
what's it to you?
who go