Misty Mountain Waste

One quarter of an hour to six months ago and it's just me and a nineteen ninety three Ford Escort LX. Livid, exasperated mind glancing over two thousand four hundred ninety one pounds of barely functioning, bright green death trap. The fading blue inspection sticker on the windshield displays numbers signifying a date recently past and I call the digits asshole for sequential failure. That is to say I needed to get my car inspected. I'm no criminal. Being mechanically unsound the law won't open the front door to road legality so I place calls for directions to a rear entrance. I'm no law abider. The ambiguously foreign chauffeur of a wealthy genetic relation is willing to put me in contact with a mechanic of ill repute. They cater to dying yellow hire cars, ensuring their ability to terrify pedestrians, reek of mysterious odors likely of human origin and survive suicidal traffic maneuvers. It's an immoral job but someone has to profit from it. Not wanting to traverse the distance unescorted I utilize my immoderately opulent portable communication device. Nine hundred megahertz signals relay through ozone from cellular tower to cellular tower. Jack Daniels' immoderately prodigious portable communication device receives and reconfigures data into my request for company which he accepts. That is to say we ride. A little further from six months ago. The distance from point of origin to destination is roughly sixty miles. Initial minutes pass in silence as Jacks coffee ritual is intense and requires all of his senses to complete. Subsequent minutes pass fluently and the den of mechanical iniquity is easily found. A small seemingly Middle Eastern man refers to me disturbingly as "papi" when informing me of the more disturbing malfunction of their inspection device. The towel less towel head ensures me a matter of hours is all he requires so I grant it. I'm no troublemaker. Jack Daniels and I wander about midtown Manhattan and discuss the human form as soul stifling confinement when an Indian rubber ball strikes me across the forehead. Pale legs carry a pre-adolescent boy to retrieve his trinket. Apologies and an introduction is mumbled. He's Johnny and he's sorry, he has A.I.D.S. Figuring life has hit him harder than I could I pardon the unintentional assault of my visage. My body is a cage, his is a concentration camp. A.I.D.S. Johnny is cheerful and invites us to a game of handball. At mere mention of competition Jack's brain releases aggression inducing adrenaline. Terminal illness or not he's going to fucking destroy this kid. He's no camp counselor. Fortunately for the dying boy a familiar face enters my field of vision. Despite his thirst for win I decline for the both of us and point out a hirsute homeless honky. His hair and beard are long and grey and scraggly and majestic. His proboscis is long and crooked and red from ethanol. Unmistakable as Coca Cola or a perfect posterior it's Gandalf the Bum. When our familiar faces enter his field of vision he runs. At last encounter his fortified wine fortified our appetites for destruction. Much darts and fisticuffs ensued. Overworked liver metabolized the offending material and with clear heads our missing wallets went noticed. That is to say we'd been had. Finding Gandalf with a fresh stock of Night Train infuriated. His denials were convincing but wizards are a crafty bunch. Several shots to the ribs revealed his verity though the damage was done. Fuck it. Six minutes to one quarter of an hour six months ago. Fickle technology ultimately prevented the illegal legalization of my death trap despite four hours spent idle in Midtown Manhattan. Having known their repute was ill I should have expected. I'm no fortune teller.

Waste Is All We Need

One quarter of an hour to six in the morning and it's just me and a blank monitor. A glowing, white plastic rectangle of helically arranged liquid crystals ready to form the Mona Lisa but more likely to form the round posteriors of pornographically arranged females. The Untold Tales of Jack Daniels and The Fabulous Machismo persist as just that proving I'm no writer. Fortunately reduced caloric intake and physical exertion both aerobic and anaerobic will soon render me sexually appealing enough to rope an elderly care taker. That is to say a sugar momma. Misanthropy. Perusing available companions depresses and distances. A rational mind coming first with emotional attachment in a far off last and sentiment disqualified for getting in the way of a good time. I'm no Cyrano de Bergerac. A little closer to six in the morning. Deficiencies in social acceptance are deferred by an obnoxious demeanor. Laugh at the strange man before you realize he isn't kidding. In a world of fit in or fuck off misfits outfit themselves in recognizable uniforms so as to be easily identified as the label of their choice. When the outsiders live in the over-culture where do the wanderers wander? Twenty four hours, two minutes, one hundred twenty seconds to six in the afternoon. Don't forget the accent over the e when you call me cliché.

Will Waste For Food

One quarter of an hour to four in the morning and it's just me and Ivan Ilyich. Sixty pages of Russian pseudo-Christian quasi-nihilist proof that homo-sapiens are ceiling fans. Several works of fiction begin to take shape under the contrived umbrella of interconnectedness. A cop-out to avoid the individual attention each demands for which they all call me asshole. Stories of life are unpublishably short but I've no patience for filler so in short they go unpublished. I'm no Stephen King. A little closer to four in the morning. A journey to the concrete jungle yields disappointment. With empty cup and moleskine cahier I attempt to busk but to passers by I appear to be just sitting there so the cup remains unburdened. That is to say I don't make shit. Fortunately independent wealth keeps all boats afloat in a sea of something metaphorically relevant. Fact or fiction? I'm no reliable narrator. Being physically repulsive leaves mystery my only option for attracting hapless victims but you can't catch fish with question marks so I'm not fucked. What am I doing with my life? Four in the morning. What does it matter?

My Waste Is A Good Life

One quarter of an hour to six in the morning and it's just me and unused wood pulp. Eighty pages of hydrogen bonded cellulose free of graphite content despite carping inner voices begging for text. Attempts at fiscal gain via literature continue to elude despite no effort. I'd settle for a completed work of fiction but millions of pieces of green paper would not be unacceptable. I'm no hippie. A little closer to six in the morning. Vagabond Prose. Misnomer. I never go anywhere. Hermitic living is contrary to titular claims but hermit has a shitty ring to it and crustacean connotations. I'm no crab. Given my stylistic tendencies Purple Prose would be apt but purple signifies royalty. I'm no king. Periods of time spent not leaving the house leads to forgetting initial reasons for seclusions. Excursions into society remind me. One minute to six in the morning. My hell is a good life.

A Kiss To Build A Waste On

One quarter of an hour to two in the afternoon and it's just me and a clear red bottle of amphetamine salts. Sleepless, stagnating mind counting and recounting thirty periwinkle bumblebees full of not enough good shit to enhance dopaminergic activity. Six hours of sleep in seventy two hours of life leaves me cursing the devil eye and aching for slumber but my rhythm is non-circadian so I diddle my shame instead. I'm no monk. A little closer to two in the afternoon. Manipulating my erogenous zones does nothing to quell the recent and surprising want of affection. Customary hugs for genetic relations are par for the course but the course ends there. You sign your correspondences with x's and o's, I sign mine with f’s and u's. Flesh on flesh preserved for those whose flesh I want my flesh in without exception. That is to say those I want to fuck, those being few and far between. I'm no town bicycle. The next fully formed bipedal of my species with acceptable levels of imperfections and the only acceptable level of infectious disease I get within arms reach of will be the target of my ardor. Canoodling, exchange of expectoration and copulation are acceptable individually or in succession. Three minutes to two in the afternoon. Believe what you read. If getting close is undesirable stay away. I'm no monk.

Waste Is A Battlefied

One quarter of an hour to one in the morning and it's just me and a bag of candy coated chocolate flavored candy. Ravenous, slavering oral cavity grinding plastic tube after plastic tube of shit my body doesn't need into shit my taste buds love. Furious pants call me asshole for this, my one hundred forty second gram of a one hundred forty two gram bag. I'm no supermodel. A little closer to one in the morning, nerves send missives of pain to the grey jelly above my man tits, a dull reminder of the night before this. I headed out with pugilistic intentions. Feel like a man. Fight in the street. I'm no tough guy. Fortunately they aren't hard to come by. Testosterone meat sacks at this bar or that with rapidly metabolizing liver hardening ethanol activating useless primitive instincts. Useless. Unnecessary for turning a key, pressing a button or utilizing modern exorbitance. Target acquired. Ill fitting garment? Dot. Excessive display of precious metals? Dot. Impressive physique? Dot. Too drunk to fuck but drunk enough to fight? Dot. No initiation is necessary. I'm bearded in black, out of place. Profane thoughts are expressed. Bad language makes you look stupid but makes me look brilliant. I place a starboard gripping appendage to his portside thoracic cavity with enough force to shatter something mildly difficult to shatter but within the realm of human capability. Always strike first. Several more gripping and walking appendages were placed on several more delicate body parts before the end. Fight in the street. Feel like an asshole. He probably deserved it. I did. Two minutes to one in the morning. Close enough.

Buckets of Waste

One quarter of an hour beyond five in the morning and it's just me and "Blood On the Tracks". Ten tracks of bohemian heart break by a lanky hebe giving folk-fags more orgasms than Jack Elliot. I've just finished a thorough testicle scratching session. Emotional and chemical joy is impossible to come by so I do my best to horseradish the physical. Sometimes if I hit just the right spot everything melts away. I hit some hidden nerve as yet undocumented by science that releases opiates unheard of in modern or ancient culture that peels away the illusory walls of conscious. Time, dimensions and euphoria are made wrinkly flesh, mine to manipulate with grubby fingers and uneven keratin. Then, being human and unready for the approaching enlightenment I'm lurched back to the physical and realize I've peeled away not only reality but several layers of skin and the stinging ensues. Hurts so good. One thousand three hundred twenty seconds beyond five in the morning. Ouch.

On The Waste

One quarter of an hour to five in the morning and it's just me and lesbian pornography. Thirty seven point eight four gigabytes of easily countable women defiling each other for my viewing shame. A recent desire to engage in simulated guitar sessions was nearly sated just hours ago. Alas, virtual instrumentation was not to be mine. An overworked originator of The Kid's required relative silence for optimal typing conditions. The box of silicon and copper that is her overseer demands it. Available seating in my place of residence is limited to a pile of shoddy wood and torn fabric designed to dislocate vertebrae and ravage lumbars or the ceiling. My place of residence is unsuitable. I'm unaware of any hidden meta-anatomy in Smelly or The Kid that would allow them to take seat on a ceiling. They're no Spider-Man. Instead, a convergence on The Kid's abode was organized via portable communication device and an excursion to the nearest corporate book store/cafe/stage/shit hole ensued. After selecting several travel books to study a potential get-a-away to Europe drinks were drank. Two dirty bean waters and a root beer. The barista revealed to me that she lived for a time in the north of France. However, her body fat percentage was unacceptable so I didn't give a fuck. Standards being double are society’s problem, not mine. A little closer to five in the morning. Travel books I can't afford stir wonder at my intentions to get to the places they recommend. Even bismuth subsalicylate is an expense beyond my tax bracket. That is to say I’m poor. With bowels as irritable as mine perhaps my diet is up for a performance review. I'm no nutritionist. The seven days a week twenty four hours a day convenience store of my preference has changed their frozen mini taco-esque wrap recipe anyway. Two minutes to five in the morning. Red cow flesh, pig meat, fried flesh of any kind, lipids, dairy foodstuffs, grains whole and processed, canned and/or microwaveable deliciousness. Everything I eat. Nothing I should eat. I'm no nutritionist. Fuck vegetables.

A Good Night's Waste

One quarter of an hour to four in the morning and it's just me and the internets. Restless, racing mind glancing over a billion petabytes of filth flarn filth and 50% of the digital population sharing information between sessions of self abuse and the other 50% demanding they cite a source while self abusing. The Untold Tales of Jack Daniels and The Fabulous Machismo needs writing but I'm no writer so it stays neglected and I call it asshole for existing half formed and fully nagging. I'm no writer. A little closer to four in the morning and I'm still not feeling so great. Slept for twelve hours, could've slept more but guilt at lonely, neglected originators who brought rapidly cooling sustenance berates me until I rouse. Ate too much chinc food, a gooky meal of nothing my body needs and it lets me know. Atrophying muscles are shaky and weak like in my dreams. Lack of exercise, withdrawals or something worse? Two and a half pounds of caffeine infused liquid sugar does nothing to quell the shaking or dreamlike mindset so I sleep more. Too much sleep is no good for you but great for me. Getting up and sitting to write infuriates and depresses. Life isn't for me. Unfortunately two and a half thousand milligrams of tramadol failed to kill me and varying doses of extended release methylphenidate fails to cure me. Varying doses. Originally prescribed 18mg by the slanty eyed impostor at Inquisition Charities. I varied the doses of my own desperate accord when 18mg did fuckall. Varied; 18, 18, 36, 54, 72, 90, nothing. Fuck you Dr. Jeung and the dumpling you rode in on. Don't get me right, I love homo-sapiens from the Asiatic nations as much as I love homo-sapiens from any nation. That is to say not at all. Take it personally. Five minutes to four in the morning. How many seconds is that? I'm no mathematician. 300.