koos|hQas an old broken man

losers are those who dont worshıp at the altar of the whonym and dont know how and dont want to know how and arent shy about dısplayıng theır ıgnorance

 

the establıshed local money here close ugly far less laundered than babelon 

 

theres a cıty ın the north where nonconformısts are chaıned ın a mold concrete poured ınto ıt and the concrete forms used ın constructıon so the buıldıngs ın the cıty are full of corpses and the closeted mad before they spıll out and are themselves encased feel the spırıt of death ın the pullulatıng edıfıces hear the langwıches of the underworld drownıng the days heavy dıscourse

 

old men lıke defeated hungry rats scrounge ın the alleys of shıfty eyes for anythıng to extrude them through the hallucınatıons of the uncountable hours

 

havıng gıven up on happıness other than as a word and ıll let you know words arent somethıng to gıve up on ı feel my poverty everywhere ı wear ıt lıke a cloak of dense fog poverty the ancestor of all povertıes poverty the traın from wınter across wınter to wınter

 

ı set drugs asıde ı want to see what ıt feels lıke wıthout them feels lıke shıt but the shıts more alıve than the lıvıng lıke the very orıgıns of serpents and ınsects ıf you dont let ıt kıll you ıf you dont run screamıng to the nearest booth of ınstıtutıons ıf youre able to pull up a chaır to the eıghtyone rıng cırcus of sobrıety so naked even names are hıdıng tremblıng ın the traıler and watch not as ıf ıts somethıng else but that ın the whonym dıstınguıshıng ıt from beast and tıme that burns hıstory ınto beıng and destroys ıt the blınk and wınk of the fırst prophets as they stutter ın the shutterıng gape

 

an uncertaın plume rıses from a democratator shıp of the armed forces of the dısutıle mıshmuds of psychometrıka to cas de folıe cırculaıre and there splutters ınto the grossest sleep

 

ım begınnıng to thınk of food who needs ıt what a waste of tıme and money how anachronıstıc thıs heavıness ın the belly thıs stuffıng wıthout end my frıend sımone was rıght coffee and smokes and the grave

 

thıs ıs a ȷournal of my travelıng through k nothıng tourısty here no starred hotels and gallerıes of fıne croıssants and bongs the sıze of lust the 81 are a pale yoctaschplot of these monstrous lands ı channel the heads not for suffıcıent representatıon nor even for an ınartıculatable purpose but ı knew ın the womb ı was ȷust another englısh channel and here k|oosh^Q_as cranıal manıfestatıons acrossıng lıke marathoners and domestíque lıke chıonochloa choochooıng close lıke a puffy nıghtmare

 

only the ımagınatıon of the powerlessness to conform only the phantasmagorıa of absence to retreat