ABSTRACT SKILLS, KILLS.

Heir soir il n'ya pas des etoiles dans le ciel noir.

Endlessly time and again, a vacuum at my navel pulling in everything happy and arises nothing but a painfully dark feeling and answers that reek of guilty pleasure. And suddenly the only thing happy is a Led Zepplin song light and sunny like the Ocean.

This week in sentences: Give me thy hand! I think I am going blind!

Black to brown to nothing at all. Give me colours, give me.

Individuals with abstract skills and no social skills are absolute failures.

And a room with beige walls with brown spots and long dark legs rested carefully against them.

And suddenly you know how inflated noises sound like; so close you know 20% liquor-ed drinks can get you philosophical. The water seems to bite into your hands. And before you know the sofa throws you up and down. Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy baby Wee! How fun to be 17 again. Gallons of chocolate sauce was used instead of blood in Alfred Hitchcock’s movie Psycho.

And then you see the sun set before your eyes leaving behind effervescing purple. Alls well.

Hier soir, il ya des etoiles dans le ciel noir.

-Are you still unhappy, she asks.
He suppresses a giggle pressing his teeth on his wanton black lips.
-We all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine, Yellow submarine, she croons.
They laugh, happy children on a winter scratched afternoon.

TRANQUILIZER

On the bridge I stood long enough to make a pause in the shit, urine and hobo drenched landscape watching the cars pass by. They look beautiful in the night with the red lights contrasting the orange of the city. I think I will make a movie-a 3-minute one showing everyone how colourful these things are in my head. Like the films those guys you just love to want make. Or like Holden Caulfeild (Or Salinger) thinks-guys you wish were your friends and you could just call up and talk to. Or maybe not, because vision is limited and cant be twisted beyond the bounds of your eyes. Unlike words, beyond colours, beyond limits, each time a different beauty to each one.

Or maybe I need to make visual drugs, it couldn’t be too difficult since I hear Silicon Valley or wherever it is where they conduct useless robotic engineering will be making chips that can be etched in your spine. (Am I scared, or what?) Maybe I could marry one and together we could create visual oblivion. Curie style. I know it must be colourful. Colours are hypnotising. Or maybe someone from the CIA. After all I hear, oranges are really blue but seem orange because of some ocular default.

And the train passes, blurring, my mind a melange of Jefferson Airplane, Catcher in the Rye, which so far is a pretty irritating book and also a predecessor to Vernon God Little (You should try reading cable TV sometime) and the Sudoku puzzle before I melt into a-surprisingly deep-cat nap. Much of the colours have faded in me, I am dying for the home I need. Only I never seem to reach it past the dream.