Fuck Off Some More

I start everyday w/ one foot on the black throat of bankruptcy and the other on the devil's wing.

One hand is in a perpetual "GI JOE" grip on the wind pipe of old age and the other is giving pain the universal "FUCK YOU" sign.

I realize my grip is faltering.

Death is between my knees performing fellatio, trying to seduce me into giving over to her warm embrace with promises of rest and comfort.

Reality is my very worst enemy. He torments me, he taunts me, he dangles cigarettes and candy in front of my face. Daring me to reach.

I do sometimes, and they all get closer.

Every time I blink I see the razor's slash on my mother's wrist telling me something I can not make out.

She sprays blood on my face when she forms the P's, F's, and B's.
-OOH! "Stupid fucking boy"

"No mother I didn't do anything wrong, he just came in from work and began hitting me."

I now realize my needs were not enough to fulfill her need to feel important. She needed abusive alcoholics, mean drunks and lecherous men. These people needed more than I did at ages 9 through 14.

When it looked like I could support myself and I might strike it alone, she needed and she said so with a razor on her wrists.

Oh, how strange that conversation must have sounded to a normal person like the doctor. How strange it all sounds now 22 years later.

I keep wondering when I will run into a client that will recognize me. It's bound to happen in any big company like this. There will always be those closets that traveled on business.

What will he say when he recognizes me?

Nothing, those types don't persecute or judge, their guilt is too great and their demons are too ugly to cause any notice towards themselves. They all worry that if you look closely you can see their demons standing beside them like a guardian angel.

God those guys were fucked up.

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