situated in front of a theatre; my ass, struggling on a bench, feeling the awkward movements for i cannot sit still. thanks that this pen should work, should function as a correct wrting utensil. cars pass by to see the showtimes at the cinema, and i suppose, they look to the movie billboard with a certain hope as to see a way as to pass the day. i concur that i could be anywhere; in a park, at a zoo, in my own home, and i would still be unaware, as the others, as how to pass my time. some girls have passed by; wet cunts and plastic tans, oiled as the model dolls that they are. my bilingual brain splatters thoughts that allow me to have scripted mindfucks that i have played in my head before, one thousand times previously. behind me are two delicate cunts, fragile if you will...
now, my unvirginized eyes, my unvirginized mind, gives me a fictionalized and soothing lapdance, that i become erect to and cannot control, that will end only when i have received a laying or a good body massage. my words are prostitutes, are whores, for they move their wettened mouths and splatter on this paper as a lake of orgasms. my whorey words, they suck and blow, and speak to me in obscenities, gracing their tongues inside of my ears, and i cannot find myself to sleep, i a situated in the comfort of erect metaphors lying next to me at my bedside. an instructor read over my lines once and muttered potential, but saying i lacked depth or something. but i enjoy to write in metaphor, because i cannot give you the complete picture, for my thoughts twist and turn; wild vines decorate them and rain sprinkles down from the Amazon. it is my mind that has always a rainy season to it...
from the speakers of a car, pours out rap, and/or hip hop, i am unaware of the difference. i would rather hear reggae. i stare at car man as i sit, fat cheeks, yellow collar, gold watch. he pulls back in reverse as if parked in front of a brothel, waiting to find himself seduced. how long his car will sit there, i do not know; i suppose he finds himself amusing sitting there...he had just left. now, there is stillness...and wait, he returns, with a different, still shitty song pouring out from his shit speakers, pouring out from his shit automobile....a couple walks by with plans of eating a pepperoni pizza for dinner. i become tired of waiting here, i cause myself to look like a bum that has perched himself on a bench like a bird; pecking away in a notebook his thoughts to himself, because he has no one but his diary to befriend him and to tuck him in at night. i will sit a few minutes more, and if my friends do not arrive, i will leave to a house of my other friend. if ths could be a book, let this be chapter one, and let it be entitled; "cinema bench, claustrophobic ass." i had paid twelve dollars for this moleskin notebook, a bum would never do this, nor an anarchist, nor anyone of sanity. a bum would steal, an anarchist would steal, and a sane person would see this book as a waste. therefore, i conclude myself to be an insane capitalist that enjoys spending twelve dollars on moleskin journals, and rambling confused, perversed thoughts to find some sense in himself. prognosis, negative. i have finished, i have birthed chapter one. my ass has become chapped. now, i will leave...