Nada.

My Life. this clock watching joke of little or no distinction.

It all falls away.

A year since New York in the cold. A year sucked back into nothing. My country alternates between drowning and frying.My dear Miss Karen survived the hurricane last night,thank Elvis. It must look like a drowned moon up there now.I don’t have a TV so I don’t know.I’m just glad that she is safe.

Existance is?

Its a mix between full blown denial and polishing a turd. I don’t wanna know anymore.I move in very small circles and 3am wont pull a punch.It beats the evergreen shit out of me. I am battered. My kidneys ache hand like a codeine overdose.I just don’t want any more bad news. A lifeline in LA tells me that all it is, it being life,is a game of skill.

On the skill front I am a thalidomide baby attempting origami.

I was told that I live my life in public.That its a stage. I got to thinking, not so much more than anyone else.Just with foxier shoes and better one liners. The one who accused me of this fault (among so many others ) was and is more famous than I ever will be. If laughing didn’t give me acid reflux and  make my wrinkles  demand  a heafty  botox milk shake I would be in stitches right now.

Ho,ho,ho.

Cotton wool dipped in oil.Tastes like shit but by golly it fills you up.

I dreamt that I set fire to my house last night. I had a cup of tea on the lawn with the fire men. Then they all shook my hand and applauded as I  separated from them and walked into the inferno. I turned and waved,my hair alight,a corona ,a torch. I saw one of them wipe a tear from his sooty cheek and give me a watery grin.

Its almost 10 in the morning.I have already trained. I have nothing else to do ,so I do that.

Kindness comes and I don’t know what the hell I am meant to do with it.I am so incomplete .I don’t want anyone to see me in such a state.It fucks with my inner equilibrium.I am never gonna get right at this rate. Gram Parsons helps. Till I get to thinking about him buying the farm out at the Joshua tree inn. Room 8 I think I read somewhere.

Which gets me to thinking about the house that was dreamt of….Tear me apart. Drawn a chalk outline around it.I bore myself. My demons and ghosts yawn. They don’t even feign interest and I don’t blame ’em one bit.I listen to Roky. Some times he helps too but in all reality I am just hurting myself over and over again questioning the legitimacy of any emotions at all.

Celibacy is not radical.It is an amour.

Wish I was John Wayne,Clint Eastwood….I dunno. I keep thinking if I get so strong and so right that it will save me. That no one will ever get close enough to fuck with me again. The thought of human touch,of flesh makes me ill. Of ever being touched.

If anyone expressed any interest in me I would cut them out without question. They must be sick and unsound. Wanting a disaster. Assholes. I don’t even want me. I cover up the mirrors and sit in the dark.

Fuck you,fuck you girl. You are a wreck. A treasure less wreck.