Elvis.

Nothing helps.

(unless ya wanna help yourself…do you wanna?…are you able?….c’mon.)

Not really.

I need a boot-camp.I need to structure this sugar freebasing disaster that I have become before I abandon all hope.Time away is,unfortunately not an option so I have to do it on my forlorn frozen home turf.Boring but oh-so necessary.My ass is beginning to drip down the back of my thighs like melting wax.Bikini season is just around the corner and the last fucking thing I need at this pinnacle of low self esteem is Greenpeace throwing damp hessian sacks over me and trying to roll me back into the churning surf.

Time to get a Rollins playlist together and run.

Sigh.

I thought that answers would be the answer.Its kind of like giving your murderer the top three choices of how you would like to be killed.

I think it assists rather than helps per say.I am so numb.It tends not to.No matter how badly you want need or desire it too.Shame really.Even when you get the answers that you have been craving,that you think are going to solve and soothe wounds that refused to heal.The shrapnel shredded gapers that won’t knit closed.If it was that simple everyone would have at it and my shrink would be doing food demonstrations at the local mall.

(“It slices! It dices! It Julianne’s! Call now! Our operators are standing by.”)

If it’s easy it’s usually going to hurt in the long run.

But much like my beloved Jay Gatsby we beat on,borne back into the tide…

Love kills.Just like Dee Dee said but it was not thorough enough with me,it’s workmanship was shoddy and left much to be desired.Guess I should be thankful that I didn’t end up under a sink at the Chelsea in a pool of blood felled by a junkie wielding a cheap knife from a souvenir shop on 42nd street.I am some kind of emotional paraplegic and there are no wheel chairs for the heart.

Me? I talk too much or not at all.Finally have to box my life up and go again.Mystery is the the only thing that makes me attractive on any front.At least some days are better than others.

See ya.

Want to change my name.Find a new skin to live in.When I think about him pumping that scrawny ding-a-ling swamp donkey that he shacked up with I barf. ( blurghhhhhhh!! )Well I guess an ass is an ass is an ass right? LA junkies are the pits quel absolute. They never die.Zombie apocalypse on the Sunset Strip.My beloved West coast is a magnetic vortex for such wasters.

Bret Easton Ellis is not fiction.Believe it baby,I have seen it roll with my jaded blue eyes.

Quiet.

Where has this year gone and what does it matter? Think in terms of the summers that you have lived,it’s far more pleasant I find.Years are cruel and finite.It’s August and freezing.I have a kilimanjaro of filthy laundry backed up by my door as the rain has been messing with available drying time.Not to worry,I wear the same thing everyday anyway,it’s not as if anyone is looking.The explosion of jasmine that hugs the porch of my beloved shit-box shack is about to do  just that.The scent will weave with my nightmares.Its almost 7 am.I woke up hours ago.

It’s hard to sleep when you worry about people who tend not to worry about themselves.

It never stops.It just changes shape is all.

I’m living on tea.Clunking round in my ankle weights.Being that my flesh has seemingly swallowed my sharp bones its time to starve them back to the surface once again.Back to the gym.Ho-hum.Control issues much? Hey,I never denied it.

The slow healing site of my last wisdom tooth spewed out another rotting shard of bone last night.I gingerly picked it out and gagged at the stench.My corpse is a mess.

Elvis is a good and benevolent God.

He brought me a tattoo last week.Well,if you want to be technical, two of them due to my life long slavery to symmetry.

He is so rad and omnipotent and shit.I love him! I loved him hopped up on speed,divine and delinquent thin in Jailhouse Rock and I loved him clad in white,fat as a pig on ‘ludes in Vegas and I now have solid etched in flesh proof that he loves me too…..

Shut up and listen…..

I had a dream a few weeks ago of wings severed and denied.To pluck a feather from each for the memory of flight.I told Luke that he would have to deal with me gracing his chair once more.He rolled his eyes ever so sweetly and I laughed.Being that cash not being forthcoming nor abundant at this point I wondered how it would come to pass.

A grumpy Monday night.To lazy to train,to tetchy to write and to sad to dream I went to go and get yet another can of Dr pepper.

“My failure ran 11 inches deep,his washed up dirtbag whore I long to beat” I sang soullessly to the tune of “Walk the line” by Mr Cash under my breath as the bell dinged to herald my fat assed arrival into the fluorescent drenched over-lit store of convenience.I placed the beverages on the counter as the Syrian grinned,fumbling for straws and asked after my health.

“Shoddy” I replied wondering if Luke would take an IOU.

In for a penny in for a pound I decided that I may as well eat chocolate.I ducked down to peruse the selection and lit upon the pillar box red pack of Maltesers.And the crisp yellow 50 dollar note lying limply at its side.The currency disappeared into my pocket as I rose like the Titanic to place the confectionery on the counter.

“What a score! “I thought to myself and made to leave.The Syrian said something as I was almost out the door and I turned with a smile.

“I think I will take one of these too” and I swiped a bar of Cookies and Cream  and the second 50 dollar note.

(!!@$$$#!!???)

The end.

From my mouth to Gods ear.

Thank you  and goodnight.Half an hour later I was swooning under the needle,early Monster Magnet spewing out of the sound-system..A Phoenix feather on each forearm.

For wings lost .

I came home and listened to his gospel recording and fell asleep.

All hail the King.