31 - 35

31. In the back road of Hampton, Georgia,

Along the mana swamps and fog valleys,

Proud men cheer at screens in their locked homes,

Their wives hold pillows to their unsatisfied ears.

Sons and daughters of the south hold sweet home tears

Like fiery coals, and consider driving off the road into the barren trees.

Winter has come to Georgia.

32.  When I travel I feel my journal

Is a poor read and a worse waste of time.

At least cigarettes make the journey shorter.

When the roads wind into oblivion

on smoky mountain highways,

I watch the street lights fade, and

Gradients of asshole-ish high beams come towards me.

I still hesitate when I have to turn onto a street marked

With  a lamp, my femur still aches at the sight.

Swerving won’t help, neither will getting there on time.

 33. The reading lamp isn’t on,

But these chapter of James Joyce won’t read

Themselves. I hope I’ll trip over the words

Enough to make sense of Norah love of James.

Such a fart slut,

A man of the girl’s dormitory,

Just read his letters.

Such a whore for words.

Such complicated ideals

Of sex sex sex. Yeah

Gender is androgynous along

With all the Darger boys.

34. Meatloaf again. I call back at the echoing images of Tim curry in drag, a great clown face man distorting the ideals of Old Spice men in bad acted musicals.

Transylvanians have nothing going for their country , aside from bad transsexual cunt puns, and twilight fanatics ruining the image of Vlad. 

At least hipsters try to keep the Pabst’s cultural shock intact, or at the very least hidden (I still hide the USS Lexington on my forearm under flannel).

 I nibble on my Chinatown General Tso’s chicken made by a Mexican.

I wish to hell the apocalypse would actually come.

35. I want to die

 so I can wade

through dirt

 to see the other side

I want the grave estate of

Reincarnation to

Bruise the face of god.

I want to be barefoot drunk on life

As I see the light of the next world.

I hope it doesn’t exist to prove my past selves wrong.