Death by Nailbiters

The cleverness of contests and contests taste like the best sirloin served at five in the morning to my wasted appetite– the habilimentless man, the overly-chastised figure of a faggot’s passionfruit, the gnawed tywysog of mentiroso recalls. I never tire of being clever, and I never tire of being mean. But I do get tired of being sobered up and I hate the push of every urgent wake-up call. The waiting in between jobs and between pays is the worst, I guess? And when I do get paid, I get all that money and purge it out in things I’ve convinced myself I need: protein shakes of all the sorts of flavors; amino acids; fuckin’ expensive creatine monohydrates; movies, movies, movies; and whatever then exercises the body and exorcises the soul; and then I have nothing again, as I’ve had had nothing before. And then I feel like I’ve eroded my self successfully. And then silence, and stillness, and night were the universe. And, again, I feel too desperate to be to clever or mean.

“You have to wait. No, man. You have to wait. We can’t pay you with money that isn’t there… No, man. You have to wait.”

Time… Such a fun concept! Such an imagination, to come up with a measure
That, in the overall of things, bring upon to so many displeasures and heapings!
I look above– and, trust me on this– nothing of the above ever have learned waiting.

Does the sun need to warm up? Does the moon cool? The swallows, own clocks ever?
You bring forth to this world only such a deep joy red eyes appreciate (“You still have to wait.”)
Eve when the dogs are divorced, the maidens are exited, the hangman influences (“You still have to wait.”)
The outreach of the new mail.

Success in all stages must be seen as the devil’s genius at work;
Slobbering at the sight and sounds– constantly becoming swollen;
Dewormed by the branching-out-mortifies, by tolerant eschars,
By escapes, by escapes, by escapes and escapades…

How should I endure over the most promising future further overlain?
Hapless prosperity divides me. I know that working too hard examines me.
When I’m tireless, I then sin.

The wonderous only chart. The mundane, only further hanging.
There is a must only meant for this world. There is a must, further becoming thin.
…No, man. I must have to want to wait.

I wonder how many men are powerless against their bellies, hungry and out there waiting for their cut of the stake, cut of the snake, cut of the nails, nails, nails. I’m out here being desperate for protein shakes.