Barter Town

Throw us an offer. We can't refuse.

Thursday, June 9, 2011


they've been watching me the whole time. i didnt see it until now, when i glanced out the window and caught a familiar whiff of wolf scent and goat milk, a maddeningly relieving sight of doe legs connected at four joints in two places repeatedly a million times over

he he he

its too odd, really. the cliches amount, but i can't alter destiny, can't tangle the strands of fate. this is how i will end: by the collective willing of my unexistence by a few thousand harmless monstrosities! shikkfting forms characterize the space beyond the rotting bark smell of my treehouse's floorboards. the turquoise sky, previously polka-dotted with stars and suns and 'steroids and other spinning space spectacles now flips between colors as carelessly as i would flip between my personalities a few years ago (and even now)

he he he

my sight of the one beyond the Pall is as accurate as any properly balanced telescope, but even now, as the master of the hunt stares me down at my doorway while i am typing this, homemade hinges busted apart from barging (quite rudely i might add) into my house, my insight into him (it?) is nonexistent, minimal, a flight of fantasy as lucid as my dreams. his bulk bristles with sinewy musculature, and his face show nothing but the vigor of an alpha male, snarling, deceitful, haughtily conceited, and vividly in sync with the present. the wolf-like jaw doesn't hurt that image either

i'm just so stuck in the past

you know, these are my actual last rites, so i wont hold back a word here. i always wanted to listen to t.r.o.y. by pete rock and cl smooth as i passed away, or at least the beat. that song reflected something within myself that i never really came to terms with in my normal life: my inability to not give a damn about those not recognizing my accomplishments. i always felt shafted by everyone: the fuckers at school who would shove and shackle and slap me about for the jovial -fun- of the matter, the bird brains who rejected what i poured, toiled, and combed over to submit to any literary resource, the women who giggled in sadistic delight as i stumbled over my words and phrases, always an awkward little man. so what better thing to do than inflate myself to hyperbolic dimensions? the ego trip became my satiation, the bravado a balm for the boorish belittling of the bourgeoisie and peasantry. i turned myself around, i told myself, all under my own willpower: acquired a sufficient body structure to ensure my survival, forged a rhetorical reputation backed by an acute familiarity with the hip-hop philosophy, and scored enough dimes to reimburse the us mint. look where such haughty thoughts placed me! up in a dilapidated, crumbling treehouse, surrounded by nightmares, without a soul in the world to recollect on my passage.

the ego forced me to believe those filthy falsehoods! my soul wants to cry out, but thats the james brown in me, slithering around words like a crooner would about the microphone, not the michael blightwell in me, the coward cowed by cowish characters, gargling without in a sea of his own asinine metaphors. so I came here, even after lucy suicided by proxy, and I strove to distance myself from those toilsome aspects of responsibility I should have been forced to shoulder. alas, the blightwell surname serves as a pertinent reminder for the consequences of resolving never to admit ones defeat. i wont be making such a grevious error in judgment for a second time.

lucy, ahahahaha. i'll be back in your heart before you know it, love. i

time's up. let's get going then, wolfman. this stupendous menace deserves a permanent nostalgic dream.