How's it Cohen - Issue 4

drama.

melodramatic fools. neurotic to the bone. psychotic to the marrow. a lot of soil but most of it is fallow. wishing i was in monticello. i used to play the cello. if your yellow is mellow, does that mean your a delightful fellow? the sound and lights sucked. quote the handbook. music is in the vesicles of the taste tester. give me novocaine, cocaine, sign of cain, in the fast lane. ghosts and pottery made by a man who liked clowns deceased in the year of our lord 3027 (cohen era). zeno, xenocide, xenophobia, zeno. the duality (or perhaps moiety) of odoacer, literally. ego immemor.

what is life? awesome. wow. so deep. what is drama? i imagine death so much it’s more like a memory. ego immemor. i’m not really sure why people care or try for something so trivial, so meaningless as their performance when no matter what they they will fail. no matter what. failure, much like love and death and weakness, is inevitable. a positive illusion—its an ‘obsession’. i guess its probably better to be in love with someone who is dead like good old danny boy. then your view of them cannot be sullied by their incessantly faulty mistakes. no delightful diddies. more of a nebulous cloud toeing the line betwixt mediocre and not mediocre. but aren’t we all?

hierarchies (who hates them?). friendship. love. hate. regret for prior inaction. broken hearts. broken bodies. broken ribs. dead wives. ghosts haunting the corpses that their hearts inhabited. nobody likes you. everyone left you. after ten cups of coffee and you’re still not here. coffee somehow tastes better in the presence of cognizant indifference. sometimes pain is for others to squeeze from the toothpaste tube of your agony. you’re like me. you’ll never be satisfied.

drama begets drama begets drama begets ‘immaculate lust’. words get trapped in my mind. i’m sorry if i don’t take the time to feel the way I do. emotions are spandrels. when the two arches of survival and selection come together, they create a space, a hole, black in nature, naturally created with a purpose unseen or nonexistent. maybe emotions aren’t spandrels, maybe we are all spandrels. or king charles’ spandrels, spaniels, a thousand candles in the wind. wind that was inherited by the son of a castrated patriarch. a son who would become an anti-patriot, anti-social, anti-world, apathetic, ahedonistic, insubordinate, contumacious, unsatisfied, ape of a child, death-monger, celestial ejaculate, the Word, god of indifference, jesus of suburbia, patron saint of denial, pious, victorious, triumphant, supreme. i am the son(g) of rage and love. castrate me.

i walk alone.

rise up. rise up. kneel. lower. kiss the hand of god.

#HowsitCohen