#writingprompt: john bring your knife

It was a crumpled piece of paper. At the top of the page 'john bring your knife' was written, and at the bottom 'that one your brother got you and we used when we went camping'

I feel really weird about Everything

Hello. I feel really weird about everything. I know that I shouldn't, but i do. Especially this. On second thoughts: maybe especially is too strong a word. Perhaps I simply meant 'including'. Yeah. Everything is weird including this. Nope. I didn't mean either of those; I meant both of them: everything is weird, including this, especially.

Get dirty and be comfortable with it.

Everyday we muddy ourselves a little bit more, either through the addition of more dirt to the mire, or the slooshing and sloshing of preexisting dirt in the swampy cessness of self. There's no getting clean. Not now. The cleanest we feel is when we are comfortable and accepting of ourselves and our dirt and mud and our squelchy mess. 

The Problem with Winning

The problem with winning is there's no longer any torrent to fight against.

Trying. Failing.

I tried washing my hands today. They felt like they were covered in face grease. Saliva. The thick sweat you get under an armpit or deep between butt cheeks. Warm. Deep stickiness. Melty, napalm-marshmellowy levels of magnetic adhesiveness. I tried again. Still failing. Still failing while trying.

The longer you live, the more people you know die

Wake up all smothered by sweat cause you live in a heat sink
Hair is dead as soon as it leaves my scalp
Cast tongue tunes over room warm whiskey in pencil cup
Heads throbbin', processes slow, channeling the missing link
Straingten up get, sit up, grab the cup, and have another sup
French fries on the floor, more clothes scattered than carefully folded
If mess is the devil, I'm the father of the anti-christ
damp on the edges, corners are col-o-nies all molded
I'm far from purebred, my birth was faked, my genus feist
Barking is my past time, anger is my Christmas
This was not the first bit, not the encore, boredom for the sake of it,
She takes a drag, smokes inside,
I don't, heads and windows I cant, yelling without noise,
The red wine she wants I'll get before the evening.

New country sad sacks, get your scrotum pinned back you ugly Russian,
Thats about the thick of it, all insults and bravado, empty threats,
There's a poltergeist of a thug, he's broken now, thank god,
The wife took the kids and ruined him, I'm glad.
Trouble is where trouble stays, has nothing to do with the neighbourhood,
Why anyone goes back to monogamy after threesomes is beyond me.
Rusty, rusty, rusty, we're always stiff and rusty,
Well I'm stiff, she's rusty, but we ignore the clarity because its worse than fiction.
Sometimes there's a silent, silent pain, silent pause, silent silence,
Actually there's lots of silents, so I guess it's more like all-the-time.