Cliché

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About me:
Eventually you learn not to care and it's not so bad,
especially when you pretend.
You drown yourself in everything else
because everything else is much better.
But your not too sure how better it is.
But it doesn’t matter.
You have you, yourself, and I.
And then you start to fuck like rabbits.
Eventually your delusion becomes your illusion, and your illusion becomes some sort of reality.
But then you go away and you still don’t know if it matters.
Spires spires spires.
You can't help it.
They all end up in one place, and that places is always the same difference.
Then you realize:
You fuck like a rabbit and then you don't care.
You fuck like a rabbit bathing in substance, and you laugh as you do it.
Then the next thing you know,
you’re falling for the person you didn’t want to, but you wanted to.
Then you fuck like a rabbit.
Fucking substances as your hips gyrate like some salacious whore.
And you leave the bed with so much filth that you don’t know what is clean anymore.
Sear backward, forward, and you turn, lock into the home, and go a page up then go a page down.
But it's all relevant.
And you know it will be published.
Because god damn it...
Publishit?
Publish it?
Publish shit?
You realize that you fall hard for boulders.
And the only things capable of moving those boulders are changes in the environment.
Surroundings.
That requires seismic effort.
And then you realize what the hell is going on.
Have you really turned so morose in this twenty-four hour period?
"It’s Eli" they tell you, "and he's in love with Margot. But someone else is secretly loving Margot.
You vote for your favourites in the community, and your vote is cast by how pretty they are.
AMBIENCE I SAY.
I NEED MY MOTHER-FUCKING AMBIENCE.
And you realize that it could possibly be alright.
All you need to do is lie.
And hope is a crushing hammer.
But usually hope is the crusher.
Your eyes are like fires, coming from spires.
Magnificence.
Burning.
But with a friendly glow and comforting warmth.
Who is this I say?
Who is this beseeching goddess lying in front of my eyes?
And we just think, think away.
And I’m a starving artist whether I know it or not.
What is that you say?
The ambience is good enough?
I would suppose, but it delights my ears, and it delights my wrists, despite the fact that they see nothing.
Because it's all done inside my head, usually buried by some sort of false happiness that I create.
But alas, it's all a lie.
You learn that after awhile; that everything is a lie and nothing is true.
More so that everything is personal.
Everything is relative?
And for some reason I confide in you.
I think I’m falling but I’m not all too sure.
Something is falling though.
And I owe and I owe and I owe and that’s all that seems to happen.
And I try and I try but for what?
I tried, I really did, but I just couldn’t give what you wanted.
And I’m sorry.
But I truly believe in you.
I think everyone should.
Because it's not just the major changes that change but the smaller ones too.
Had I whispered differently, had I shown it to you this one way that I thought, it more than likely could’ve been illustrious, don't you think?
And I wonder who would appreciate such ramble?
Surely there is someone out there?
But alas you learn not to care.
And you learn not to care eventually, about learning not to care, because learning not to care becomes so natural.
However this one over there is so beautiful, but yet again unobtainable.
Because sadist saving sado-machoism surely see similarities smiling simply, serenely, upon those who do the complete opposite.
Because everything is connected, and everything is connected by chaos and cruelty.
Everything overlaps everything.
But eventually, you learn not to care, and it's not so bad after all.
TKM do Clevedon.

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WE LOVE CLEAVDON.
Choose Life.
Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-peice suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a saturday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit crushing gameshows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future.
Choose Life.