I wipe my ass with emo sheet music, and use black eyeliner around my asshole so I feel like Im winking at the picture.

I like hipsters. I like spikey belts. I like tee shirts with silly sayings. I am the people that profit from them. I love pop music. When Emo went pop like a piñata I was the one who smashed it with a waffle bat and then caught all the wristbands, and Angels and Airwaves demo CDs that fell out. I am joking.

I still smoke. I love tobacco I am staid and lackluster and lack direction or the ability to take them. I am the collective ennui of the class of 2000. I am still 18. I was born in 1981.

I still wear the same red sweatshirt. I drink the occasional 40 ounce. I prefer Budweiser cans for cookouts with a Recycling bin full of Jungle Juice to bar stools and martinis. I still dont dance in public.

Im still horrible with women. I always will be. I still have no self esteem. My main objective in life is and will always be to make people smile.

I still find jobs that pay by the hour. Ive never calculated a salary. I dont want make anything yearly. I am content. Too content, they say. I make my money hourly and get paid weakly, when I have a job.

I am the anal lovechild of Ignatius J. Reilly and Howard Roark, I dont know who shat me out.

I will be forever in debt to my friends. I can count them on one foot. They have never given me the boot. They probably should have. I owe money to everybody, few people will ever be repaid monetarily. Some will be repaid momentarily.

I hate cities. I hate tourists more. I grew up in the ocean, when I was one. I love Cape Cod, I cant afford to live there anymore. Now I live anywhere, I can see skyscrapers from the bottom of my road. I want to be blown in a sand dune. Id like to add again to that sentence.

I wish to live my life moderately sober. I still like the patina a pint of whiskey paints on a sunset. I never want to be too old too drugs recreationally and I never want to be young enough to rationalize my addictions again.

Id do your cocaine right now, and save mine for never. Just to save it. Id smoke a bong load right now, just to pull the slide.

I am myself for now, you can be later. I will live my life for now, you can live it later. You dont call this living. To you its wasting time. I will waste my life for now because youre are always wasting my time.

If I could screw you again
through my line breaks
I'd bend you over like a sapling
snapping
back angrily cause you're too young and green
for my hurricane
to bust
nuts again like seventeen in your garage
when post coital behavior was matching socks
without
eye contact you most mornings through a landline
in my mind
each throb dialing the rotary phone under my comforter
each tick back towards the Operator
The Pulse before my days of aTONE
meant I always leave you the romantic lead in
my brief morning reveries.

11/16/2006

I hope to generate body heat from typing cause it was always writing that kept me warm. Its tough, however, to write the way I want cause the site fucks with my line breaks like an undercover narc spying heads taking bumps off a urinal.

First person'sbeen scared of pronouns lately. He used to write that way when he did the inklinks, and its something that hes gotten away from. Mostly likely due to the fact that he doesnt want the monitor to be a mirror, he wont chance glimpsing his reflection.

Sometimes when pronoun doesn't look in the mirror for awhile pronoun forgets its a necessity, pronoun never knows when there is a poppy seed stuck right between the two front teeth or whether or not there is a bat in the cave holding on with taut talons to a nose hair. So catch pronouns reflection when pronoun can, let pronoun take a quick peek right now.

It seems as if I will never get this beast off the ground. The creative controllers of this site are dispersed across the country like victims of Katrina, and I am the only one as of now with regular input. I am going to find a way to put up more media, but the more time I have the less I do with it.

12/8/06

Gregarious Greg was hilarious when Harriet went on benders with Peg.

12/15/06

The ledgers of a lethargic lothario depict the denouement of a Don Juans decades of dastardly decadence. Steeped in steamy standards of strikingly stark stanzas, seemingly similar to the seminal works of several select scribes, our primped and premed protagonists prophecies promulgate a putrid prose to the hoi polloi whose present posture protracts the pestilence that was so profoundly profuse in the prior proceedings.

2/20/2007

I shower in the dark for two reasons. So I cant see myself naked and so I can piss without shame. When the lights come on and the mirror laughs the hinges off the medicine cabinet door, I hear the howls of derisive laugher echo off the tiles. Toilet water reverberates like an outtake from Jurassic Park.

Squeezing out the tears of its final spasm of belly laughter, our mirror (youre involved now) regales us with the facial fissures, most say features, of a quarter century of malfeasance. In the groping talons of my crows feet we find the duffel bags of ocular baggage; stuffed until the zipper burst like a three year old packing his trucks with his underwear for a three day trip. While the draw bridge of my nose lowers lines perpendicular to my pock marks, fresh scars intermingle with the old hat regulars and line up for their photo to be captured in perpetuity with each successive glance in that cunt of a reflective surface.

3/17/07

I made up the dates and wrote them all in the past few hours in my semen stained boxers whilst eating stale Wheat Thins. Never before have I licked the Proof of Purchase off of a Nabisco product,

Now, Stella Doro. Shes another box all 2 together.

www.kosmonauts.com www.textualinnuendo.com

I was joking by the way.

About the Wheat Thins.

Not the boxes. I mean the boxers.

Dave

Nowadays, there a very few things keeping me from being that guy that sits down drunk to talk to a dog in a hallway; and there are even fewer things keeping me from having a meaningful conversation.

Ruff?! Shit may be and when the arcs bend like that, until they bulge at the snapping point like a sapling in the wind. That is where we smack with the hatchet, hacking straight through the fibers.

Leaving the house with the dryer on, wondering when the Bounce sheet will burst into flames. Lint left more than the UK Subs when he ripped angrily through our speakers, I should say mine, unless you've been left Rancid like me.

Bark. Peeled backed like the foreskin of their souls and whilst Mycock Realty sells houses on my isthmus I must, be that one who admits. Towards my home I did matriculate.

I am an immigrant. I plopped my under-roos upon the land called CAPE- god at the age of six, I shit.

Green Pond, I left it.

Beg My Pardon.

Learning to write with a deadline I left with a red one.

LongLive the INKLINKs

Dave

In a state of repose and yet I reside in the bEAST HEARTfjord, she sleeps sullenly in the balmy blitz of the new years nascency. If Indian Summer squats his hind quarters on the month of October, the month of January is usually where he kicks the warm moist excrement.

Alas, it seems as if he is still shitting taking away my excuse to be miserable, making me merely the malcontent they knew I was in the beginning. Maybe my true colors will run in the wash, when the upcoming weeks dash a sprig of Winter with an open hand slap; upon my utterly supine subservient subsistence.

Every gig henceforth will pay me like a substitute, reaching strains. Teaching pains, taut muscles fail. As I am aft the leech sail, too far away to bail my pale in comparison is comprised of a smattering of Podunk epithets, divorced from their urbane uncles due to an irreconcilable difference in guttural utterance

Fuck this shit. Translation I am tired.

Put your own fingers on the bow to tie this one up.

Fuckin furious he was. Waiting. Fucking endless it seems making more than it was. Faking. For the life of me, he can't be serious. But she said that she was late, meaning of all things, that, because she was here. And there, we sat. A failed lesson in licking the mixing spoons when they were still attached it seems as if they had a future.

Fuckin glorious she was. Beaming. Fucking breathless she gleamed making less of a deal than she should. Waking. For the life we'll share, he'll be serious. And there, she thought, that was that. A completed lesson in miscommunication, she'll bare the thought of nixing the womb, when they laughed it seemed to bust the sutures.

With misconception breeding reticence like stagnant water breeds mosquitoes in an old tire, they did the same and made the noun the past tense verb.

He haggled, haggard and belabored over the description reading like stereo instructions; he fermented in a still of their own quandaries.

In the stead of a real relationship she took to quavering in questioning taking to term the proposed progeny of perhaps the biggest underachiever that was ever born. Alas, he had smile and wit about him. About her, a lass she had the movement kicking in her abdomen.

Next of kin eclipsing then the fixed in win. All she saw was the emotionally barren corrugated landscape of his soul, with moments of purported promise peeking. Out, he dipped like a waning gibbous in an extremely poor metaphor masking defeat in a disguise of self-deprecation we decried, "I was never one for family, I'd rather take two for the fun of making one."

Fuckin happy they are. Living. Fucking life it seems makes more of itself than one would expect. Aborting. The preconceived notions of conception, they glean from mistakes the graft that keeps on grieving.

Seated in reverie beneath the glamour and glitz, the raconteur presses his adulation against the glass ceiling. Blue collar battled emblazoned, garnishing scars with shortsleeves rolled up for those betrothed with the white. Drawing Darwinian corollaries with broad-brush strokes, he struggles at the crux; concocting scenarios replete with well-trimmed excuses, the excess fat dribbles like a drip castle in the surf at low tide.

A thick sentence flavor seared like a Delmonico steak, smacking lips like Wily E. Coyote before Acme fucks him over, digest it fucker fore now its just a hobby. He can labor over syllables as a past time, cause he finds a respite in filleting a sentence and he spits out the gristle all over haters.

They sensed us, we the wreckage, breathing sullenly to our heartbeats with headphones on and backpacks loaded. The loaner tied Windsor knotted with the gray slacks pressed like a real Cuban sandwich.

My liter shows the difference between pleading the fifth and finishing it. Bleeding for a pint, he rises up late nights, quartering cross sections of existence; finding it fondling the teats of the corporate succubus and pressing forward to step up to the pulpit, he swings blindly, the Wiffle bat, at lifes hanging curve ball.

Simpler sentences please?

The masses acquiesce, belaying their scabs down to the sherpas so they can pick their sharpest scalpels. Theyve been paid to lead us towards the finish.

When work fucks with fun; hold work back with an arm bar so fun can take a cheap shot. Let fun rep the group we came from and state the list

three chords too score blind less faith in being successful on our own terms. driving juiced and telling the truth if and only when we get caught.

AND

When we go, we leave behind NOTHING

but an unflushed toilet and puke on the seat.

The Me I knew, knew ties bound the soul. The me I am, wears one daily. The I am statements meant me as a person, the me I was went with JonBenet Ramsey to the little girl beauty pagent in the sky.

How the fuck do you spell pagent. The you is rhetorical. The Me, I knew how to spell, The me, I am going to learn again.

The Me I am writes occasionally. The me I was wrote methodically. The Me I was wrote often left handed and all other words with my right.

The Me that I am still writes bad jokes and begs your pardon for the pun. I think that that you was rhetorical as well, the Me that, I am wearing this premise extremely thin.

Back in the day when employ, meant making, spending money, now employment means making money, with nothing to spare like a bowling alley with one ball.

The Me I knew met her force with metaphors, smacked her smiles with similes, and although we had commas in common; I found her semi cold when semicolons colluded with periods about the myriad makeshift splices.

I knew I would make Me last. COnstantly the wrong way in revolving doors, and entering the exits juggling lifes baggage like a man too cheap to pay for a Smart Cart, leaving the carrion to the vultures and parlaying my pontential on one horse to win.

Another to show

Dave

A simmering brew of petulancy that the pedantic follow lifes cook book to brew can be attained with the ease of complacency.

A sentence can be served or created, molded or metered out. A splash of verbosity combined with conjunctions conveying ideas while inherently meaning nothing. A respite from a 60 hour work week or part of it. Writing for a living, or living to write; it pays out monetarily or momentarily it pays out in catharsis. We all have favorite words, worlds in which we live, consonants consistently splayed across a monitor or writing pads melting together, vowing that vowels will depict the O face, saying A boy, Eeking out a pittance pitting alliteration against the litter that hates them.

And when it goes too deep inside and scoops out the scum that lines the fascia of the brain, step back and battle the borty. Align the fractured, malign the masses but weave in tightly the words that capture. Breathe in the end of certain paragraphs to pause. Place a bench in the stead of the treadmill as a spot to sit and ponder.

They lite off again on the battle of Autumnal rage, fight fall colors and handtraced turkeys with shorts and sandals in October. Go as a beach bum for all hallows eve, and cleave the dreary shocktober months in half with a kitana of self determination. Erect halogen lights to fight the dwindling daylight, burn piles of rakes instead of the discarded deciduous children, and fuck the cunt of autumn with a giant dildo of comma splices as you try and elicit visceral reactions to your hatred of the season of death.

Handle your substances with care, and strap in safely. With every manic peak, grab a cushion to pad the landing in the deepening valley. Treat life like a gocart track or a rental car. Its not your vehicle so you can beat on it, but youll pay in the end when you return it, or worse get thrown off the track because you sent some poor sap into the tire barriers with a well timed pit maneuver. You can ride it almost until the wheels fall off as long you are careful with your carelessness.

Just another Oxy pad for the morons on the bench.

Dave