I awoke on the operating table

(insert Baseltz painting of cumptural heads peering down upon you and the casket in which you lay.. oh I mean, operating table). 

fucking Jesus mothering, fucking son of a Donkey Kong.

I never was really into

U liked to Pac the Men

outside of the suitcase

that you also left in your wake

(that wild child, the locker and key, the artist, a dreamer, closet prodigy, distant rival, beloved betrayer, reminder and remainder of tragic nostalgias, confounded, compounded, extracted, retracted..

now once again, distracted)..

i am thinking the same as you..

WHAT THE FUUCk.

~profound sound. 

something written in room 7300 floor 7A in the hospital bed upon which I did lay but when I close my eyes, it’s the blue framed windshield and the wrapped chrome plate that smacked me to take such height in my flight then crashed smacked down on the concete then rolled twice round kissing booths sides of my face, folding down my sides holding at my hips. Off my bike that was some fucking hit. And judging by the beginnings of some poem - I guess— those were some fucking meds.

im alive oh I’m alive🙏