HPC#38: The Nightmare Artist

Zdzislaw Belsinki. Beautiful art. Only disagreement: Meaning isn’t meaningless to me. It’s everything to keep me going. There’s no pursuit greater than the treasure hunt.

Curiosity does kill the cat, when will I understand? Broom-shaped pleasure. The same ring leaders, queue mongering, disgraceful beavers have been yelling “Tra La La” in my head all day.

Urine, blood, sweat and semen.

Should’ve just stuck to the seamen.

Should’ve stuck to those who come and go. Why want more?

All I saw today were eyes shaped like tongues. They all speak with secretive glances, suspenseful trances.

Not used to these shoes. I’ve always worn shoes too small for me. I am small, but not so much too, you know? Suddenly transitioning into these BIG WHOMPERS does more harm than good, you know? But does that mean I’m sitting around by the streetlight, on a chair too big, feet dangling with nervous nonchalance, waiting for someone to bring the right pair for me? No. I’ll walk in this inconvenience. Hell, I’ll catwalk. I’ll stride, and make sure the whole world sees. I’ll fake through the whole take.

I’m sitting on a trampoline. THERES A FROG INSIDE MY STOMACH.

Maybe I’m leaving a trail of dead leaves for no one to see. This pompous Song of Myself, will it ever even be uttered?




From obligation to oblivion, I tread on.

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From obligation to oblivion, I tread on.

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