here's a tweet that i decided is now a poem.
talk
don't try and tell me about beauty
i've looked in the 3's and the streets and
i've looked at the bottom of a bottle
happy 400 tweets
now, die.
it's not great, but i like reading it.
i've going home tomorrow after a long fucking weekend.
went to boston, blacked out, came back.
been sleeping off that mistake for two days now.
i feel like shit and my throats sore but i got no cigarettes.
shame.
i'll be picking up my beloved on thanksgiving at 2 AM in new haven.
she could have gotten another ride, but then what would i be doing at 2 AM?
nothing.
besides, long car rides back from new haven are good for the soul.
i've heard.
i've been writing this bullshit for about an hour now. fuck sleeping, i think i'm going home now.
no problem with that, is there?
just
turn off your speakers and turn up the nature sounds
less lamps and more moonlight
your fingers will pull my heartstrings
and the music will be terrible.
don't wear that mask, ok?
can you hyperlink from an epitaph?
-John Thomas Diener
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