scarsofazzareya said: How's New York treating you?

Yeah it was okay, I left and went to Washington, D.C. For a few days. Now I’m in Nashville. Driving to Chicago tomorrow, then back to New York.

Welcome to NYC

It was only on the journey to his destination that [Jack] started to worry. His constant romanticism of his friends and future left a lot to be desired / lived up to. Maybe he enjoyed the disappointment.
Everytime it hit him he felt totally unprepared. (Do white people not catch buses?)
His life with [Dominique] had stripped him of all the qualities he needed to succeed alone. (This did not annoy him, he loved being reliant and dependent on her security, he relished it)
What if he couldnt cope alone?
It was crazy, he did not miss her embrace, her looks, her smell & her touch.
What he missed and what depressed him was her missing presence. He missed her just being there.
(i’ve gotten on the wrong bus)

any of my followers in New York???

I visiting New York from Australia for the next two weeks.
Im in brooklyn for the next week, then manhattan next week.
would love to meet some of youse, and share some poetry etc

A belligerent sycophant.

I’ve become the belligerent sycophant, my enemy, my created opposite, my absolute nightmare. I’ve become him.

A faceless man who walks to work, works
works, and works and works for no reason except a notion that the future will be something different.
Doing nothing expect starring at a screen figuring out new inventive ways to get attention and get himself into trouble.

An under-appreciated glory seeker with eyes on the front pages and ears to wall.

An unwanted attention seeker with ladders for chairs and stairs to nowhere except the pointless notion That

someone somewhere cares about his ranting and sycophancy.

Sycophancy

Sycophancy.

A brilliant expression when used corrected can get precious nothings for free. A soul is worthless if it does not exist, so why not chip a little away and sell it for treats?

All for nothing. A rubbish excuse for an even rubbisher act.

There is no redemption, no forgiveness no roses.
Only disgust, and regret and absolute sorrow

(how dare i even construe such an act)

A absolutely selfish idea that there is no coming back from, all the sycophancy in the world, could not save his fall from grace, his once lovely’d place is stained and destroyed and all because he could not control his

Sycophancy.

 

Obsequious fawnings over worse magics then what destroyed troy.

The bible offers no solace in this case, as Moses himself was never allowed into the promised land.
All for hitting a rock.

Cleopatra, a women who survived among the throngs of brutes and savage men, with such lovely sycophancy,

Would feel embarrassed at such a lost notion, a gripe at attention, a yell for affection, with no recollection of the horrible angst it would cause and pain it would construct. Destroying love, that was not meant to exist, a love fought for and earned that is meant to last.

Making myself so weak and fickle and disgusting.
I don’t deserve you.
I worship you.
I will do anything for you.
I still don’t deserve you.

(I would write a book of psalms just to make you think one good thought about me. Just one.)

scarsofazzareya:

At times I look at
the weather in Manhattan,
see the rain flooding the gutters
and I hope some how
you’ve drowned…

(via scarsofazzareya-deactivated2012)

INSTAGRAM @asherdinner

INSTAGRAM SPAM FOLLOW ME> PHOTOS ARE EASIER TO TAKE

@asherdinner

Instagram @asherdinner

Hey everyone. So I’ve got instagram now and no followers. Find me @asherdinner . I’ll follow back and send you lovely messages. Cry for attention.

non-drinker

It’s been 47 days, 12 hours and 32 minutes since my last drink.

I know this for certain because I downloaded an app for my iPhone that tracks time for any determined circumstance. The last alcoholic drink I had was a 375ml bottle of jonny red. I drank it so fast – it tasted like caramel. My decision to stop drinking was purely pragmatic; I was wetting the bed so frequently that sleeping on the toilet was an economical necessity. Giving up spirits wasn’t that hard, though the night sweats and terrors went after a week and after two weeks, my bowels went back to normal. The depression though, was the real issue. It had been solved previously by sneaky lunchtime beers and afternoon ciders with tea. I even nearly convinced myself that anything under 5% alcohol wasn’t truly alcoholic. I mean, for example, in Russia, anything that contain less that 5% alcohol legally isn’t considered alcoholic.  This was negated when further research highlighted the ridiculous amount of driving accidents that happen annually in Moscow.

Alarm clocks and steaming percolators flood the silent abyss of my apartment block, and a feint honk of a car in the street bellowing below summons me out of bed. I arise out of my bed and calmly fall into my slippers. A noble treat that makes me smile every morning and help me ignore the empty surrounding of my unfurnished apartment. Though I’m distracted once more as I try to solve the mystery that explains how my sheet comes off the corners of my mattress every night. One day I’ll staple the damn thing.

After a short cold shower, i look in the fridge dreaming of an abundance of bacon and eggs, ready to be cooked with brown sauce and roasted tomatoes and avocadoes. Instead I’m greeted with the harsh reality that is long-life milk, 1 boiled egg and some old salami that looks to have grown new un-yet-defined bacteria, which could surely win me a noble prize in science. Though, inside my pantry exists enough instant coffee to feed the Fijian army. I’m fairly certain that instant coffee is the only real evidence that proves gods existence. I proceed to turn on the hot water tap (the kettle broke in an alcoholic fuelled fantasy when I became an alchemist and tried to boiled whiskey to create the world best Irish coffee). Once the tap has produces water that I deem hot enough, i make myself a coffee that can only be described as sustainable to my mental sanity. The enjoyment is gone and only the effects remain. I’ve come to like my coffee just as I like my women: quick, lukewarm, with an appalling aftertaste. The honk below is getting more erratic and impatient; my lift to work must be getting frustrated with my prolonged readiness. I skull the coffee and open a new shirt that I picked up from Lowes last Saturday. 3 for $10! Cheaper than doing my laundry.

My work is fairly simple, so simple that when i was given the job, i was pretty certain that the interviewer thought i was handicapped. Working a toll booth cash register is about as difficult as collecting lint in your belly button. The fact that there are two people working in every booth astounds me, and further highlights the rubbish bureaucracy that is created when Her Majesty colonises a country. A penultimate honk from the car downstairs tells me that I’ve got 30 seconds to get to the car. My co-inhabitant of the toll booth is waiting in the car downstairs to drive us to work. And as I climb into the passenger seat, his usual welcome is joined by what could possibly be the worst case of chronic halitosis known to man. A fact that I ignore as he always allows me to smoke in the tollbooth, even though he isn’t a smoker. 

why does it matter?

why does it matter?
if the football is on,
or there is bread in the toaster,
or the one who is watching,
is the “girl with eyes forlorn” 
why does it matter,
if shes smoking crack,
cause she not able to hack,
life without her rack.
so you heat her some smack,
to subdue her mood,
and it no longer matters,
that your without your food. 

working for tony robbins

I may have just shaken hands with the devil.
Im crying salty tears of unimaginable consequence and my soul is damaged.

I repeat the mantra…

I’m just a doorman

I’m just a doorman

I’m just a doorman

Its not working; I still cannot shake the feeling that I’m hanging with pure evil.

And before my eyes, his 5 o’clock shadow is growing.

His sweat is a fertiliser for money and his arms mechanical oil pumps.

His tongue is pure gold and his saliva speckled diamonds.

He makes me hate. Pure capitalist-driven-hate.

It makes me want to justify the combined killings of Mao, Pol Pot and Stalin.

Every fibre of my being wants me to scream out and prove the falseness of his hope. Destroy the pearls that are his teeth and wear his scalp as a hat.

But I can’t.

He’s hiding my soul in his wallet. And the larger his wallet grow, the more depleted my feelings are.

I’m not crying anymore, instead Im overcome by a sadness that is trying with all its might to justify the hate Im feeling.

Tags: prose poetry