I’ve got blood clots and brain hemorrhages on the skull-cracked stroke-addled mind and tonight I’m one half out for blood and one half trying desperately to keep it together so my head won’t fall the fuck off. I’m talking artistic decapitation, losing all the frothing fountains of creative intellect in a Takashi Miike spray, and then maybe the damn thing would leave me alone and I could get some sleep for, say, ever. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have some manner of survival instinct and so I’m trying my best to dodge these executioner’s blows running from the falling axe, slipping beneath the gallows unarmed and dangerous only to myself.
If I could just grab a breath to clear the cobwebs out of my skull I could maybe even fight back. If memory serves (and it rarely does except to trip me up at my most vulnerable) I had bombs to throw, once upon a time, and I don’t mean a little stockpile, I mean a veritable goddamn nuclear arsenal! but all that drooled out of the first telltale cracks in my glass jaw, and now I’m a dribbling gibbering husk with aridly dried-up fruitless fountains, and the drought just keeps swarming in galloping hordes wrapped in sixteen ounces of synthetic leather. Ring that goddamn bell, my tattered form draws breath still and you haven’t yet hit me hard enough to put me out of my misery.
