breakfast money

Can I have your card to pay my beer? My credit card maxed out. The meaning of life is the drinks of last night, a breakup letter of spoken wait, broken promises at dawn. 

I huf a deep breath of gasoline and it takes me straight back to Haiphong and its bustling streets. I am reminded of my fear of locomotion, the anxiety that keeps me from ever taking over the wheel. I spent a month in Vietnam providing dubious volunteaching to kids. I was driven around by a woman and the whole city laughed. I returned and stopped cutting my hair.

Google would like your permission to sequence your genomes with CRISPR. Think about it. Virtual currency in exchange for a full body scan. Fortnite will promise to put you in the game, add some skins, all for your data. The government is gonna patent my face and mass-produce it in droid-like fashion. I’ll be getting my rectum scanned every morning for breakfast money, as they steal our faces for capital. Maybe I won’t survive, but I’ll ensure the money will. I’m broke and getting married to the cartoon of my dreams.

Reprehensible behaviour of the third world. My son keeps robbing me for digital items. The surgeons are laughing at my brain in the other room. I only go to functions that play happy by Pharrell. 

Freud was right where he was wrong: we treat inhuman relations as if they’re already human

moral anonymity of expression is a form of symbolism

You can always tell what I‘m reading based on what I‘ve been writing. I steal and rob and plagiarize everyone of their prized words and thoughts. 

Like offering a man a basket of rotten oranges, from which he is at liberty to take his choice.

It’s always beers and dogs and ghosts and dads and smoke with this guy

They got me thinking I can write and smoke at work, this is my labyrinth

But never will I dream of my retirement