40,000 flies -- charles bukowski

torn by a temporary wind

we come back together again

check walls and ceilings for cracks and

the eternal spiders

wonder if there will be one more

woman

now

40,000 flies running the arms of my

soul

singing

I met a million dollar baby in a

5 and 10 cent

store

arms of my soul?

flies?

singing?

what kind of shit is

this?

it's so easy to be a poet

and so hard to be

a man.

couldn't sleep this morning so i picked back up the count of monte cristo and finished it half an hour ago, it's been too long since i've read a GOOD STORY, you know? i am wheezing and hacking and coughing, i had to've done permanent damage to my lungs by now, i'm sure that bong hit the other night was the final nail in the coffin. that said, i am ready to smoke more and all my weed is gone, smoked up by my roomie and sister and sister's friend (though she denies it) who cares, i'd just like to smoke and not have my things smoked without my knowledge or permission, but i guess that's too much to ask. my sister is growing up too fast and making too many decisions i feel that she'll regret later, but who am i to interfere? whenever i say something to her i'm shut down, she wants me to be the cool older sister whose apartment she can come hang out at, whose couch she can sleep on, whose tv she can watch, whose weed she can smoke, she doesn't want another mother. it's so frustrating i don't know what to do, how to act, where to look to for guidance. my roommate is annoying the shit out of me, take take take, no regard. little things bother me to no end, i have a hard time masking my disgust. i don't want to do anything, i want to just be carried along. i feel miserable and sick and sinking, i don't know what to do, i want to get stoned and lie in the sand.