Teenage Dirtbag

I’m just a teenage dirtbag, baby

A 38 year old teenager.

The stories sound like fiction, the night glombules my face. Each instance of my life is a perfect thing. I have tales, who doesn’t? The evidence is written across my body, the werewolves shriek in the perfect moon. I wrote in blood on my arm, when I was young. I pulled a glass shard over my forearm to mark the horrible significance of this time.

Can’t even care about it now. I drove past the apartment, balcony, wherein I felt like God was glaring down at me, stern, evil. Though it’s cold and lonely in the deep, dark night. Why, in God’s green earth, why?

I have scars across my forearm for a nothing. I watch the sky at night, and it is beautiful and horrifying. It’s like nobody understands this. I guess I marked myself as “present” for this life. It didn’t even hurt.

I do not think it’s all bad. Let me just overcorrectify that immediately. I am in love, and life is good, and I can’t wait to have the rest of my life with my wife. It’s an untouchable love. It all feels really nice. I am a piece of artwork that poets and philospohers are fucking up their brains trying to figure out.

When the forest floor eats the dust of the last man, when Mother dies, finally. Now we will know We will lose our agility, stink in the twigs, fuck anything that moves. The last humans will be apelike, horrible, changing with the breeze.

The sand bleeds into the river, and my house is a camera. The beautiful things wash across their faces. I’m in love. I can’t help it.