ignore all possible concepts and possibilities —-
ignore Beethoven, the spider, the damnation of Faust —-
just make it, babe, make it:
a house  a car   a belly full of beans
pay your taxes
fuck
and if you can’t fuck
copulate.
make money but don’t work too
hard —- make somebody else pay to
make it —- and
don’t smoke too much but drink enough to
relax, and
stay off the streets
wipe your ass real good
use a lot of toilet paper
it’s bad manners to let people know you shit or
could smell like it
if you weren’t
careful

-Bukowski

(Source: misswallflower)

Little Bird stands stunned. She delicately stepped onto the trolley, afraid her weight - as slight as it is, would make her disappear into the floor beneath her. Staring straight ahead she seems unaware of the commotion around; people moving up, then on. Angry elbows push past, grunting as they go to find the coveted empty seat or spot that isn’t already filled with someone else. Once everyone is crowded the trolley dings its bell signaling that it needs to move onward. “Off the steps!” shouts the driver wiping the sweat from his brow, round face flushed from the heat of bodies all around. Little Bird is knocked back as the trolley hurls forward, when she sees him. The familiar cat. Her little bird heart pounds and breath staggers. Quick! ‘Hide your face’ is one of the only thoughts that come to mind, ‘did he see me?’ is the other. She’s only gone out to catch a worm and hadn’t signed up for social. Small talk is petrifying, and she knows she can not hide the wobble that comes out of her beak so she doesn’t speak to try. Cats are a bird’s enemy you see, but being eaten isn’t what this little bird is afraid of, it’s being spat out. The possibility that this sweet looking bird will taste rancid to anyone who tries a bite or nibble is enough to make her wish that the floor had swallowed her up before anyone dare try. So she stands still and stays stunned, trembling under the swells of her own chest. She hears her stop, called from the driver and squeezes through the throng of commuters with eyes down, body tight. Pushing out the double doors in the front she is finally free. The cat catches her eye through the windows and smiles. Little Bird smiles back, unafraid. He is still on the trolley, mouth behind the glass while she stands free and safe. She won’t be spit out, or on today. -M.H.

Now you see me, now you don’t. Don’t ask me where I’m at ‘cause I’m a million miles away. Treated like a forbidden heel, don’t say my thoughts are not for real or you won’t see me again. Am I here for am I there, am I playing on the stairs. Am I in my room with my toys, I am the disappearing boy. When I walk in crowded rooms, I feel as if it is my doom. I know that I don’t belong. In that room, I see her. I see her and she’s with him. I turn around and then I’m gone. Don’t call me up ‘cause I’m not home. My whereabouts are now unknown. I vanished from all your joy, I am the disappearing boy. I have my doubts of where I belong, it’s something to think about. Don’t call me up ‘cause I’m not home, my whereabouts are now unknown. I vanished from all your joy, I am the disappearing boy. -B. Armstrong