when it was finished & the last of his blood was drying on the floor, leaked, as it were, from the wider tear i tend to make in the fit of it, i took this book. i wiped my mouth, & then the back of my hand i smeared on my jeans, before i touched it, out of some unaccountable respect. why? i don't fucken know. latent guilt maybe? not for him, surely. he was already dead.

well, so, he had had me erroneously figured for a thief, so now i obliged this. took the book with me, & i crawled out onto the roof, the tiles clattering under my boots as i slunk there, like a big kitty cat. i sat with it for awhile, there under the moonlight.

now it's later, i been just wanderin' the night, giddy on the heat & high a bellyful of plasma'll do me, & i been just thinking on it. you know, to this point i never been much of a writing kinda guy. i always have, even when i was alive, loved a good book tho. but i never really much tried to write- i figured, well, you know, i could never be able to write a book clever & picturesque and entertaining enough to be on a level where i could really enjoy it. but now, i been thinking- well, what the fuck. why not. why not?

there's worse shit out there, sure there is, passing for publication & some of it even loved by the general populus, not that that's much of a judgement. i've already seen firsthand the overreaction ppl have had tot he music i created, so you know, maybe i could try my hand at this too.

it's inches from dawn, & i shouldn't be writing this. of late my allegedly oh-so-utter period of sound sleep has been marred with dreams anywise, & considering the nature of what i am there ain't, as they say, jack shit i can do about it. not able to wake, you see. oh, i spose there's some outward show of my daymaring- mycolconic twitching, rapid eye movements, something. maybe i bite my lip, or cry out in the desolation of my daymares. but i can't move from the spot usually- the few times i've managed a few moments of consciousness by day it's been so sluggish- heavy, fatigued & each motion a tortured slowness- like being weighted by sandbags at all angles.

my dreams are vivid. and of late, in them i'm Jesus- hardly surprising is it, really? only by transmorgifying myself into a heroism of such epic proportions could i even begin to validate myself & my continued existence. (i'm lazy, perhaps, is the main reaosn i still "live", too lazy to go about ending it. & scareder than ever of death. after all, i know what to expect, now)

in these dreams i'm perfect, of course, serene, beautific,0 what an elegant lemming. i'm perfect & i'm pure & i'm dying for the world's sins. shit, how they love me. they're eating it up. they're eating ME up, one big cannibalistic orgy, This is my blody, This is my blood, & all the sexual connotations thereof & of course there is no pain. i'm man, i'm womyn, i'm innocent lamb, i'm pure virgin boy- hero & heroin. they're eating me, bleeding me, swallow me whole. & like any good martyr i'm loving it, trusting, thrusting, jutting out my hips to accept the knife, my hands to be fucked by the nails. because i KNOW this is my last trump, my last trick, the big farewell performance, so i'm clinging to them, hugging them, loving them, smelling their scents, kissing the hands that come to kill me, hoping to culminate in their bellies & brains & sexual organs, & explode & die in pleasure, in orgiastic orgasmic harmony.

i wake up wet, soaked in blood-sweat, a wet dream, leaving me not warm, no, never warm anymore, cold, cold & 0 so Thirsty.
so i rise, i yawn & i stretch, have a good scratch, & i clean myself, careful, like a cat, licking up all that salty-sweet sweat as it clings to my hands. and the little ritual begins again....

tcha. as if it were always so easy.

y'know, before i died, i more or less considered myself a sort of Buddhist? transcendence, that was the gameplan. for the sake of it, what? whatever, posterity, i suppose, i hope now i was more than terribly wrong. i can't imagine how many life cycles'd make up for it even if i stopped to-nite, as if i were so capable of such a thing.

but i'm not. it's what i AM now, what i do, & i love it, & i'm not so sure i would change it if i could. for the first time in a long time i've made peace with it.

o, i have morals, yeh sure, & i keep them, honor them as best i can. but out of force of habit, really, & for my own peace of mind.
other predators have no such qualms, some even try to tempt me to sway, so silly, this. as if the innocent might taste sweeter than the damned, & i'm missing out, cheating myself of choicer morsels. i think it's the aesthetics they're tasting, they're embracing the IDEA of wrongdoing, just as i prefer to kid myself i'm one of the good guys. sucking it up outta the worstest wastes of skin, the rapists, the murderers, the prostelytising knowitalls.

but, in the end, blood is blood. & you take it, from whatever source you can obtain it.