Titling Lies At The Heart Of Pretension

[Not sure what this is exactly, form-wise. It was supposed to be a prose poem, but I'm not sure if it's too prosey now, lacking too many of the elements of prose poem conventions. Anyway. We're here to break conventions right? :) Just that's why it's all in a single paragraph. Also help me find a better title. Couldn't think of one.]

“Fuck the world”, you say, because you like to sound melodramatic. I watch you through squinted eyelashes, wanting to tell you to shut up because I’m bored of your philosophizing but I’m too morbidly absorbed by the fact that the cigarette between your fingers is burning devil red dangerously close to your skin. You haven’t taken a drag for almost ten minutes, as you stare into the setting-sunlight and blind yourself (metaphorical, you no doubt will think and mention in a moment). “No, but I mean really,” you say again, “fuck the world – fuck the goddamn shit out of it as if it were one big cunt begging for a banging.” The burning tip drops some ash onto our Harvest-Cheddar-Sunchip encrusted carpet. I don’t take my eyes off it and you don’t take your eyes off whatever it is your mind is grapple-grasping with. “It’s not too bad. I mean, it’s going places, this world. But where that is is fucking driving everyone who thinks into the same tar-tanged mental pit. That’s going to be the downfall of humanity – we thinkers will all be picked off one by one and then the world will see just how sorry it is that it didn’t try to come to our rescue, just lying back and watching our brainpower get raped. Just watch, my friend,” you say as if we really were the closest pair of intellectual and emotional companions that ever walked this horny pussy planet rather than pitiable weaklings juxtaposed as roommates out of financial necessity. I should take it as a complement that you’ve categorized me as one of the doomed thinkers of the world, but all I can think of is my college professor giving advice on essay writing and saying, “The word downfall is for losers.” So I give my roommate a failing grade at life and continue contemplating how long it’ll take for him to notice that his fingerprints are about to be burned away and the only thing he’s left holding is the ash formation of what could have been a handy tension release. “I want to fuck this world, man. God that would feel so good.” He taps what’s left of the filter and I see inches of the ex-cigarette fall down. He grabs the lower half of his face with his other hand and I hear the scratch of his stubble resisting affection. “I’m hard for fucking this place and fucking it all the way so that I come so hard I can’t see anything anymore. I think that’s the only way I could ever forgive it. If I couldn’t see it anymore.” There is a moment of silence and then, as predicted, you note the fact that you can’t see anything at the moment because you’re being blinded by the light of the sunset streaming in through curtainless windows. You nod and blink, and run your hand over your crew cut excuse for hair. You smile, as if you’re being so witty, as if you’ve found meaning in this moment, as if the cosmos is aligning to give you this instance of insight and patting you on the back saying, “Well done you’re on the right track – keep going and you might just get the golden moment of epiphany one day!” But all I smell is burning flesh.