what's up buk?

i have a secret blog for my secret blog. i have aliases covering aliases covering alter egos. my paranoia is wrapped so tightly around itself that it's starting to suspect some sort of internal mutiny.

and what then?

reality check.

what's up sydney. what's up canada. welcome to the masquerade.

reality check.

what's in a name anyway? what are we running from, buck? larry? jack? what pursues the non-extant?

what's in a name? a face. a tone. has it changed, has it altered? can you pick the buck from the larry or is it all one uniform blur of pixels that don't matter to you? mislabelled self-indulgence.

who knows. maybe i'll get a barcode tattooed to my neck. what's in a name anyway?

pssh. what's up william. you are forgiven.

so my secret blog from my secret blog. it is not so much. some words hidden from some eyes that probably don't exist. paranoia i am done with you. i will talk to you until you recede.

what colour is your fear? my fear is red. my fear is one night of extended scrutiny and a contact so tenuous it barely exists. my fear is ten weeks of your misery for my pleasure. my fear is white hot and getting closer every day. my fear you say. my fear doesn't exist, lady. back off.

my favourite game involves rum and smoke and bars and pretending i'm bukowski. only to other people. i only pretend on the outside. on the inside i'm larry and buck and jack and a whole page of worlds and words spinning in the palm of my hand. names and faces. all one. all me. pretending. just pretending.

but on the outside i'm communing with rum and cigarettes. i'm frowning. thinking. creating.

on the outside i'm bukowski.

what's in a name anyway?

reality check.

what's up buk?

yeah. reality check.