Tuesday, July 31, 2007

spectacular requiem

started as taboo in reason
faithless has its reckless cries
deliver in your monthly blood
you would rather become sodomy

your sadness bares no noise
i could see fire burning your will down
release is what you weep
as you tread beneath the waterline and see horses

here as your only witness
my blood has never been clean
so young was virgin princess
follow in your bearing shadow
beneath the waterline and horses

we hold hands and we deny to feel
so forbidden, so alive
saliva and blood from one bottle
faithless and doomed
wide eyed, you don’t see me

now close your eyes and cry my infantile
i’ve become your only witness

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

i remember

the first alluring memory was the incandescent lighting from the desktop lamp on the floor as her bedroom door slowly opened. we had to be silent not to wake anyone in the other rooms. out of respect of course. it was a small room and i remember thinking about some foolish idiom that i had heard perhaps from a dull movie about the room not being big enough for her level of visionary expression. she had a bed that was low to the floor and a black desk from which she would create her masterpieces, her magnum opus. there appeared to be no book shelves and a dresser drawer which she suitably left in her closet. on the floor, an audio unit from which she could plug in her ipod, sat patiently. all these methods of inspiration i thought. music, art, literature. these are the doorways into a world of culture and existence. a social reality that i was eager to explore but to shy to rationalize. and for the first time i could sense the shyness in reason. peering around i remember seeing an array of books, a partially finished illustration, and drawing materials scattered everywhere as if she were the type to work on one prophetic idea and then interpose to begin another. this was unfamiliar territory to me. to be in the den of an actual artisan was something i wasn't prepared for. how fascinating i thought. how vitalizing. for years i practise this art of seduction and was triumphant. unbeaten, as it were. but to become the admirer, the aficionado, the follower. what a sensation. what an impression. this image, this idea of her, radiated over me as if a blinding light were to come soothingly composed. she invited me in graciously as i quietly placed my satchel on the floor not to make any sudden noise and then sat on her bed like a child would in some unknown space. standing in front of me with a pleasing smile, she began to undress. such fair skin. such a persuading aroma. she began to fondle my hair and stepped amid my legs. i avidly kissed her stomach. passion consumed us both as she then kneeled to brush and caress my lips casing her silken arms around my neck. what sweet revelation. what sweet surrender. i took my clothes off with content as she reached over to her ipod and altered the atmosphere with a melody i will never forget. we laid in her bed and our kisses and conversations came easy. she talked while i would listen and then i would talk. it seemed like our conversations came along without strain. we seemed to discover secrets together. when she would discover a good one, she would laugh the only way she could. it was like the joy out of fire. through the talking we kissed and moved closer together. we became heated and decided to make love. i felt her crying without sound. i could feel her tears. that dark hair lay behind me like a flag of death. we enjoined, made slow, sombre and wonderful love and then clinched each other in our naked embraced. i remember. i will always remember...

optimistic theory

an interruption of the natural order, or a disruption of the natural balance of all things can cause one to lose their habitual harmony.

physiological senses




Tuesday, July 10, 2007

malicious debris

malevolent fiend

i can tell by the way you're breathing
just like you to wait for me to slip
cynical from your own chronicles
now use me to nourish
that side you've been hiding
no one can see

your appearance is abysmal, take it
suck every bit you could take
you leech, you overweight parasite
suck my will down, push it all down
to that side you've been hiding
no one will see

all this time
drenched in your fidelity
all this time
ignorant and unaware
asleep in this dream like sheep
now it's my time

trust you will play fair

play your tepidness in reason
try on my patience, a little suck
draw on this irresistible desire
draw it down to nourish
this peace that you've been lacking
no one will pray for you

and when there's nothing left
let's pray you choke

Sunday, July 8, 2007


she says i'm paranoid. the inner thought process that is unstable and trouble by excessive anxiety or, as dr.gonzo would call it, the fear. a paranoid android. it's so easy to paste a brand on people, communities, inhabitants these days, is it not? impending danger is something i have a nack for. always look both ways...sign your cheques in a john handcock manner...never get off the boat as stated so eloquently by captain willard as he snaked his way throught the fiery jungle. (plug in the ipod to rid if this internal noise) eleanor rigby lives in a dream. my awakenings have become additionally misty as i age. i use to be clear. i use to be prepared. but no one comes near these days. nothing to be ready for. here lies the lonely assassin. the hired gun. the one who was born to end lives. he eats alone. not because he chooses too. it just doesn't require much effort if impending danger were to rear her ugly head with flags of red paint. he sits in his self made umbrella of belief. tired, but always waiting. running. waiting. a first person narrative parabola.

How did I get into the world? Why was I not asked about it and was I not informed about the rules and regulations and just trhust into the ranks as if I had been bought by a peddling shanghaier of human beings? How did I get involved in this enterprise called actuality? Why should I be involved? Isn't it a matter of choice? And if I am compelled to be involved, where is the manager-I have something to say about this. Is there no manager? To whom shall I make my complaint? - Soren Kierkegaard

Friday, July 6, 2007


this will be my first blog entry on this site so i'll keep it short. once i get blathering, there's no stopping the locomotive. consequently, i have the tendecy to run on in fragmented sentences. i'll call it poetic licensing or a prosaic warrant. my english teacher would later call it a C-. my mother would call it a waste of her time. my father, in his reign of high blood pressure, wouldn't label it as a fixation nor would he care if it solved the worlds many problems. aside from the excessive drinking and the projectile of incubate objects, he was a good man. a "reasonable" man of sorts. but this is not about his life, at least, not just yet. this is about the underlining truth wipped and slathered with dark, mosaic undertones. and so it has begun. the faithful truth of another man seered into this hybrid of periodical uncertainty. awaiting the meat hook realities of these impulsive days ahead.

the tragedy junkie