negatory odour/no woman no smell

I was awoken by the jolt of the car as it stopped in front of the house. I must have dozed off on the way there. My partner always had a heavy foot. There was no order between the gas and brake pedals. Just stump until something happens was the driving attitude. As I stepped out of the car, I remember that the night was cool and the house looked as if it was condemned to be flattened at some point. There were other crime scene investigators already there as I walk up to and through the house and they were working proficiently as only they knew how. I felt like I was in a David Fincher movie; a scavenger waddling through the detritus looking for scraps to feed on in shadowy corners. The interior was just as dilapidated as the exterior decayed, but what I found odd was that I couldn’t smell that scent of a mouldy and decomposed wooded core as you usually would in such an old place. I couldn’t smell anything. The layers of paint bubbled and swelled and there were cracks everywhere. And as I proceeded inward over the creeky flooring, you can almost hear the screams and screeches of horror emitting from the walls. Years of terror and disgust soaked into the hallways and corridors solidified in some kind of suspended animation ready to be torn down or burnt to the ground. The washroom was just ahead of me and I can already see the cast iron tub that was filled with some kind of shimmering red soup. I reached up and touched my bead necklace for that instant of audacity; for a flash of mysticism. When I entered the washroom I noticed that the tub was filled with what looked like fermented meat products floating in some bloody sap. Above the tub hung a pillow sized crimson looking cocoon or some sort of giant vein encompassed larvae that I could not distinguish but I could tell that it was alive. It huge suspended from thick silk translucent webs and was feeding off of the rotten tub cocktail through what seemed to be a small intestinal hose slowly pumping bits of flesh and gloop. I was mesmerized by the whole sight of it but was then bitten with a joggle of adrenaline when I noticed a severed woman’s leg surfacing to the top of the red bog like stew. My hands gripped so hard into fists that I must have cracked every knuckle. The room should have smelled sickening but again, I could smell nothing. God I would have given anything just to smell my surroundings. I would have probably thrown-up all over my shoes but it would have been worth a little inconvenience. A little extra perception goes a long way but I guess I could exonerate this fact that not all your senses work the way you ever want them to in the realms of the dream world.

Iron & Wine - "Dearest Forsaken"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y_uZX6Wclz

To my dearest forsaken
Who the earth now has taken
Empty, the bottle drains no more

It is true that I loved you
Despite the harm that I own you
Wash out the river has you boy

Here on the eve of too long
Where you'll think I've done wrong
Waking in fear of you no more

I'll put my trust in the savior
Fielding forces of nature
Strength of the stump I tied you boy

To my dearest forsaken
Dearest vow I have broken
Afraid of your angry hands no more

I'll put my trust in the savior
River may help me later
Sleeping my lost love for you boy

corruptio optimi pessima

I read her words and it took only three to cripple me. My legs felt wobbly. My knees bruised from the impact. Consequently, those few words tear through every cellular particle of my existence until I felt nothing but the dry ash blustering within the searing detonation. And with a flash of light, I become an element. No time to even explain it to my “next of kin” as a song writer once wrote.

I am awakened by thoughts that would suffice so as to complement these godly hours of night. Just the thought of how it should be or how it could have been burns through me like solar waves. Mother, I remember what you told me once; of how I should grown up and become a man. Or of how I should have been a man from the beginning. But I refused to believe you and somehow, perhaps I need to listen. Oh how these godly hours remind me of how human I should appear. For that, I apologise.

There are people that presently are viewing my “reality” as a mere corner of memorabilia, as only a pocket of reverence. Sometimes I imagine myself as a flightless bird found desperate and decayed and left by the roadside or as a deer carcass left in snowy ditches so that scavengers can pick at my bones by morning. Nabokov must have awoken in some similar state stumbling over candles and a self egoistic existence just to whittle a few words of pedophilia in such a profound prose. Such crass ideas invading my mind like a virus. Such criticism melting it like wax.

I try to go back to sleep but those words ring through my head like a Buddhist gong or like Sunday church bells. Perhaps I should just indulge in her words, rest my weary head and dream…

She stands in a wheat field by an old maple tree that has outlived most humans. I try not to stare but her eyes pierce through and there is an exchange of awkward smiles and placidity. We come within inches and the soft warm breeze entices my sense of smell. She smells as sweet as the meadow where she was born. She draws me in slowly with her arms and we stand there holding each other, just holding each other, while peaceful tears role down our affectionate cheeks.

welcome winter sleep….

some corner of memorabilia

"I keep wanting to crumple up or fold like a piece of paper,
but I guess I don't even know how.
We keep walking through our days like ghosts
Hoping to take the mold and find traction.
Someday it will stop raining in your head
And you will see a little bird,
And you will save it.
And you will have found happiness." - Maria

three hundred years of vexatious sleep

My will is salt and vinegar,

I have no excuses,
They are as embarrassing as pendulums,
As the sands reign down,
Holding your dry flowers as symbols of memorabilia,
Our lasting truths,
Our lasting faith.

I don’t know if I can be saved,
Or if in fact I choose to.
My aviary wings have been so denied,
To function, I have shown wino’s that
They are helpless,
Deprived.

I’ve been living here for three hundred years,
Flying blind tasting blood and tears,
While withered leaves fall,
Throughout the seasons past,
As life is ever lasting,
Like bearing pain, perhaps…

She drills through me like hurricane,
And leaves her path of debris,
I can see, but no longer achieve,
What I began to believe.
I need to sleep,
Presently, or forever.

I am complete and dried up,
I’ll do this your way.
I’ll finish it your way til seasons past ,
For less, or no bother.
I envision a union alas.

I have even left for a while…..

the Tyto and the mirror

On the outside, there is a desolate plain of white and snowy, non-linear surface. Soft and cold to touch. However, this A-symmetric gift by the skies cannot be but with help from symmetries ergo the thoughts I have as I stare into voids that are present and compelling. But, I am insulated and covered when these doors are closed and I feel a sense of warmth and ignorance that keeps me levelled; plain. This is ideal. This is fulfillment. Life, as it were, is overflowing with the hard aches of man and their ability to be logic and erect, irrational but prolific. I feel fruitful and dynamic but only at the cost of my own physicality for which I am thankful, to say the least, for I am not of the young and can only strive using menial attempts of will power and broadness to acclimatize to the needs of the confident. I watch as time passes by, as cinders fly, and yet I question if my actions are dignified and true. Perhaps I am of the bigoted that can only tolerate existence when I see puzzles that fit according to my master plan, if in fact I so have chosen one in the past. Or perhaps I am, as they say, riding the wake of everyone else’s subsistence and am using their solidified labour as some sort of shadow for my own viewing pleasure of sorts. This thought makes me feel hollow, vacant and redundant. So I close my eyes, count to seven, and think of a space where death is not an option.

Forgive me as I mentally apply ointment to my intellect………or lack there of…

I am a barn owl in flight. I have eyes that are tuned to sightless surroundings and I hunt rodents to feed my young. I am ruthless; relentless; predaciously supreme. I have distinguished colours that conceal and have a fan base in the humanities that enjoy the occasional bodily print (of which they call tattoos) that formulate popularity of which I will never understand.

What is the different between a rose and a rose that has been dried? Wow. Let me say that once again backwards. Wow. I think I'm drunk.

somewhere over the goddamn rainbow

February 11, 2010, 4am

A famed writer once wrote, “I would like to put an end to this miserable life of mine but I dare not because of my oath of service.” I sit here contemplating this watching these people; these faces walk by as if driven by some rousing or inspiring force that I will never understand. And where do I fit in, in this grand motion picture, this consciousness of existence? Some believe that my reality has been pre-written. That my fate was already created for me the day I was born. Bah, impartial open minded nonsense. I’m not a goddamn hippie I think to myself. So then why all these thoughts? Why all these questions? How are they created? Where do they end? I feel very alone with all of this uncertainty and begin to brutally meditate (brutally because it hurts my brain to think in these terms but thankfully my tolerance for pain is high.)

So accordingly, I proceed to then mentally clear my throat.

A moment of silence is a lifetime of opinion. And a lifetime of opinion is an ongoing exploration of truth if not for these interruptions due to my oath of service.

This makes me grin. Let us begin with life.

Life is a fragmentary descent into a murky void where the finale is some endless parade that made you forget how you got there in the first place, and as you arrive and step through the doorway of judgement you notice the sign above that reads ‘Loop’ but you don’t pay any attention and hike on, regardless.

A laugh but not out loud (….lnol…..jesus.)

We are all doomed. We have all sinned and shall never make it as a progressive, forward-thinking advanced race. It’s all a big joke. Leave now. Take off at top speed homeward and fix yourself a dry martini with four parts vodka instead of the usual two. And no olives.