Tuesday, November 29, 2011

a "reality" escape

for Vera,

Step one: Drink one bottle of Saki.
Step two: Lay in bed.
Step three: Clear your mind.
Step four: Go to this link and press "Play All."


Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Atlantic Purgatory

Lady would you love me if I left her,
Laid, breathless in the sun?
My lady like a teacup on the counter,
Frail, pleasing everyone…

I have failed myself today and have relapsed into antiquities yet again. I didn’t eat well today, some what of an extension of my mind clouded by self-judgement. I think of all of them and the profound and non-profound effect that I have/had on their lives and the first place I go too, the first question I always consider is if my existence were to be eradicated today at this very moment, would I be remembered. Possibly for the first few weeks but after that I would only be a tablet that one could refer to, like the commandments, perceptively of course. A “what not to do” for that future special someone that has overwhelmed them in all the ways I could never. And the memories and experiences have reduced all interpretations of this so called love thing to nothing but a withered rose petal hung to dry and crushed by the wind. I don’t believe in love anymore. I can’t trust it anymore. I’ve been beaten down and cornered too many times and now all that is left is a dim logic of reality that perhaps is far too faded to recognize; worn out like an old watercolour painting that once had meaning and substance. So I guess I should move on to some other belief, some other certainty that at the very least, could give me a sense of guidance or a sense of purpose. A life of expression without love. I would live in a mad world where the absurd is the familiar. Where the dreams in which I’m dying are the best visions to be had. A daily race of accomplishment that leads to nowhere. A land where love does not exist. I’ll call it Purgatory. Yes, the island of Purgatory. Or perhaps a purgatory ocean. I mean, do fish have any realisation of their existence? Do they even question it? I highly doubt it. Their idea of life is purely based around procreation where they are born, they eat, they survive they procreate and then die and become worm food. Bleak but fuelled with purpose. Chuck Darwin would be so proud.

Oh god….I’m such an emotional bag of dirt. I’m like a child waiting for a happy day to arrive. A troubled child that waits for a day to feel good. You remember that notation of advice that your parents or perhaps a wise person once told you that you should go out and experience the world? Well I have and it’s turned me into an angry and bitter human being. And it gets worse as I age. I secretly find myself envy of other humans that discover love and mentally implore them to find tragedy. That’s horrible. I’m a horrible person. I even have an evil glare like a witch would have crouched over praying that the outcome is devastating. A present day Ursula if you will. “Come hither you little mermaids, you Bambi’s, you Snow Whites. I cast this spell of wickedness upon you and chuck you into the Atlantic Purgatory where you shall cease to find emotion and forever have the psyche equivalent to a fish meheheheheeeeh.”

“This program is brought to you by: IKEA…….Swedish, for garbage.”

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Anxiety - The Mood In Meaning


I sat in the chair for two hours today thinking about how physically alone I am. I sat and stared, and thought of nothing. Two hours. For those of you who have never tried it before, well, as the great Dr. Gonzo would say about his drug and alcohol induced, depraved and self indulgent lifestyle, “ I wouldn't recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they've always worked for me.” And now here I am writing about this odd journey of insignificance transmuting the empty non-firing neurons into something else that is perhaps worthless. Scribble. Journal. The filling of the blank page.

(Irony is an dish stacked full of foie gras served to starving migratory geese.)

Hey, that should be the title of my life achievement book (that I will never write.) But the paper back would have to be a foldout like the honorary section of a Playboy or Hustler magazine. The jacket itself will sell a million copies alone to the A, B and C-class of the morally corrupt who just might use it as another false sense of hedonism and perhaps a dampening to their upward spiraling conceptional spore, or giz. Or whatever you younglings call it today.

(“Mook” being my personal favorite.)

Okay fine. I won’t smear anymore nonsense into this entry for you (switching to vodka now.) How about a pinch of philosophy, eh? I…..believe philosophy is the fundamental study of humanities finite situation. Definition? It is a daily deconstruction of the human body, mind and belief and albeit, soul that will one day be the delight and culinary experience of the terrestrial worm. A being towards death, if you will. Now there are some in-betweens such as the idea of dogmatism and it’s various attempts to hold onto certainty, dialogue and ideology.

(Yeah, I love fairytales too.)

Then there is democracy or institution or domination, whatever you want to label it as, who’s soul blueprint and outcome is the rendering of the elite and the classification of social status and the accountability to the citizens or to the civilization in which they‘ve built to their liking.

(What ever happen to meaning?)

Meaning is a subject that is in constant negotiation for me. Or maybe it’s the search for the idea of non-meaning that is lacking, hence the two hour chair mind-meld session today. Perhaps the answer lies in the contingency of understanding the absolute of being.

(……….and love?)

……………………………….....................................................................................................................................................dark chocolate………………………………..copious amounts of dark chocolate.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Distortion and the Pigment of a Lost Soul

I was born twice; in my present life, I am charmed by the sunrise in the earliest of mornings that can bring absolute peace to on that finds peace in disembowelment. And in across the emptiness of space, the rats, cockroaches and maggots devour my flesh while the paralyzed and redundant read my sermon. I decompose.

I’ve lived over two lives. I was once a soldier that fought and bled with no thought of reward and reflected very little of the enemy as they tore off all brawn from my favorite limb. And in the life thereafter, I wondered why the gods would create such a human out of such an unstable substance like wax. My skin flakey and weak. My melting temperature, poor.

It is wondrous to think that this is my first life and confusing to realize that perhaps it could very well be my second. I have to induce alcohol to feel comfortable in social surroundings because in a room filled with the best of minds, I feel lonely, still. I am a common deer that is as majestic as I am graceful; the ultimate prognosis of harmony and serenity, until I’m shot.

Doctor. I feel tired after living these two lives. Is there a procedure to un-etch the memory of a past loved one? Do you have the ability to abolish regret? My grey matter will except any format.

An explosive tip perhaps.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Foo Fighters - "What If I Do?"


Back and forth that voice of yours keeps me up at night
Help me search to find the words that eat you up inside
I go side to side like the wildest tides in your hurricane
And I only hide what is on my mind because I can't explain

What if I do, Lord?
What if I don't?
I'd have to lose everything just to find you
What if I do, Lord?
What if I don't
I'd have to lose everything just to find you

It's my turn this soul won't burn so throw me in the fire
Trophies earned and lessons learned, from wicked little liars
We could pave new roads with their cold gravestones,
And wind them through the pines
Should I stay or should I go alone? I cannot decide

What if I do, Lord?
What if I don't?
I'd have to lose everything just to find you
What if I do, Lord?
What if I don't
I'd have to lose everything just to find you

Carolina, Caroline
Carolina, Caroline

What if I do, Lord?
What if I don't?
I'd have to lose everything just to find you
What if I do, Lord?
What if I don't
I'd have to lose everything just to find you

Carolina, Caroline
Carolina, Caroline
Carolina, Caroline
Carolina, Caroline

Loch Lomond - "Wax And Wire"


I’m helplessly needless, and needless to say I owe you
I’m helplessly needless, and needless to say I owe you

Well I’d wait ten thousand picks for just one more chance
Just one more chance to see your face again

Well I’d pull, teeter away, at the earth with my teeth
The earth with my teeth to touch your face alive

Helplessly still
As your face falls apart
Helplessly still
As your face falls apart

With wax and wires and hair from the back of your head
With wax and wires and hair from the back of your head

Well I can make your face brand new
Well I can make your face brand new

You are warm
You are warm

Come take my hand and I’ll take your hand
And I will bring you out
Come take the line and I’ll take the line
And I will pull you out
In the sun.

Monday, May 23, 2011

I curl up to the heart molestation. I await to be the porch dog. I enjoy nightmares.

Between the age limits, they are maidens of a clever crush and seemingly a simple and consistent motive. But just as well, they are so infantile and act accordingly as such. I am justified as an appendage in healing. Some sort of a slight repair. A common fix until something better comes along to kidnap their refinement which, to my knowledge, I should be, in so many words, perhaps rewarded for, to say the very least. I mean, should I get not at least an “in return?” I don't know. Maybe, or quite simply, Okay, perhaps…no.

They are certainly bewitched travelers that have a Xavier type complex. A “white to red” endurance if you will. I mark my time as ‘special’ and I am now so protected and fortified that nothing, I mean nothing gets out. Nothing. And so nothing gets in. I predict certainty at a rate that is profound. Megalithic. Jarring. And to be polite about it is a unfertile practise that lately has proven to be exhausting. Tedious. To the point where I just am relieved to run away to set fire in the snow or partake in some simple act of solidarity that has absolutely no reference to any daily life monetarisms.

“We are whiplashed between an arrogant overestimation of ourselves and a servile underestimation of ourselves” Parker Palmer

I am truly confused about this quote. I don’t understand what I should get “in return” from such a poise statement. I mean, I understand the meaning or perhaps the simplistic meaning behind it but the more I try to analyze it, the more it sounds like fucking rhetorical nonsense. Excuse my fury painted sense of annoyance. I don’t know. Perhaps I have become one of those lone voyagers. Those lone nympholepts that have secretly gone insane. This theory wouldn’t be too far from the truth.

Lend me your reading ears for this one.

She writes. That’s right. She is a writer although she doesn’t consider herself as one. But she is. At one time, our exchange was like voltage. She would read my phrases of puke, and would respond with a sensible comment because perhaps she felt that my word-feces was, at the very least, edible to anyone who found it palatable. And it was good. But I think that she presently finds me wearing and has decided to “move on” as is the collar of most relative corresponded endeavours of such. My ultimate conclusion? She may be correct.

So what is one to do?

My berm remains impenetrable. My sensitivity? Zero. The study of the opposing gender? Limitless. Boundless. Tedious. In that order.

Monday, May 9, 2011

Circa Survive - "Kicking Your Crosses Down"


In case it gets away from us
Don't pull it close
The damage revealed the cost
And it wasn't worth itBut they'll never know
To keep in mind the line that separates idols
If the world is a dream and nothing is worth it
Unless you have a god

But we won't be saved
We'll live as slaves to love
What God takes away
Let's refill all your holes with mud
Purchase your tickets; I'm kicking your crosses down

In case it gets away from us
Don't pull it close
The damage revealed the cost
And it wasn't worth it
We're all going to hell

But we won't be saved
We'll live as slaves to love
What God takes away
Let's refill all your holes with mud
Purchase your tickets; I'm kicking your crosses down

And all the voices sound just like you
I'll be there, I'll be there
Breathe in, breathe in
It's been so long, I've felt so wrong again

I fixed myself up nice but you never came
The words rolled off our backs and sound the same
I'll be waiting, I'll be waiting
I hope that it's worth it but I'll never know

napkin scrabble and the possibility of neurotoxic damage

The look is very much an illusion through the presence and blurred rows of hour-glasses and mirrored omni-elliptical translucency, but I digress. They stare at me in ultimate lies with the company of valor; however, they are only roused dreams and remain unnecessary to me. Those coughs of silent answers; so coy; so somniferous. The balance is dead weight for there is no balance. There is no formality. So how does one seek this sense of judgment? How does one find forgiveness? Egalitarianism? We are just mutated forms trapped in a dream through some sort of self-righteous existence. Through indecency. To be alone is to die by your own rule though made up or stolen through the truth of the like.

“If consequences dictate your course of action, it doesn’t what’s right. It’s only wrong if you get caught.” MJK

Monday, May 2, 2011

The Porcupine Ceremony

There are sometimes
There are every times
There are infancy times when you look for love
And you seek for the perfect love, the perfect time
They are the moments that choose you
When you are looking for faith
But these are times when faith will seek others
And not you

You are ready to lose conviction…

There is a season for series
There is confusion in the faces
You then receive the anomaly
And the faces will crush you like surrounding walls that fail
That you should initially should not call
And onto the gods that do not respond
To your calm

You are ready to be heard…

Then there are those who respond to you
Those who seem to call your ball
You speak of faith, you try, you fail
To those who give you weary theories
To dreary occupations
Of non-grander
To nothing at all
As you stand in a circle of a coiled plunge

You are ready to be judged…

The child inside you will still ask why
The time will continue to pass us by
We will be here now
Waiting for the cycle of blood that has been lost
Over the transmission of hours,
Days, and the suns inferior setting in the nights skies
I’ll build and never ask why
I’ll ignite and twirl to the clouds

You are ready to skip all prerequisites…

We are old and have new facades
Our language is now fundamental, but useless, banal
Our souls obsolete
All kinder and respect, sad and fallen
Apocalypse is now
Receptacle clear and all becomes distant, forgotten

You lay under the porch; you wait for the flash…
You have prepared for this and have always been ready…

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Daft Punk [Tron Legacy] - "End of Line"


night driving......wicked drugs......dreaming of you

Sunday, April 10, 2011

girl, Friday

I’m constantly reminded by them throughout these pockets in my life that I should write a book. My usual response, if one were to stand witness, is a disgruntle, facial splinter of immediate rejection shortly followed by an uncontrollable urge to giggle at the entirety of such an undertaking.

But I digress.

You know that feeling. That crushing feeling where your stomach knots up wrenching your vital organs upward making you short of breath. The initial vibe of adornment and excitement that comes with the involvement of her spirit. Her presence. Her very existence.

But I now digress.

You walk around repeating your daily routines with perfection and in the mist of the somniferous haze, you smile, and think of no one else.

I have built a wall.

How do you make that feeling last forever? You want to steal the formula. You want it to last forever.

I never want it again.

She always smells perfect, even when she smells bad, she stills smells like her. I smell her clothes when she’s not around. There is never enough.

Can an artless thieve steal that wisdom from me…..please do.

I like the part where you feel completely absorbed and your simple life becomes a progression until your next encounter with her. Life seems to stop right there and then.

Sometimes I wish it never happened.

You came over to hold me because you’re falling in love with me. I can hold you forever.

I am the Tin Man that wants to trade reason for his ticking time bomb.

When I tell her that I miss her, I mean it. Every time. She repeats it in an even sweeter vernacular that is radiant.

I want to wear her jewellery and dissolve in the sun.

I’m such an idiot to think that she wrote that for me. I’ll be honest, it did give me a rush and spine evaporating vibe and for a sonar of those passing hours, I felt alive again. But I guess that’s the relentless attraction. The release. The glory of those passing hours.

Time is the panic of resolution.

Our encounters become gradually cheesy and blatantly unbearable in a infantile play-ground lovers series. But we do it anyway.

I’ll never hold another human being with enough devotion…..as they deserve.

Those adorable songs sound so much cooler.

I still listen to them. I still weep.

She just wants to be with you all the time. You hold her close. You close your eyes.

I remain sleepless for the next three hundred years.

Your conversations flow and become a single stream that transcends into infinity and after a while, it just seems as if they had been sewn together from the beginning. The intimate silence becomes an addiction. An obsession. A craving.

I crave apathy.

You’re not just kissing her anymore. You’re just closing the distance between you using your lips with the gentleness of only emotion to guide. Every touch is cherished and forever.

Another of the senses…..lost.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

A Walk Into Whiteness

All the world is dying as I smile and move on…

My legs are strong but only so to the journey for which they could carry me as I walk into the whiteness. The outline of black naked trees; a representation of all the world dying as I walk and appear unseen to ignorant eyes of past and now. The snow falls erratically from the skies and out of this chaotic scenery, there lies only peace and the sounds of nonentity and the entire. Truly beautiful is this landscape and yet justly lifeless. I trek on past meadows and blank pastures and I hear nothing and feel the numbness of nature from which, arrogantly, I am one with.

But I am sick I tell myself. My eyes plunged deep and become dark patches of my face and how they tell the stories of my “reality” so to be symbols of this choice of introvertness. I am weary and weak. I come to a barb wired, wooden fence that seems to have been still and decrepit for a decade more and sit for a while. Each snowflake bites as they touch down on my lips, cheek and chin. My hair wet from the certainty of overlooking the reward of wearing a head garment, and drips of cold yet soothing droplets trickle and run down from my nose. I am dressed inadequately but this day is yieldingly tepid for the month of February. This is seemingly the days of end but as I sit here and contemplate, my heart still resonates with rhythm which gives me an iota of motivation, so I smile and move on.

The evening turns into darkness and I am enchanted by the sparkles of star clusters and the spirits of the night sky. I’ve decided to stop and fall back into a bed of deep snow so to have a panoramic view of the Big Dipper, Orion, and their neighbouring siblings and tune into the silence which is delightfully deafening. And then I dreamed of you.

The Collision of the Stars

She spends her time along the shores watching, dancing, crying.
Her “reality” is punishment for crimes she has never committed.
Her tears become tasteless, dry and hollow.
All these memories, faint and arid, torment her every breath as she dreams.
She feels a sickness that is suicidal as she searches for a cure that doesn’t exist.
Her love was perfect, but dragged and beaten by the gravel floor, and so many scars once hidden, now lay open and sting her as she smiles in rage.
She wants to wake up, wake up, wake up but is shrouded by water and the density of fear.
The constant questions now plague her as she falls deeper and deeper into a senseless, cavernous void.
Her figures loosen; she loses control, and becomes an angel with no purpose.
She paints her face to blend in.
She embeds feathers in her hair.
The empire calls to her but she is no longer coherent and has gone to sit in a forest and smile and become a god.

I spend my time there by the shore, waiting for her to strike so to extract this venom from her veins and relieve her from the madness....

Monday, March 21, 2011

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Splintered Chopsticks and Alpha-Getti

What is it with the present day youth? Since when did everything spiral and funnel into a black and white generation of minnowed depravity? I mean, I don’t consider myself of the elderly and sometimes you could find me lurking in dark corners of bars and lounges appearing lacklustre in the mature department, but I can already see the next gene-pool developmentaries between the likes of childhood and maturity to be quite wearisome. Is it my lack of understanding? Or is it the educational system or media that is responsible for the suspension of the individual thought process thus packing their judgment into jars turning them into time constrained, bipolar, deficient drones?

When did I become so old? So outdated?

The youths of today are seemingly becoming attention deficient changing thoughts and swinging emotions as quickly as they can change their social networking profile picture which, and I empathize, is pretty goddamn fast. I have truly become a relic at my quarter plus age (mid-life crisis has been replaced with quarter-life disambiguation. Post Quarter Life Crisis.) Coincidently, the queens language has now develop into a tedious proto-English idiom geared towards proficiency that is the masqueraded “norm” and is an abomination of everything literary. So what do we do? Keep writing in this archetype-everything-acronymic fashion, mumbling and beating each other until the end of days? Or is there a cure, you know, like the one they have for depression for example. Pop few subscription happy pills and the winter blues become winter FUCK I FEEL GREAT. Viagra for the grey matter. The mental masturbation placebo if you will. What ever happened to the complexities and the originalities of the simple things like casual conversation? Or sharing ones multifaceted opinions whether over the absolute forgiveness of Michelangelos’ “The Drunkenness of Noah” painting or the controversial medicinal values of wild rice? Is tomato a fruit or a vegetable? What on earth is happening in Libya? How is Vladimir Nabakovs’ writing so alluringly wicked yet so filled with texture? It seems that the present vernacular is being broken down and condensing into the menial level of totidem verbis (in so many words) or non-words, or acronyms, or no words to that effect.

“If youth only knew, if age only could.”

Maybe. Christ. Maybe I’m looking at this incorrectly. I mean, when I was in the developing stages of life, I also adopted a certain talk or jargon that only my peers and the surrounding youth would understand. This might possibly be the new-wave or new world of "slanguage" that is systemically resourceful within the current day English and rather then rant about it, I should just accept it. Just be at peace with it and follow the rest of the herd. Incorporate the lmao’s and the ttyl’s into my writing. Or….or should I resist and fight the good fight? I dwell in perpetual confusion…that I obviously invite and loathe but invite nonetheless.

And as the wheels turn late into the night, I lay restless and awake forever drowning in a sea of wordplay and greasy hats. Lots of greasy hats.

“At what age do you tell the highway that it was adopted?” Zach Galifianakis

Soundgarden - "Like Suicide"


Heard it from another room
Eyes were waking up just to fall asleep
Love's like suicide
Dazed out in a garden bed
With a broken neck lays my broken gift
Just like suicide

And my last ditch
Was my last brick
Lent to finish her
Finish her

Bit down on the bullet now
I had a taste so sour
I had to think of something sweet
Love's like suicide
Safe outside my gilded cage
With an ounce of pain
I wield a ton of rage
Just like suicide

With eyes of blood
And bitter blue
How I feel for you
I feel for you

She lived like a murder
How she'd fly so sweetly
She lived like a murder
But she died
Just like suicide

Sunday, March 6, 2011

The Beauty In Wasted Time

He has rebuilt his barricade. One that will now stand the test of time however, it now stands bold and strong, and for that, he doesn’t know what to say to nice women anymore…

We were so tired by the day’s end but we’d still conjure up some kind of mystical or impulsive stamina, even when there was seemingly nothing left, to push to the city’s beach front to watch and interactively become one with the fiery purple hues of the sunset. There is always this sense of awkwardness within the first few days but I would let the weariness direct its own path to the intimacy that we both craved from each other as we sat in the sand against an old tree in harmony. I would rest my back against the base of the tree and would benevolently pull her close to my chest for a better view of the eastern horizon as we quietly forgave the world, and as another twilight evening serenely rolled by. This was perfect. This was The Great Gatsby level of any relationship. The part where you’re reminded of how simple a complex emotion could feel and for an instant, for just a flash of a short period, nothing else is important and your primordial adornment washes over you in an awesome wave. It’s when the exchange of energy between two human beings is impenetrable and absolute down to the shear quantum physicality’s of it and right then, right at that very moment, you feel the illumination of all existence. The progressiveness towards love, if you will. I remember the soft and gentle impressions of my nose and cheek against her shy facial skin as she would then close her eyes in complete comfort squeezing my hands ever so affectionately. I felt as if I could just drift off with her in my arms, with this sympathetic sunset, the whole of the present “reality” immortalized and timeless. It was always my favorite time to kiss her and I never wanted to stop. I’ve never felt happier then when I was with her, and I wanted to be with her forever and disassociate from everything; the two of us driving at top speed on some two-lane abandoned super highway into the scorching fireball that we all call the sun, lost, in all of this aspiration of a dream.

Next, he will build an elaborate moat laid out in concentric circles that will shroud his barricade. Nothing gets in, nothing gets out…

Monday, February 21, 2011

The Appendage of Decadence – An Introduction To His Great Flame Out

He was once considered a great man of sorts. Someone you could actually look up to possibly on a day of sobriety. “On a jiggle jaggle morning” he’ll come following you just to prove that he was a man of his word or words to that effect. On one side there was a profound and significant sense of self indulgence but on the other side of the spectrum, the one that few were able, if lucky to observe or key into, there was a helpless romantic, a brutally honest man that was willing to give without any thought of reward. An angel endowed with a halo of tragedy of sorts. The one ring to rule them all, the one ring to find them. The one ring to bring them all and in the darkness binds them, or something to that effect.

He was always faced with these conflicts in life but his favourite, his absolute life’s work, had always been the battle between the sexes in his pseudo adopted country. He loved women. He had all their albums. And so continuous is his purgatory derivative of his attraction to the female species. A continuous loop of a fool’s errand if it must be said. Women, from the beginning and until this very day, are the most amazing creatures to him. However, it might have been the rest of the world that he had a problem corresponding with. He would always seem to others to be submersed in a wayward sense of self-disgust, a complete sense of self-loathing if you will, but he was truly, beyond any doubt, never unhappy. His life was to be his never ending entertainment and amusement as it were. Gods continuing lassitude perhaps or the devil “because you know there is no devil, that’s just God when he is drunk,” as a songwriter once wrote.

Consequently, black was his favourite colour but he would always tell, when faced with the public, that it was blue because at the very least, in an existential wisdomic way, blue had much more of a level of sadness and depth to it. Would you, “the reader,” agree?

To be continued with – “he doesn’t know what to say to nice girls anymore……”

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Puscifer - The Humbling River (Duet Mix)


Nature, nurture, heaven and home
Sum of all and by them driven
To conquer every mountain shown
But have never crossed the river
Braved the forest braved the stone
Braved the icy winds and fire
Braved and beat them on my own
Yet I'm helpless by the river

Angel, angel what have I done?
I've faced the quakes the wind, the fire
I've conquered country, crown, and throne
Why can't I cross this river?

Pay no mind to the battles you've won
It'll take a lot more than rage and muscle
Open your heart and hands my son
Or you'll never make it over the river
It'll take a lot more that words and guns
A whole lot more than riches and muscle
The hands of the many must join as one
And together we'll cross the river

Thursday, February 3, 2011

crucified, viable, despondent, vulnerable, purgatory, verity, balderdash – and everything in between

To my purity versus impurity
To my virtue versus degradation
As I grieve against treason
And I progress against impurities

I stand no chance
I have no weapons
To the onslaught of draught
Within this crossfire
Of identities

To the open wrist that speak back to me
To the flow that ends all abilities
To the ashes of reason
And everything in between

With for every township woe
And status quo ante bellum
Of which non-continuance
And non-survival
To which crime is rival
And no one is authentic

This hog has no faith
It chews its own timber
To prove to its master
That fools do not shiver

And how am I different,

from fools that do not deliver?

Monday, January 31, 2011

The Scar On My Hands, The Buoyancy of Turds

Tonight I drink out of a skull shaped bottle, and I drink alone. I heard a quote once that culture is to make a drinking bowl from one’s enemy’s skull, and that civilization is to go to prison for that. So where do my virtues lay? Perhaps death is the final journey. Anyone who says that they do not have any fear of dying has never met a Gurkha. They’ve never felt the cold fortified steel of a forged hand kukri nor have they been to Nepal or have any knowledge of such an admirable race. They’ve never inhaled the mark of death nor have they coherently summarised the beauty of life. They’ve never felt the warmth of dead blood or the frostiness of flesh when your hands can separate the muscular divisions of tendons and palpable tissue. This is not the language of a grande monde society. These are spoken gestures of a bloody faced peasant. I should have been born in the days of the cradle of civilisation. I should have been a hunter and gatherer. I would have been at peace knowing that if I died sleeping in a seated position in wait, for some devious assassin to attempt to take what life I have made for myself or what future I’ve been willing to sacrifice for, I would have still been, a conqueror of my own existence.

And there you pry at a screen emitting systematic pulses of coherence and sink into it’s depth of vulnerabilities. This has become your present necessity, your only influence into this information that in retrospect is clinically dead. All life is a subway of interplaying realities that hath no choices and no command.

Friday, January 21, 2011

the abortional swain

I dedicate this to all the lords of life.

I’m glad your love for me is no more. I can be a whirlwind at times. A fucking tornado of gorilla libido that swings from a painful branch tearing flesh from one soul and swiftly daggling onto the next grabbing firmly without a god given care to say the least. I’ve pushed you into reverse right back to the simulacra from which you came and I find it cheerless that this is where you choose to reside. I did this. I did this to you. And I can only observe this progression in the third person view in some type of omni-awareness, so let me deconstruct. Let me face my own reality, my own stream that leads somewhere, or leads nowhere. Come, let us stand at these steps and watch how they ascend; let us count these steps that lead upward and out of sight. So foreign are these signs that I do not grasp, still, and perhaps will never comprehend. I look at my old hands and gaze at the skin lines that have always traveled imperfectly and I occasionally wonder if in fact they have meaning. Are these the graphs of secret language from which I should decipher? Or do they have any significance at all? Do I lack the affirmative principle that they’ve been assigned to? Perhaps you knew it all along but you were too frightened to except it until it turned dreadful and when that day came, the day when all of it died, we were left with all these questions unanswered. A twisted riddle that neither I nor you had any response for. The ungenerous, fragmented parable. And so I glide through nature ghostlike past lunar lit meadows of fern appearing somniferous to those who would find me tolerable until their tissue splits apart and I, the foolish jester, once again am satisfied with the magnitude of their open wound. Maybe tomorrow will bring a sleep that will linger awhile, a year, forever. Or perhaps I have figured it out. Perhaps the ultimate engineering of all this can be grouped into two stories: the continuity of life or the inevitability of death. One thing I know for certain is that my heart hurts. I wish I never met you. I wish I never entered. I wish my raft continued to sail on to an arid atoll where I can live and die alone. At least I can be the god of this island or better yet an angel with a halo that didn’t come cheap. I don’t even need shoes.

“We see young men who owe us a new world, so readily and lavish they promise, but they never acquit the debt; they die young and dodge the account or if they live, they lose themselves in the crowd.” - Emerson

Saturday, January 15, 2011

White Lies - "Bigger Than Us"


You took the tunnel route home
You've never taken that way with me before
Did you feel the need for change?
Apologies on your fingernails
Love flickered in the city of lights,
Like intermittent radio waves

I don't need your tears
I don't want your love
I just gotta get home

And I feel like I'm breaking up, and I wanted to stay
Headlights on the hillside, don't take me this way

I don't want you to hold me,
I don't want you to pray
This is bigger than us

You went where the horses cry
You've never taken that way with me before
Did you feel the need for change?
Guilt smeared across your lips
I was tired and cold from the window
You're tired, nothing has changed

I don't need your tears
I don't want your love
I just gotta get home

And I feel like I'm breaking up, and I wanted to stay
Headlights on the hillside, don't take me this way

I don't want you to hold me,
I don't want you to pray
This is bigger than us

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

trenched in warfare, ex vi termini

for Vera….

I hope someday you find the air to breathe again
I call upon the empty space you walk again
This fear inside will wither painlessly away my friend
Get up, be free and spread your wings, then count to ten.

Cause fear is cold and never far
It’s tragedy that appears organic
As wavy flags darken
And so the moon darkens
We lose all trust and panic

I try to water broken flowers but it’s too late
They anger me and so I hurl them through the gate
As pedals rip in pieces which infuriate
To which I count to ten, lean forward, anticipate.

I sense the cold, she’s never far
Death, tragic, yet appearing organic
All shredded flags burn
Eclipse, this moon darkens
Infectious and so non-dramatic.

I found the bird. It would not fly and choose to live ashore
The empty grass you’ve walked upon is land you love no more
This riverbed has dried to sand and arid to the core
You’ve flown across this widespread cove but never as before.

We meet, she cries into a jar
Her words seem so prophetic
This love is suicidal pain
A love I shall never repeat again
As this martyr becomes a relic.