27 February 2005

Seven and the Skeletal Fish We Pudding-ify

Got their wires
another way
its on the first page of the a to zed
and is
so easy to
lose your way
but you can find it on the motorway
and take
a wrong turn
but thats ok,
start again another day

Being on a bender (bite my shiny pseudo-scottish ass) is brilliant when it actually punctuates everything in life and acheives precisely what you set out upon such a task for. Namely, boredom, or the release from said boredom. However, my bender is just pointless because I am still bored and I've spent out of the last 72 hours awake maybe only 8 of them sober. Not bad if I do say so.
I keep hearing The Pop Song and My Father My King whenever I tilt my head to the right or left respectively. I fancy the predicament to a muse, sitting quietly in my brain until something shakes her off her tight little ass to which she strikes up all the chords that are sucked down into my flesh, deep toned and high strung, all knotted, contorted, and visually vile when painted on snow. I was never pure enough for white of any sort, thankfully. I in fact enjoy the darkness of a room at night with only moonswept shadows and dusty tables adorning it, I have been that peculiar for many years once I was able to get over my initial fear of the dark, fear of the unknown, fear of death. But it strikes me that there are too many people to count who still have these, who when entering a room I have been comfortable in, lights off with only streetlamp or early morning wading past curtains or shades, and continually ask how I could possibly like being in such a dim environment. As if there were something to fear from the room just then, that having the lights out made it completely unsafe or antiquated or a toll to death further down the road. Is reflection of ones own mind so bad, so cataclysmic to their existence that they rather run than even sneak a small glance at what is really behind their callow countenances? A pity.
Peanut butter is the glue of life, just a protein paste, a familiar example of simplicity, and a knife-full can last me from anywhere between .002 seconds to an hour and a half all depending on the immediate peanut butter index, or the IPBI. This you can calculate using a simple equation that involves no fewer than five differential equations and such random variables as toenail length. But its peanut butter, so eat it.
I think the next time someone asks why I am sitting in a dark room I merely remark, "is the room dark, or is it that you have not yet seen the light?" for I have seen the peanut buttery goodness and snuck a few fingers for taste and good measure, I am no wiser than the greatest fool but I have at least known what simplicity can be if done with no more regard to the "big issues" than a child gives to politics.
How many times undone can one person be as they're careening through the facade of their favorite fantasy?
Cheers chewable kittens.

22 February 2005

Irradiating Hollow Bones and Rubber Bats

Then racing for the sink
I shove my head in
And the world looks like heaven
It's all white

Pulleys and monsters squealing on the spin, and a single rope hanging the lot. Just a pretty little picture on a desk that somehow illustrates the diversity of the words "I hate school" as she said it the first time and again. Because it's not the professors that sleep with students and data thats contagious with BPV-4, not the line for returning the goodwill of all those before us, rather this is just textbook regurgitation through funnels past the incus, malleus, stapes suctioning down my brain amok with withdrawal from a cancer called society. I am prepared. Prepared to kill. Prepared to die. Prepared to judge. Funny thing is in all those centuries I forgot to prepare for living, just like bees, I did the song and dance, swept up and sowed the pollen need be sewn, but we all smack ourselves into windows or cobwebs while working to build the home thats not ours so much as ours.
Misdemeanor violations are merely demerits on our permanent records as we fold down the telegram lines between ourselves and what was the us of some greater social conscept, no? Now this is a rant I must say.
It's past late and early is on its way. Styrofoam napkins folded into party hats made for fashionable dips and sipping lasses, just tits flailing down and high heels in the midnight air above the bed, senuality and sexuality and fucking are all the same to them. But that's just more commentary, drivel driven from the same flesh-tone spark that slides its hand around waist and neck and thigh. Needless isn't a needed word in the english person, the American person. There are no politer people than the Scottish, for in the rest of this drab lil globe, wee tilted on its axis, people merely insist on smiling whilst they screw you in the back-seat of a volkswagen, volvo, or in the case of upper class, the rolls or bentley.
I am a simpering tired little child, wishing for things instead of hope, because hope itself is a failure of a concept. Released from its box, Pandora rifled through what was left and found that funny bazooka, took aim, and launched all the hatred past the stars and annhilated, extricated from life, that leafless flying dream-like nuance. Hope. Dead. Deal with it. But please do not consider me bitter, seriously, I really am far from angry or depressed, merely musing at the silly ideas we hold, as if we were able to resist.
A distict lack of inspiration or lack of motivation or lack in general is so befalling, it is fell, it is like drooling ghastly, gawking and at a loss for any thought cogitent and profound. Dried up.
I still see the beaches in hollow bones as I cut through the congealed marrow and beneath the periosteum, just a tiny mare, maria, saintly in its tepid pooling. Cut through mine and detours immerse the streets, just orange signs and traffic jams like donuts in a cardiac patient past his prime. Prime. Peak, the top of performance, but of what. I'll measure success just the same I measure men and women. I'll measure it all through glassy eyes on a death bed, not by the money or the women I've bedded, not this besting of others. Why so competitive, so determined to carry on in a biological fashion. So surreal. So boring, I realise, but you're no better to look at, all hips and curves on the A74. Just clip along, good pace with good things in tow, just move along looking for the people that will be fine with the mediocrity they impose.
No cheers for you.

19 February 2005

Sipping Lutein Milkshakes from Rose Petals

Waiting for some kind of change crossin' over the road
It's time to take control again and be the only one
It's time to sell your soul again and be the holy one

Late age and agnosticism are rival adventurers like Roger Moore and Livingstone, trapped upside down in a lions den, no pride or prejudice to the sparking wires. The store fronts have grayed once 7PM calls out along the brick wall walkway avenue, chanced that pink lights might illuminate the ruddy hue of skin and fishnet underwear. Cos these kids don't wear cotton or canvas, how trite would that be?, instead they mingle with leather and bead dangling, just denim and nylon and black lace over hoods. The redlight district is like hell on mars, dusty and musty and choking life in suffocating fashion, I am dry here. Not sober in the way sobriety intones, where liquor never touches my toes or my feet or fingers or shoulders or lips, cos I bathe in this drunken atmosphere and can't be anything but intoxicated.
The longer the spring takes to find its stride, the longer it rakes off the horned edge of my psyche taking ego and interest far down into winter's mild grave. The yellow-lit white-striped streetlamp street is heaven in a certain hour, when child doesn't know the shadows that crawl across me with passing cars and passing cares and passing doors closing with heavy, thick-warm sighs, just gilded guilt trips of should haves and would bes and no mores for the immortal sensation of passion can go on burning cans of paint that color flashes to sandstone flashing.
Late age and agnosticism as I said once is nothing more than hurling laundery and latitutde between you and the feeling of empty vessels floating down Niles and Amazons, those slipstream consciousnesses that suck us under. So then you stuff full a rucksack, like you knew what one was for, full of trivia and esteem and novels and good lots for casting, just packing it in so that sinking is half the fun of going home. Hitting the atmosphere in the desert dune hearing techno bouncing off satellites and mirrors on the cacti and tomato stands in the shade. Heavy soul these late August nights late in February frost bitten tips and tangled wire on the dreams, hanging like slack lines on the July prairie.
Sitting backwards looking straight sideways at a problem often makes it a timeless piece of art not worthwhile to cut and stip bear, cos problems are tangible abstract mosaic collages of lifes beauty. Write that down.
I feel the road banging away beneath my feet, yearning to be driven, walked, ridden, upon. Sitting here backwards and typing without seeing I have found this triumphant, a cold style of unsettling vindication, no fist or broken stick, no ash or feather. Just a long string of the same nameless text from non-corporeal type. Phantom, maybe. But not quite yet.

11 February 2005

A Turgenevic Shave with Dim-Lit Nachos

Got a man of the people,
says keep hope alive
Got fuel to burn,
got roads to drive.
Keep on rockin' in the free world!

I hope to see my friend and shake his hand... I hope the pacific is a blue as it has been in my dreams... I hope...

I watched amber ripples burn into the black machine-rolled paper, edging up up up and smoking fervently, and realised that I knew exactly what could be the whole matter with my twisted brain. I think there's a slight chance that while I may have died some time ago, while the child in me was suffocated and I grew to some strange blend of adult, that a piece remained, so to speak. Maybe I'm a bit confused, I do so miss a good jewish deli and the more I reread this it reminds me of pastrami and pickles and a whole lotta mayo and not fucking SALAD CREAM! But at anyrate, despite the similar taste, I shall continue undistractedly and without tangential angular acceleration of the utmost maximum kind. (say what, Willis?) Thats right, you heard me, tangential your ass right off the ride mo fo. But I was watching the night clouds, seeing them float on to the west and off into the isle and began seeing shapes, not even conscious of it at first but I saw a whole wonderful near celestial play go before my eyes. And I thought, 'Australia is going to say wtf when they see what I see'. A bull terrier and the subcontinent of India with an exaggerated Sri Lanka. Seriousy, where do these things come from.
But that has nothing to do with anything I purport. In fact the whole idea is that I always wanted new eyes to awaken with every morning. Just the ability to see the world as a child does, without prejudice and scorn. It's a tall order, I readily admit this, but In fact, maybe I have had them the whole time. I see things in a fresh light the moment I turn away and back again. I see people renewed in light and dark and dim lit shadowed corners. I see mugs of beer and glasses of rum strewn across the floor in fractals and serendipitous fashion, snaking into tribal designs and interlocking much like the loops of friends and interactions of everyone around them. A dynamic moving puzzle with such great assembly required to see the pieces fit perfectly. A fluid structure of perfection that most people are far too close to see.
Just a thought at 11 past the 45th day of reckoning in an asylum. I still feel the coal dust for lungs I had fought to keep, darker and bitter they were worn in and easier to breathe on the acrid dust I kicked into myself through word and tongue lash. But thats only the few days I had been in hell for. Here it's much more difficult with paunchy bodies and lingering lobes ready to shred, just flesh as another measure of the meek and weak values we dangle in front of everyone's faces.
I feel a bit Pygmalion for why can't I desire beauty that is tangible, a physicality of what I precipitate as perfection. Amid a life of dust-jackets and strewn-about plastics disc-shaped for lyrical content, am I such a sorrowful person as to desire a musty leather binding separating faded gold-tipped pages from the humidity of her breath. I feel a bit Pygmalion parapalegic having been filled with some awful sheets of music, architecture, an horrific ideal of beauty all lacking the shape-forming creation they so long await shelved and succinct but for chaotic rambling whispers of curdled pleas. Once dead, the dead look awfully appeased at their descriptive namesake, coddled fetuses waiting for chimes to ring new organs of Corti for their desperately bored ears. I'd throw some plaster in with the sand-blue acrylic and lacquer, paint a mishap of Maugham so far from identical as to be wordless and aged and idle. I feel a bit Pygmalion taking in every curve of the road
just so
BEAT, beatific
and burning in the way few still have. That restless
r-o-l-l-i-n-g of tongue waiting to expel some spirit of worldly sustinence devoured in trails of ink and sluiced into a frigid blend. Shivering, tittering, little shaking ideas with stick-standing leans upon my cortex, but that's not really funny, bunny. I have a feeling there's road to be layed, wheel's to be spun, and distance to be traveled, a rip of tar and exhaust cutting across continents. This is passion. An idea that is so striking that to utter it louder than a whisper would shake the earth and unchain the titans we call men. Or so I'd like to think as such of dreaming children, slumber bound and stalking their own shadows. Beatific... I can't wait to feel the sun on my skin and the wind in my hair, hear the engine firing, whirring, and pushing. That's life, I suppose. Cheers.

6 February 2005

Some Lengthy Tirade and Mo Cuisla

Looking back in time
Through verses set into nursery rhyme
At oil painted eyes
Of muses left behind
I swear I know not why

Worn out is a description I tend to wear, seething in ever cell, in every miswired strand of nervous tissue shouting down its barrel-axon toward my brain and feet and corded dorsal column. Loud enough and it might snap in a click and spasm. I wonder... how bright would that spark be, how long and drawn out because I see it in my minds eye plowing back and forth sheering across the meters of my arms and legs never tangling. And its warm. Like plasma it rips the veins and sterilises the senses, novelty in every breath, surprise in every vision. I wonder... how bright, how long, how far reaching because I want to scream into the world's ear, deafen and dumb the blind and bleeding; I want them to feel an intensity that I've felt forever now, the pure thrill that shudders and bloats, disturbs every frame of mind I can manage to get my hands on. Fortunately, it all abates, this war I crave, because why should it destroy everything. I only desire to see the old torn down for the new, not for the newness by any means, no, but for the rending of systemic parts into feeble sorts. The important made powerless and the powerful rendered to syncophants. This could all very well be a dream gone awry, or a ham sandwich on new york deli rye, I often get the two confused, even I admit.
I shuffled around the trees in the backyard once and found a baby bird, dead from the fall the nest took. How far up I could never have said because the firs often hide the deepest part of themselves so well, layer on layer of intermingling needles made to impose upon the rest of the world. They are so specifically designed to keep the juice inside, to prevent others from sucking them dry, draining them. Isolated as they were, this creature had found its way among them, lived in one of the sort, one like myself I'd say, that has the uncanny natural ability to unify the random ideologies, birds and insects and opossums and such, all opposed the others, conjoined simultaneously. And much like all angels, so fresh and new to worldliness every morning, that hatchling of a bird was rocked and fell, jostled from its glory in the skies and buried.
So I'm not all that accomplished at allegories, but think with whom you keep company, think hard. Cos so often the best of us are indeed the most fell creatures. So often the hinges of the group are the ones who are also the ones who will destroy it. Intentional is not a word in anyone's repetoire in such ways as this would seem. I think it's just another one of the natural rhythms, the pattern. Mo cuisla, dear me, how have you been so gone and off amid this sinning way, we did so find a fish to be the most peculiar of swaggering mammals once we gave it a cane. I still remember the gone way it looked up and said in its gruff gill-garbled tone that it was no more a human than I or the tin can of sardines, and I thought how brilliant the imp must have been to build a bridge across that city on the sun. These were the gone times we had had, when we dug the little things and let the big ones slide in the name of fun. But then one day I woke up on a train in time to see you jump. All the chalk painted pictures to the south, a highway ramp road up east, and then the grain of sand in my pocket spelled some message you had said once in a dream: you can't will yourself happy... you can't will your cunt wet, you can't keep standing at the station pretending you're being met.
I found a sink and soap, used both all the same, took up a brush and house and collided some ink to say, 'mo cuisla I have burned the earth I drank, and I will rise.' Little flicks of playful torment still throb at my sleeping temples, a deep sighed thwock thwock thwock and some silt-like sunshine sluicing through the slats. I called it Sunday, I called it home, it was hills and lowing, the type of dream I could be accostomed to if I could get the train to stop on the bens in time. I shuffled all along this world, shuffled all along thwock,
just shuffled,
i can here the water slipping ocean under skin

3 February 2005

Vernal Partruition

in case of emergency
stampede is coming
mastadon infantry
radiate this frequency
and show me just what
the hell you mean

"... you're going to have a miserable future. But overall you'll have a happy life."

It's a night life just falling down on me like starshine shoes in a hollywood production of life on a hillside slanted acreage. Peace and silence and dusty wives covered in the green they grew up from like frost bitten mammals that they were. So judicial these children in cribs and pacified dreams burning down through the stem. I still have trouble coping with their indignation and rebellious clout frothing out at me while I enjoy the tepid temperament that I've built to hold myself outside of this mess. The market closed on a Sunday noon right outside the last newspaper park article writing something of a ma'am and hiss of pride and default nature of another damsel. Could it have been a contextual fraud of rocking maturity throwing joke and soda down throat and cold cooler bottle stalks?
Then again it could be the crave for a pointless sea farer and his dolphin troupe to wage a war for land. Is it so wrong to desire war for warssake? No ideology just crushing violence against wrist and shoulder, pundit to squashed sense of humours...
Hmm, it might be of a better idea to consolidate into a more coherent existence, but then again, these are how the thoughts exist in their quiet reserve, shuffled and conversing on their own, conjoining and conjugating a massive orgy of information sitting fingertips length from tumbler and tumbled sleep. So what better way to throw them at the world than the raw seer formlessness gurgling and spewing itself. Interesting imagery I think. I've begun to see the fire eat itself and out of sheeer madness begin to lick at others. Oh how I did say it was, but then again, people think I'm just disturbing in my thoughts on god and man and gods among men and all the kind of us being flame in passion and working to no end other than a deep destruction of soul. Given that all that exists anyhow. Brilliant little tangent no?
I still feel some peace but it seems so fell and angry that I've let it fall into their hands. I don't want to be callous and cold, but it is merely the nature of evolving sons. Turn inward and silent in order to push the bounds outward and burn the establishment. Could be a lack of inspiration that drives me to read and find some old words for today's blog, or tomorrow's class, who knows. I suppose it is fair to say that I wish to stay here under the condition that I can live alone, without neighbors, near the hills, and with my cats. Just so that it all no longer rhymes with conundrum. A tricky gesture and floats off in imagination. I've always expected myself to be absolutely off the cuff and out of the area. Turn the corner and the world to look backwards and me forwards but somehow upside down, only to see that it is as it was and hasn't a chance at being unprofessional? More nonsense and no longer poetic I'm afraid. This is Spring in its burgeoning form, aching and sucking dry chest and mind. I suppose that's the only explanation of the previous posts before January left me in such disarray. Ah, well, it's been warm and the books have been piling up much to my delight. Some new Turgenev and Stendahl, some Vonnegut and Adams. All I need now is a plane ticket to Bhutan and I'll be set, methinks.