25 March 2005

Writing Rhinitis on Dover

(my father my king)

When all else fails, when all other possibilities have been extinguished-- that is, when everything is fucked-- hang the rules, hang morality, get a good piece of pipe, and bash the living piss out of the first person to look at you. This is how I will open, how I will ascend the straits of mind and pit hand to hand in Bokononic tension. Then again there are two ways of reading: one may read until the book is done, or alternately they may read until they are finished, a bit like splicing a reel of good audio feed. One moment there's that sizzle crack pop hisssssssssssssssssss snap! and then all the minutes after are silence unless you're listening in your sleep. Just under the dreaming there's a wave of patterned numbness that isn't numbness so much as its own antithesis, an orgasm of brain tissue flaring out lyrical hues only the mind knows innately. So hang yourself, you might find it fun with the bar taped across your face, a blue dot where the pen had been left to bleed the last letter.
You notice this curved highway on her knee tending to bend ominously toward the cleft in the sky, but you never thought that the entire world was a simple line did you. Got to get that head out of the garbage gutted meatloaf you've been forking, fork yourself, fork your woman [paint]. Sick-mindedly is the half-assed of tomorrow, because it’s only fair to be insipid for a short time and not your whole life. If I ever leave this world alive I'll be sure to translate the banter onto an ipod for all the teens screaming rented lines of movies made a hundred decades before film, not that it mattered cos the production companies would still strip your skin, putrefy the whole can, just to save their souls from the likes of Hitler. She says I'm O-K, but those are just letters, I can't quantify that, I can't put an emotion to those to singular unphrasable monemes, I want to know if you're 984427, if you're a bit 2334-9, or if like me you constantly feel utterly ridiculously 666.
Headtonics are the generation past us. It'll be a milkshake rush of electromagnetism frothing at the mouth in good rabid fashion just in time to take that still existing cancerous seed from using your cell phones on the highway and make it into a throbbing piece of tissue that at will makes the best tasting gin and tonics. What no one will tell you is that the only reason they don't taste like complete piss, is that you're taking a piss, you're completely [silage] bollocks. Geniuses that they were, they knew the body couldn't make a delicious gin and tonic for its life, your local bar tender is proof of that, so they fucked with your brains, or fucked them, depends what happened in that maternity ward you spent so much time in. You get me? Run a few wires to a brain-al area and instantly you have nothing short of complete taste control. The premise being that you'll be so constantly sloshed that while that headtonic is eating away at your brain twice as much as that bit of cancer was, you'll never know that what she just fed you was the most rancid bit of food left. Well, maybe you will know when you end up throwing it back up with blood in the ambulance an hour later. Scream her name. That's right. Betty.
I passed that guy once and in an instant I knew his story had something to do with a scandal in the Parliament. But yeah, Jesus was a bit of a trick himself now and again, wasn't he.
Children children children children children children chicken. I hate them, well at least when they're not cooked. So tell me toss them loose and fold that last croissant cos I have polymeritis of the plasticum of my liver spot on the moon.
Crazy isn't ugly, it isn't even fun, it’s a freedom of value and moral and any judgement ground. You say unhinged, I say unscrewed except by that sleek looking number with the nice ass. Banality is denied by casual screwball-ity, a constant, how do you say it in English, je ne your mom, that makes one forget about the monster-eating kittens one raised as a child.
Goodinsderoopjolorb. [chess]

17 March 2005

Hoi Polloi and the Postal Service Interlude

She had four white stallions coming up around the bend
Four strong angels at her command to send
Four more seasons, for all thats broken to mend
I got four good reasons why I cant go back there again

There's a clover in the aerie, just crooked and carved in the heady white thickset foam cloud brick in which we all reside at one time or another. Just two fingers measured from the foot of the bar to grace my glass and tell me the stories of heroism and well-slumbered sensuality that merely terrifies the most vehemenent woman alive. I've a graceful breast to press to mine in dream, a hat that stirs nothing but devious thought or laughter of some maniacal kind, but tis more than just for all my repugnaciousness in the hours yielding until dawn. Fight in the bloody cries of murder and the vast bending scream of decries for the end of a fragrant night, stagnant of sweat and beer and smokey afterthoughts. These "what if's" and "how so's" and all the rest of feather and chandalier so cavalier in its movements abreast of the beating thumbs on cab doors.
No more mania can seep at the edges when the drain has pulled shut, the rubberised necks of vulcanised personalities always cease to accomplish an inch of vestige of empathy for the quiet and contained. What light shall break these hushed little eyes seen rooms across the way, floating as it were, on an endless reverie of maddened ideals of straightforward approaches and confidences so easily betrayed. Killing all the flies with a six-foot mousetrap is more than overkill or euthanasia (kids in china) can hail to their god and pray for when the oxen fools so belov-ed and spiteful will be lacking in the purest of entertainment like american pie with ala mode on the side. (REDUNDANT).
I've got wings beating flap like tarps, whipping up sand storms on gobi highways to Santa Cruz and the Antarctic, that's to say the opposite side of hell and the eternal undamnable oppression I hate. But I prefer to hat things, to derby them or bowler their mothers womb that sprung them still onward and forward into the field of melons I enjoy smashing for seeds. And maybe one of those sorry sots so ten-gallon-ed or fedora-ed can be shire-d into county-hood, municiple and just in some sense of grave equilibrial evolving nature that escapes the best of me

14 March 2005

Taped-on Tampon Rattlesnakes Shakin'

he's got fasting black lungs made of clove splintered shardes they're the kind that will talk through a wheezing of coughs and i hear him every night in every pore and every time he just makes me warm freeze without an answer free from all the shame i must hide cuz
look at how they flock to him from an isle of open sores he knows that the taste is such to die for

Evil. Couldn't quite hack it to bits last time you saw-ed it, could you? Just a daft idea of a daft people or person, place, or thing (noun). But I have an abject adjective for your brooding parade of ticker tape time bombs squares, a little glitz for your forty ounces and cool shade trees inside the corolla you pull to the curb in. Welcome to the holiday of national dis-awareness that allows me to procreate asexually these ideas in rudimentary
formulatory works of jar-manic
sensory extrudation
reconstituted like the hotdog packing suitcases that you are, no? Tight-fitting suits with folds unfabric-like, but skin all paunchy and mucosal like summer sweat-ed handkerchiefs. It's the Wassily on the wall, the Deluge, inspiration of the morose and insipid kind, no better
I'm afraid.
The dark, the dim, the utterly dorkified. I got some hat pins and collar stays, bobbies and bloodshed on my shovel and spade. Whatever that means. Just whatever. Failure isn't a mystery but a complete triumph of dilettante professionalism, weeding the daringly asymptomatic from the herd. Power in general is a barbarians game, a checkered past played on chess board ivory. Seems to me that the empowered (verb) are not the elected, the equatorial plane shifted up two gears (down and over up one), revving for a revolver, a gunshot to narrowly miss the revolutionary beginning of mad-hatter era.
I'm afraid.
Nothing, not even the people we squish in our bathing suit sundances have had more time in the sun then the long tanned broken back. A proletariat perhaps, but as they're happy, I am to complain. Of the poorest of topics, the lowest of wits, the foulest of gutters that I continue to wade in, all the more triumphant that still has some fun to be found. Is the microphone on, good, cos this is off the record strictly, or else I turn up my disemboweler ray to doom in your shorts. Begin like a kid and
rolling loll in the mud, give it two d's (mudd) just because this is the way language was meant to be heard--> openly
tilt head, gape jaw
rolling eyes back and say aaaaaah.
Callous, calcified, i wait, because its what entire lives are for, just trimming the time with scissors to snowflakes. Trains are comin, trains are comin, little wooden bobbing wheels clack clack clackity on a shoulder blade. I've only time to say that I am far from making a point, but I'll be damned if anyone else is going to make one of me first.
Rest is not gotten from bodily sleep, thus i will never truly find it; rather, it comes from an inner light that has long been darkened by an aching sun I burn beneath.

7 March 2005

Darryl, You Left Your Bunny Head on 'Deep-fry' Again

Then the rosary beads count them 1 2 3
Fell apart as they hit the floor
In a garb of black we must pay respect
To the color we were born to mourn

Come back to the airways like the solid gods of pirate media, microwaving my snackfoods on the radiation arrayed antennas from the farms to the fields to the towering steel eyesores, and half a world away, you can't wash away this stain on the velvet steering vessel south by northeast to home. Subconsciousness seems like a bitch when we hear the words ringing in 3D peals on some rope strung film reel that ‘our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate, but that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us... as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same... as we are liberated from our fear our presence automatically liberates others.’ Sickening this rumour roaming like ice around the corners of my brain freezing off my own mortality into dribbling stew of digital comatic textual form sopped up by god knows who in god knows what forsaken fissure on the left side of the corpus callosum. Flared and fired and silenced by our repetition aren’t we all so shivering-ly fucked into submission as to be tantalised into graphic seething of light and power and transcendence. It's not that I want to FUCK every person that happens to leave me as a passer-by, I'd rather leave them all with a fragment of something burning, a mirror that was more true because it never relied on the eyes, I want to leave every wretched welp of them with a piece of myself until there's nothing left to cry over or hate for, just to be inspired by, pondered, wondered, spectacular dreams to be had.
Check your airways... check the 711, the local newsstand... check the Barfs n' Ignoble down the highway, cos what you're reading, its just rubbish, a dried up SOS thirsting for blood of a different sort, calling out on the waves of ingrained spirit that we've deridden but now must ride. Smooth. Take it as it is. A challenge to all authority and religion, a challenge to all ideas and systems. Cos we are an ASYSTEMATIC set of animals that create order that is so out of place from that which is natural, yet we're stunned to find it decaying and rotting and ruining ourselves and those around us. A mutual affliction is what they call it. We eat away at it while it sucks away at us. Yeah tune in those radios to a different network, navigate your little browser away from my bodiless domain, run and scream and cover your ears because what I want to hear the most is the very first word that comes to your lips when I tell you to beat down every wall, every psychosis that is in your head, to do every stupid thing in the book and yet to be written, to shamefully bear your soul to yourself and tear down what you have become to yourself. Then build it again. Re-compartmentalise, re-evaluate, redefine and compose with fewer and fewer parts. Then do it all again. I want you to be simple, not simple-minded, at ease in the feverish assaults that everyone endures working their way through the streets and sitting at home, all the far-flung, far-fetched titbits of lies and hatred and love and consumerism, or catholicism and nirvana and atman, all the speeches of well-to-do, never-before-common people that say they will do THIS for us. Don't do it for me, I'll do it my fucking self, I'll do it right the first time, and it WILL be beautiful. Don't do it for me, do it for yourself, you mindless wad of over-chewed gristle, do it because you want something more for everyone including yourself. Fuck altruism, fuck personal agenda. Bay at me what you will, turn your radios off, unplug your TV’s, disconnect your internet and smash the monitor to a thousand pieces of electrically charged plastic, but what good will any of it do. They're already in your head, kicking around the morality switch, pushing your partiality button, turning on your pleasure centre that tells you to stay at home and masturbate. They've got you. In the back pocket of a pool hall is all the world can ever be, an orb among orbs tossed around carelessly, and while you jab at her wet spot, they're jabbing at your side of the world, hand on the nuclear disaster of a cue stick, scolding you for not spinning anti-clockwise into winning them a million units of instant gratification.
Check please.

5 March 2005

Eartha Kitt Serrated and Gone Mad

If you don't want to then you could at least pretend
That the paper's your soul and your blood's in the pen
And maybe then you'd see the light
And read the truth that you had to write

Thirty-nine letters of malnutritious sustenance from one mad individual to another madly in love with the concentric nature of the world. It's like reading bad hailstorm trips just shearing bolts through flimsy inside-out umbrellas. A great little book plot, no? All tangled in a plethora of soon to be extinct candied ideas, reused and re-eaten, A-B-C style as kids on the playground slide and gum-stuck see-saw. Such a rush seeing scotrail tickets with an accompanying Kundera nuzzling in a dim lamp pool quite near the Neruda of my brain. Just a sensual book club for novels to swing and slam their readied ideas for anyone willing to hear the ohs and ahs. I have the notion that the I's and me's far outweigh the it's and they's, the relative assumption of beings and bodies and snatched up cloaks and masks to hide in and abide much as they did before. And oh, that was a nasty bugger of a sentence trying to stretch some simplicity. I suppose it will merely suffice to be brief and thoughtless while I'm attempting to think.
Should it take so much effort to create something grand, or is it more proper than my entire existence and thus come only with the simplest of dimpling at the edge of the paper. What god I have come to be, more impotent then the diabetic with circulatory disease, humbled by my own abject humanity slowing shedding like molted snake and skin rolling in the arid desert heat, a truncheoning burden if I do say so. I need some dialogue and a few more characters of appeal to me. Someone of a female form, warm as every woman should be, but more so divine in an unspeakable sense, like a twisting of dagger and nail in my own coffin.
The attention to problem lies in my obsession to detail. Exogenous little silly creatures that you are, you fascinate me in such a morbid sense, a downright hideous development that I am nearly certain I can divert or stunt or punctuate. Claymation movies have the same effect as masturbation, just brining thing to a head, making the dead move again in a torturously sick joke. Dance marionettes in a little dirge, please, because we all know the dead never stay dead for very long, too bored with the overcast shadows, too bored with the musty satin trimmings, and the pillow must be absolute hell.
I shudder to think what lies on the other half of my brain, like a bad Pink Floyd album it could be absolute LSD silverfuck, just a shatteringly devious pitfall for such a daft prat as myself, who thought it only proper to search for that which made it all awesomely real. Could just be an overgrown garden of retro ideas, budding ming vases, and carpeted temples to random items from the clearance rack at a Kmart near you.

2 March 2005

An Elastic Raincoat Isn't as Thoughtful

Animal is hungry
Been sleeping far too long
Gonna fill this lacuna

Don't believe anything you touch. Sensation and perception are the hollow-point wounds of psychological demons. Or something to that effect. I swing canyon to wormhole on subliminal message microwaves sliding neutrons in my pocket for snacks down the road. Just a wasteground here where the land refuses to grow. There's mob-action in the orchard all dip and sway for god knows what reason save for Gertrude Stein that saucy minx. Constantly addicted to the bridge light nightlife we all bus back and down the quay, just queuing up again at one end to the other grabbing neon signs and drunk bar fights on the way. There's always a gentleman caller standing at the doorway stone in stone on a brisk lit black night waiting for the whistle from down the street, and we would all climb in the car and run. Check the weapons and check the attitudes, the egos for basking in self-glory, all at the step up diner where we slung our stomachs full of chilies and beer. Toasting like the white marshmallows we were going diffuse in the grey matter slashing in the trees, we were only goin 30 last i saw the dial swing past Mars.
This is forgiven in the hashed morning grating of bones and cold stone mattresses the great old trees sleep in. While we all may wonder what holiday we began on, or what day we first started hauling the world our way, there were one hundred ninety-eight days of scorched silence and dazzling liquid words tumbling out the sideway windows to the aloof pavement. But at least we had some say. Lucid Joy was a bit more skeptical, just saying we were kids the whole time we were wild, drumming our legs and toes with fingers and wrists popping, just tatting and ratting the rumble in our threads and bones. She was a great gal alright, in for a penny as if it were a fortune all the same, singing the beads to our clefting threads, filling my lil lacuna almost all the way with something saltier than earth and rain and might. It was the essence of the old khakis in that drab hankering hue like
honey I'm gonna come to California
sleeping all the way on the train car through and lamp-lit lingo-ing keeping me up all night in the ramshackle slow dive effect these mean dug birds just these three doves a meal and four corners and a head hung low
by Samo.
Count your sleeping children in decimals and dogs, one per sweating brow in the granary or factory with all the stolen steel of men getting suckled down. There was one time I shoveled out a small hole in myself and threw in everything but the christ I knew. And in a herring's space that howling knew. Much like paved over sand dunes there was always a lot to say for the external obsession while holding my umbrella beneath the ocean tide. Its gonna bury the bits while the tires spin, just muddying up us both. Chortles were the best, the heaviest of guffaws were too unreasonable, and that Joy she said, she said it was just the same all the while humming every little piece of cold out of my hands. Just say we are kids the whole time we were wild and handsome and stoned, shake the steering column with the trembling blast of 'again' as we drive ourselves crazy blazing into the sun rattling the tune of towering dreams to come. Sing a lil Joy song to bring our sons and daughters home, like a lullaby with beat and clamour enough to wake the living.