I been thinking I'd like to see
Your eyes open up real wide
The minute that you see me
But if you don't come through
I wouldn't wait for you
I understand that everyone goes disappearing
Into the greater grey that covers over everyday
And hovers in the distance...
I've been up all night
There are those grating flash metal panes of windows closing on the Chip Chik Inn, crashing in the later evening haze of muddled pink-orange sweeping streetlight dances that shadows play. It's the same ol' clanking of my eyes, tinned and tired of the straining in daylight hours. I could sleep all day to sit up and here that awful music rock me into the nightlines that angels spout naked on the stage. Several fingers of witches brew draining on the temples, already stewed from text and tampering [dabbling] with the lives that sit charged. Gotta be protons, highly positive, no chance to gain that slope-edged sense of reality that way. So much lonelier now with the steel screens plating the world, a highly reflective life, leading to one not helping but seeing the broader image of deep set smiles and dimpled sneers so soul-licked and puckered awaiting the first smear of blood on the sheet.
All monsters in moonlight like living by fire flame and sainted hoods. We rock the angels in their cribs and whisper into their dreams, wondering if the last bruise we left will ever settle back and wind away, graying as we do at the temples and chin. Hoary they call it. Dead to be, maybe. Funny how time tears away while we count its rapid token taking. I was 81 last second I checked, but I still don't know if it was just last year when I held out my hand in earnest. Honest [token].
Another puff of hale hell winding back on the tips of their toes, they've always been the ones to pirouette on shadows' bones. The shutters dropping the screeching jazz beats so vulgar to the 40's. Jive and forget life. That's the key to living, the only impediment is the thing itself that everyone tries to make sense of.
I need a new god maybe. Someone to lay down the blame on me so I stop forgetting to, but there's already a few of those, one fogey, a million and one sheep, a guy with a silly purple skull cap. [sad]I am, or rather I was, a voter. I voted for living, possibly mistaken on the terms, I voted for fucking up. I here Frankie going to Hollywood in the bus traffic slums, cracking pavement like footsteps of the men who have no home.
We walk, they and I. Washing the drab colors from minds, giving a match to the uninspired, building up a house in a city for someone else. The last thing that was mine, was that single melody. A clanking scratch of aluminum and steel, a gust and rattle of double glazed banshees waking me from some poor thought-out reverie on a city block above the thumping street, still beating with the drumming thumbing index fingers pointing to the next big goal. I wanna be here, go there, stay up to see the dusk light fade, I wanna be ten again, married, childless and poor, I wanna save a seal, go to Vegas and be a millionaire. You get the idea I think. It's a street of meager dreams that calls me in. Maybe just the music is enough to keep me thinking the great and passionate life is reeling beyond the next horizon or eclipse. It's home somehow, all puzzles and jagged glass broken on my doorstep.
Cheers.
21 April 2005
15 April 2005
Olivier and the Mukluk Laden Swans
It takes two beers to remember now
and five to forget
Nonsense is unified in its own being, that is, it is utterly nonsense,all of it, completely. In this sense, then, nonsense makes more sense than anything rational. Rationality has trouble connecting everything to everything, just look at the wheelies that Hawking pulls trying to tie those fields down into words and numbers. But nonsense is utterly ridiculous in its every aspect and therefore immediately relates to the irrationality of everything else nonsensical ever conceived, like a child from a virgin. Don't break your brain into the eighties' frying pan and start sayin' no. With four white stallions I can chase the dreams that children do, or laugh in complete sentuality that real laughter procreates beyond the history of forgetting what we have laughed for in the past. Dunno what I've been lazy for, but I doubt it was the landslide victory of apathy over justice, got an inkling it was because she was a breach-born child tied up and wrung out feet first into the water of the world.
Stung in the wind and cooling hands we have let them sit so idly but then again, what have we waited for without a thought to despair? Artificial light tends to breakdown at the barrier of sound intensified lulls. That deadened space behind the ears just sucks around the rays, like a bending soup bowl around a spoon. Never confuse them for the plates which are flat in the middle and not dipped in toasted bits of artificial life defying lapses. Sure, it was your judgement, but they assumed you'd be more of a smart one than the health department. Sugar shakes in jars [sha-sha, kweller, sha-sha] while we google ourselves for bits of best parts. Not much to that one really.
We have been
but what difference does that mean for our making
connections in injunct colostomies
its a matter of cracking that source code, and leave Dan "fuck me I'm an idiot" Brown out of it all. Writing does not make a writer, art does not make a learned man. With no point or perspective its like climbing the wool on an inverted slide, pegs in hands and fumbling buttons on bras, etc etc etc etc... etcetera. [period asshole]
None comes at first and its a clay tap for water spicket. I like cake too you know. Jammiedodgers and cake.
You think its that easy, just stomach to brain to central logical unit of amassed whateverness, but I can't imagine an amassed logicalness thats ever more logical enough to ponder cake continually.
So I like cake. No really, I like cake.
and five to forget
Nonsense is unified in its own being, that is, it is utterly nonsense,all of it, completely. In this sense, then, nonsense makes more sense than anything rational. Rationality has trouble connecting everything to everything, just look at the wheelies that Hawking pulls trying to tie those fields down into words and numbers. But nonsense is utterly ridiculous in its every aspect and therefore immediately relates to the irrationality of everything else nonsensical ever conceived, like a child from a virgin. Don't break your brain into the eighties' frying pan and start sayin' no. With four white stallions I can chase the dreams that children do, or laugh in complete sentuality that real laughter procreates beyond the history of forgetting what we have laughed for in the past. Dunno what I've been lazy for, but I doubt it was the landslide victory of apathy over justice, got an inkling it was because she was a breach-born child tied up and wrung out feet first into the water of the world.
Stung in the wind and cooling hands we have let them sit so idly but then again, what have we waited for without a thought to despair? Artificial light tends to breakdown at the barrier of sound intensified lulls. That deadened space behind the ears just sucks around the rays, like a bending soup bowl around a spoon. Never confuse them for the plates which are flat in the middle and not dipped in toasted bits of artificial life defying lapses. Sure, it was your judgement, but they assumed you'd be more of a smart one than the health department. Sugar shakes in jars [sha-sha, kweller, sha-sha] while we google ourselves for bits of best parts. Not much to that one really.
We have been
but what difference does that mean for our making
connections in injunct colostomies
its a matter of cracking that source code, and leave Dan "fuck me I'm an idiot" Brown out of it all. Writing does not make a writer, art does not make a learned man. With no point or perspective its like climbing the wool on an inverted slide, pegs in hands and fumbling buttons on bras, etc etc etc etc... etcetera. [period asshole]
None comes at first and its a clay tap for water spicket. I like cake too you know. Jammiedodgers and cake.
You think its that easy, just stomach to brain to central logical unit of amassed whateverness, but I can't imagine an amassed logicalness thats ever more logical enough to ponder cake continually.
So I like cake. No really, I like cake.
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]
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
Cheers.
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
Cheers.
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.
Recoil.
Cheers.
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.
Recoil.
Cheers.
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.
Cheers.
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.
Cheers.
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.
Cheers.
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.
Cheers.
2 March 2005
An Elastic Raincoat Isn't as Thoughtful
Animal is hungry
Been sleeping far too long
Gonna fill this lacuna
Somehow
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.
Cheers.
Been sleeping far too long
Gonna fill this lacuna
Somehow
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.
Cheers.
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.
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.
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.
Cheers.
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.
Cheers.
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 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
feeling
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.
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
feeling
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,
shuffled
thwock
i can here the water slipping ocean under skin
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,
shuffled
thwock
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
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.
Cheers.
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.
Cheers.
31 January 2005
Nose Grease the Anti-Head and Other 21st Century Heroes
But you never will go far
In a Japanese car
Just thinking of the things that we've missed
So I realise that I haven't put the pictures up that I promised, but let's be honest with each other, none of you actually read this webpage, so really I'm only aggravating myself by not having them posted, no? I mean, I get visitors and all, but you stay for about 30 seconds, which is exactly the amount of time it takes for one to realise I am the Devil. So I figure, I got time, I can do whatever I like, like read a book and listen to ... And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead, because, I like to do these things, just like you like to touch your mom at night. Don't lie, I'm sure plenty of other people are the same way... ok, that was a lie, you're a freak, go beat yourself to within an inch of lifelessness. Seriously. Do it. Go on. Alright... THAT IS FUCKIN IT, i will play widget with your head using a cricket bat goddammit!
Fine then, lemme go by one after I finish typing this, which could take awhile since I am simultaneously (yes, I used a big word, I'm proud of me, too) rockin out to the aforementioned AYWKUBTTOD, try sayin that 5 times fast. But I transgress, or digress, or regress, or something like that, that one word, you know, the sector and chord thingy with circles and yeah... yeah. Chuff. It's still the word of the day, and has been for some time i might add. So just to get it out of the way: chuff chuff chuff chuff chuff chuff chuff the chuffinator the chuffmeister the chuffster. Ok, I'm all better now.
There's been that feeling creeping up on me unseen, it just wrapped me in some silk this afternoon while I was waking from the bus. A great density of sleep like a weight of tog and heavy cotton flannel warmed and soften. I am in the mood for hibernation again, just as in every year. As all other animals and people begin to wake up and end their long sleepy winters I get snuggled down in for the spring and summer. An oddity I'm well aware, but the sun and I never have been akin to one another. Oh sure, I like many people enjoy the aesthetic beauty of a good tan. I like the darkened burnt umber look of it, baked skin, knowing I earned it from long hours working out of doors. I like how it nears the black charred skin inked not so long ago, happy at times to have the shade that he leaves me in turn. Nonetheless, I have always been composed of the darker things, moon and shadow, dark and cloud. It's no wonder my imagination tends toward these bent things, a world where right and wrong cease to exist. Sure the sun and I converse as I occasionally bask in it, but these are but brief conversations of the wind and sea, determining how one should leave the other. And so then he too will pass the equator and leave me in the shadows of early evenings and icy chills of winter.
I hunger for rest and unwearied silence.
Cheers.
In a Japanese car
Just thinking of the things that we've missed
So I realise that I haven't put the pictures up that I promised, but let's be honest with each other, none of you actually read this webpage, so really I'm only aggravating myself by not having them posted, no? I mean, I get visitors and all, but you stay for about 30 seconds, which is exactly the amount of time it takes for one to realise I am the Devil. So I figure, I got time, I can do whatever I like, like read a book and listen to ... And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead, because, I like to do these things, just like you like to touch your mom at night. Don't lie, I'm sure plenty of other people are the same way... ok, that was a lie, you're a freak, go beat yourself to within an inch of lifelessness. Seriously. Do it. Go on. Alright... THAT IS FUCKIN IT, i will play widget with your head using a cricket bat goddammit!
Fine then, lemme go by one after I finish typing this, which could take awhile since I am simultaneously (yes, I used a big word, I'm proud of me, too) rockin out to the aforementioned AYWKUBTTOD, try sayin that 5 times fast. But I transgress, or digress, or regress, or something like that, that one word, you know, the sector and chord thingy with circles and yeah... yeah. Chuff. It's still the word of the day, and has been for some time i might add. So just to get it out of the way: chuff chuff chuff chuff chuff chuff chuff the chuffinator the chuffmeister the chuffster. Ok, I'm all better now.
There's been that feeling creeping up on me unseen, it just wrapped me in some silk this afternoon while I was waking from the bus. A great density of sleep like a weight of tog and heavy cotton flannel warmed and soften. I am in the mood for hibernation again, just as in every year. As all other animals and people begin to wake up and end their long sleepy winters I get snuggled down in for the spring and summer. An oddity I'm well aware, but the sun and I never have been akin to one another. Oh sure, I like many people enjoy the aesthetic beauty of a good tan. I like the darkened burnt umber look of it, baked skin, knowing I earned it from long hours working out of doors. I like how it nears the black charred skin inked not so long ago, happy at times to have the shade that he leaves me in turn. Nonetheless, I have always been composed of the darker things, moon and shadow, dark and cloud. It's no wonder my imagination tends toward these bent things, a world where right and wrong cease to exist. Sure the sun and I converse as I occasionally bask in it, but these are but brief conversations of the wind and sea, determining how one should leave the other. And so then he too will pass the equator and leave me in the shadows of early evenings and icy chills of winter.
I hunger for rest and unwearied silence.
Cheers.
25 January 2005
Dragon Skin and a Pouting Rima
If it takes 40 years to get the things that I need sir
If it takes 40 years I'’ll walk the thunder and the rain
I'm not quite sure what I am anymore, nor where I would per se begin even defining myself in terms people use. Oh, yes, people have been berating me of these things recently, little pustules in my arse that they are. Realise this: I have no need for human contact other than to ease my day to day living and boredom. Human, I feel is an antiquated term, ill fitting and hatcheted apart in order to make room for me. It's not like I care anymore about the general human condition, or as if I identify with anyone as brethren. I feel a bit like god these days, so far removed and not only reflected but also understood poorly in each of the passerbys that I cross on Bearsden to Byres to West George and Regent and Renfrew. Commonly thought of as a joke, a mockery, but more subtle and worth intoning and evoking when strength is needed, that is how I am. People ask about the ink and it's a fairly simple story. Don't even begin to bust my balls on the seeming tangent this statement makes, because it IS relevant. The markings are simple, a map of sorts for my own reminder, inherent meaning given to each of the symbols, shapes, shadings, positions, blah blah blah. Horseshit. Meaningless is the essence, oh and I hear the silly sot goths rejoice wearing far too much metal in their skulls. Cunts. These are all difficult areas, so gray, such that narrowmindedness never really helps. Meaningless is a frame of mind, a frame of freedom. It's a prevention of dissention, no value, no morals, no betters, no peers. This is how I am.
Too much righteous anger is almost blissful thanks to a bit too much Transmetropolitan that I've delved (is that even a verb tense?) into today trying to root out the remainder of regret and concern and all the tiny seeds of emotion. I do feel a bit like Spider Jerusalem, which by the way is a fucking awesome name if I've ever heard one. Though I must say that Jack Kavanaugh is genius paralleled by none. I can't say whether I find this haggard circuitry a bit better than semi-functional of the same variety, whether its better to respond and crumple and rise again or to simply not sense and sit and utter a small 'meh'. Because 'meh' is the epitome of apathy and the endorsement of moving on to a different type of life, lifestyle, death, killing, consumerism, belief, non-belief, whatever.
I sit in a library soaking in the words to recycle and rush rampant to page, just so I can watch them tear down the paper and burn the world from a spark in a child's mind. I want to see that flame I kindled take hold and bash a head into another head and start a war of ideas, an exchange where resolution and growth are inevitable. But what do they want. They work, they toil so hard, sometimes even indifferently to the rest of them, but they work so fleetingly. These people don't breathe fire, I've met no one like that yet. Instead they eat themselves, they eat others, they eat each other, and worst of all they eat their own ash and flame. They burn at themselves, trying to make something of themselves at the cost of their minds and bodies and those around them. Caustic cancers of their souls. I didn't burn out, or so I like to think. I merely redirected the heat when it became too much for one person to hold, before it began to fuel itself on the excelsior that I would have been for it. Oh, sure, I would have ignited the sky, flaring like a sunward prominence, all helium and hydrogen exploding, but in a second, a novic flash, I would have gone to nothing, absolute nothing. Instead, I diverted everything to the lost words that sat in bottles in windows and dreamcatchers' webs. I found a use for the creation I was given, a way to extend myself into a different matter of greatness. While they burn away making something of themselves, I will long sit making something of the world, editing it in blue pen and people's ideas. The new currency. I might not be an Eli Wiesel, a Jack Kerouac, a Haruki Murakami, a Tolstoy, or a Vonnegut. But it's impossible to judge the expanse they've tread across. I will take my victory in one mind or two.
I want to see a child take a step I took, follow my spirit, follow my words, use them as I did and dream another layer further. I want to start a war, I want to see death. They can have their fame, their self-contained candleic light. Give me my infamy, my fire and ice.
Cheers
If it takes 40 years I'’ll walk the thunder and the rain
"We need a voice, they say. That's all. We're sick of your hate, and we don't need your pity. We need a VOICE. Just for us. All of us. The new scum."
-- Spider Jerusalem, Transmetropolitan
I'm not quite sure what I am anymore, nor where I would per se begin even defining myself in terms people use. Oh, yes, people have been berating me of these things recently, little pustules in my arse that they are. Realise this: I have no need for human contact other than to ease my day to day living and boredom. Human, I feel is an antiquated term, ill fitting and hatcheted apart in order to make room for me. It's not like I care anymore about the general human condition, or as if I identify with anyone as brethren. I feel a bit like god these days, so far removed and not only reflected but also understood poorly in each of the passerbys that I cross on Bearsden to Byres to West George and Regent and Renfrew. Commonly thought of as a joke, a mockery, but more subtle and worth intoning and evoking when strength is needed, that is how I am. People ask about the ink and it's a fairly simple story. Don't even begin to bust my balls on the seeming tangent this statement makes, because it IS relevant. The markings are simple, a map of sorts for my own reminder, inherent meaning given to each of the symbols, shapes, shadings, positions, blah blah blah. Horseshit. Meaningless is the essence, oh and I hear the silly sot goths rejoice wearing far too much metal in their skulls. Cunts. These are all difficult areas, so gray, such that narrowmindedness never really helps. Meaningless is a frame of mind, a frame of freedom. It's a prevention of dissention, no value, no morals, no betters, no peers. This is how I am.
Too much righteous anger is almost blissful thanks to a bit too much Transmetropolitan that I've delved (is that even a verb tense?) into today trying to root out the remainder of regret and concern and all the tiny seeds of emotion. I do feel a bit like Spider Jerusalem, which by the way is a fucking awesome name if I've ever heard one. Though I must say that Jack Kavanaugh is genius paralleled by none. I can't say whether I find this haggard circuitry a bit better than semi-functional of the same variety, whether its better to respond and crumple and rise again or to simply not sense and sit and utter a small 'meh'. Because 'meh' is the epitome of apathy and the endorsement of moving on to a different type of life, lifestyle, death, killing, consumerism, belief, non-belief, whatever.
I sit in a library soaking in the words to recycle and rush rampant to page, just so I can watch them tear down the paper and burn the world from a spark in a child's mind. I want to see that flame I kindled take hold and bash a head into another head and start a war of ideas, an exchange where resolution and growth are inevitable. But what do they want. They work, they toil so hard, sometimes even indifferently to the rest of them, but they work so fleetingly. These people don't breathe fire, I've met no one like that yet. Instead they eat themselves, they eat others, they eat each other, and worst of all they eat their own ash and flame. They burn at themselves, trying to make something of themselves at the cost of their minds and bodies and those around them. Caustic cancers of their souls. I didn't burn out, or so I like to think. I merely redirected the heat when it became too much for one person to hold, before it began to fuel itself on the excelsior that I would have been for it. Oh, sure, I would have ignited the sky, flaring like a sunward prominence, all helium and hydrogen exploding, but in a second, a novic flash, I would have gone to nothing, absolute nothing. Instead, I diverted everything to the lost words that sat in bottles in windows and dreamcatchers' webs. I found a use for the creation I was given, a way to extend myself into a different matter of greatness. While they burn away making something of themselves, I will long sit making something of the world, editing it in blue pen and people's ideas. The new currency. I might not be an Eli Wiesel, a Jack Kerouac, a Haruki Murakami, a Tolstoy, or a Vonnegut. But it's impossible to judge the expanse they've tread across. I will take my victory in one mind or two.
I want to see a child take a step I took, follow my spirit, follow my words, use them as I did and dream another layer further. I want to start a war, I want to see death. They can have their fame, their self-contained candleic light. Give me my infamy, my fire and ice.
Cheers
23 January 2005
Stratum Tectorum over Mad Hatter Dreams
(january rain)
What I adore most in people is this mad living, this lively fire that they go against the world itself to satisfy whatever it is that hails them, that strikes out like open fist to breast. Not cntent in any manner to lay down. So splendid in a way yet so foolish, since failure is far greater upon its slamming reproach. Far be it from me to tell one child or another to ever stop imagining themself as a greater being. Imagine a world where everyone simply ceased to dream in life, stopped believing themselves better in any way, forgot to sing to themselves on the long walks home. I can't imagine the world sounding as sweet without the millions of hushed hums of tunes, happy or sad, melancholy or cheerful, triumphant or completely dejected. An odd symphony perhaps, more so than Mahler, but still how would this greening earth in all its change spin the tepid birthing of the thousands. Oh to have that child of light returned.
I remember the time i uponed that quote, though I may have altered it so slightly, but you see it doesn't matter since the idea is the same. That passion, inexplicable in origin and inexorable overall is that which didn't return to consciousness with me except for in ideal. My rather hollow self as is can only imagine and dream of that golden flame, not to say im either better or worse for it, but that I am merely at times jealous, needing almost of something to be passionate for. Man is warrior in more than armored form, with gauntlets of ivy and steel pens fluttering amongst the plumes of ideas.
I am far too jealous of Kerouac and his discovery drawn from such text:
Oh, but I am ornamental to this world, a slight flourish on the leather binding that more than seals the tome. If not for me, I think there would be maybe just a small decline in the grandeur, an inappreciation of the cobbled stone paths we all follow in our own due time. But that's merely a mad mad man dreaming chaos and nonsense late in the arctic eve. A metropolis does not love me, nor does any other being perhaps, but what consequence need I fear when all awe-bound and agape at the simplicity of the mechanism, the very corniced pattern so repetitious behind the great stone block walls that compose my fabric mind and breathe. Silk and cotton sheeting so static in folds and treading sway. No clamour can wake the touring soul, all eve hung an starbound, earthly no more it may tilt ever so off the skewed wasted visions of emaciated slung stones. We are chartreuse and silver just fashioned for the calm night sea-skies, to be noted off the gray wavering ordinary.
Cheers.
"What I want now is to kiss her. I think to myself that anything she wants after that is fine, anything at all, so long as i can kiss her. Madly i kissed her the last time. In the taxi. After whiskey. Whiskey kisses are the best kisses. They are hot and more wet and more urgent and more essence of kiss. This feeling came on suddenly. Longing. This feeling is like a cry, an open-mouthed cry, an O."
What I adore most in people is this mad living, this lively fire that they go against the world itself to satisfy whatever it is that hails them, that strikes out like open fist to breast. Not cntent in any manner to lay down. So splendid in a way yet so foolish, since failure is far greater upon its slamming reproach. Far be it from me to tell one child or another to ever stop imagining themself as a greater being. Imagine a world where everyone simply ceased to dream in life, stopped believing themselves better in any way, forgot to sing to themselves on the long walks home. I can't imagine the world sounding as sweet without the millions of hushed hums of tunes, happy or sad, melancholy or cheerful, triumphant or completely dejected. An odd symphony perhaps, more so than Mahler, but still how would this greening earth in all its change spin the tepid birthing of the thousands. Oh to have that child of light returned.
I remember the time i uponed that quote, though I may have altered it so slightly, but you see it doesn't matter since the idea is the same. That passion, inexplicable in origin and inexorable overall is that which didn't return to consciousness with me except for in ideal. My rather hollow self as is can only imagine and dream of that golden flame, not to say im either better or worse for it, but that I am merely at times jealous, needing almost of something to be passionate for. Man is warrior in more than armored form, with gauntlets of ivy and steel pens fluttering amongst the plumes of ideas.
I am far too jealous of Kerouac and his discovery drawn from such text:
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars..."
Oh, but I am ornamental to this world, a slight flourish on the leather binding that more than seals the tome. If not for me, I think there would be maybe just a small decline in the grandeur, an inappreciation of the cobbled stone paths we all follow in our own due time. But that's merely a mad mad man dreaming chaos and nonsense late in the arctic eve. A metropolis does not love me, nor does any other being perhaps, but what consequence need I fear when all awe-bound and agape at the simplicity of the mechanism, the very corniced pattern so repetitious behind the great stone block walls that compose my fabric mind and breathe. Silk and cotton sheeting so static in folds and treading sway. No clamour can wake the touring soul, all eve hung an starbound, earthly no more it may tilt ever so off the skewed wasted visions of emaciated slung stones. We are chartreuse and silver just fashioned for the calm night sea-skies, to be noted off the gray wavering ordinary.
Cheers.
19 January 2005
Pubic Symphyseal Torsion
Peoples are flowers
Musicians are cowards
lets argue in the kitchen
For hours and hours
Tomorrow is a travesty
Tomorrow should be ours
Musicians are cowards!
A fancy title to entail just the content of this fancy blog. Despite its continual overhauling and constant venue change, it never seems to attract the attention I never wanted. Kind of disappoiting that the public loathes rather than adores. Now I realise that I do not always have the most cogitent or even entertaining things to say. But I'm fucking floating text in cyberspace you nunces, what more can you expect when I'm completely detached from the freezer door jamb. No good seal is gonna form and then the ice builds and then the stuff starts melting and oi with the poodlesicles!!
I could begin to explain all the rash judgements that come my way, or even the ones that narrowly miss, or even those that hit me smack in the head. But I'd rather not, just the same, just as I'd rather not explain my own rash judgements. Can't we all just let me be and I'll continue to criticise how ever I see fit, hmm? Can we? Or did I get stuck in third grade? Cos lecture the other day, I coulda sworn the prof was trying to make me feel like I was being a bad lil boy, and not in that way that would make Tina go "ooo, that tickles me," either. Who knows.
I must apologise for the recent batch of rubbish, I've been reading far too much at too fast a pace for my brain to process all the imagery and allow for word molt (thats molt not mold). That and stress adds silly things to the game, like rolling the dice on uneven ground, the combinations become endless as the juggled items wiggle around and jiggle like J-E-L-L-Ooooooo.
I have begun making grand and non-meaningful travel plans, as in vague and completely off the wall. First thing is first. I'm going to Stirling before spring break, maybe next weekend, just for shits and giggles, tho hopefully for more giggles than shits, cos seriously I only have so many boxers. Theyre not brown yet, more of a beige, but I'm aiming to maintain that for awhile. I figure the farming this summer will totally run me into dark brown territory. It's like the Homeland Paranoid alert. After that is Edinburgh, hopefully for an entire day culminating in me attaining bragging rights for seeing the DiFranco at Queens Hall. We shall see.
The biggie I'm planning on two stages, because first I have to coax the parents into applying for a larger loan to allow funds for it. I mean, I've already traveled 3500 miles to be here, I might as well go the other 2500 to Bhutan. And Florence, and Naples, and Marseilles, and Bath. But I shall start farther, Australia will just have to wait to experience the me that is Jack motherfuckin Cavanaugh.
Oh and I haven't even mentioned the awesomeness that is Mars Volta coming to Glasgow in a couple months along with Arab Strap's performance scheduled in tandem to Biffy Clyro's next month on the same day (alas!), so I can only see one. Tough choice, very tough. Soundtrack of Our Lives and Mull Historical are also playin soon, and unfortunately I'm skippin out on Idlewild and The Autumns, the former because I have a previous engagement involving wine and movies and cards, the latter cos its the same day and is sold out already (bastages takin my tickets!!!).
So it would seem I have little to say other than the usual:
YOUR MOM!
Cheers.
Musicians are cowards
lets argue in the kitchen
For hours and hours
Tomorrow is a travesty
Tomorrow should be ours
Musicians are cowards!
A fancy title to entail just the content of this fancy blog. Despite its continual overhauling and constant venue change, it never seems to attract the attention I never wanted. Kind of disappoiting that the public loathes rather than adores. Now I realise that I do not always have the most cogitent or even entertaining things to say. But I'm fucking floating text in cyberspace you nunces, what more can you expect when I'm completely detached from the freezer door jamb. No good seal is gonna form and then the ice builds and then the stuff starts melting and oi with the poodlesicles!!
I could begin to explain all the rash judgements that come my way, or even the ones that narrowly miss, or even those that hit me smack in the head. But I'd rather not, just the same, just as I'd rather not explain my own rash judgements. Can't we all just let me be and I'll continue to criticise how ever I see fit, hmm? Can we? Or did I get stuck in third grade? Cos lecture the other day, I coulda sworn the prof was trying to make me feel like I was being a bad lil boy, and not in that way that would make Tina go "ooo, that tickles me," either. Who knows.
I must apologise for the recent batch of rubbish, I've been reading far too much at too fast a pace for my brain to process all the imagery and allow for word molt (thats molt not mold). That and stress adds silly things to the game, like rolling the dice on uneven ground, the combinations become endless as the juggled items wiggle around and jiggle like J-E-L-L-Ooooooo.
I have begun making grand and non-meaningful travel plans, as in vague and completely off the wall. First thing is first. I'm going to Stirling before spring break, maybe next weekend, just for shits and giggles, tho hopefully for more giggles than shits, cos seriously I only have so many boxers. Theyre not brown yet, more of a beige, but I'm aiming to maintain that for awhile. I figure the farming this summer will totally run me into dark brown territory. It's like the Homeland Paranoid alert. After that is Edinburgh, hopefully for an entire day culminating in me attaining bragging rights for seeing the DiFranco at Queens Hall. We shall see.
The biggie I'm planning on two stages, because first I have to coax the parents into applying for a larger loan to allow funds for it. I mean, I've already traveled 3500 miles to be here, I might as well go the other 2500 to Bhutan. And Florence, and Naples, and Marseilles, and Bath. But I shall start farther, Australia will just have to wait to experience the me that is Jack motherfuckin Cavanaugh.
Oh and I haven't even mentioned the awesomeness that is Mars Volta coming to Glasgow in a couple months along with Arab Strap's performance scheduled in tandem to Biffy Clyro's next month on the same day (alas!), so I can only see one. Tough choice, very tough. Soundtrack of Our Lives and Mull Historical are also playin soon, and unfortunately I'm skippin out on Idlewild and The Autumns, the former because I have a previous engagement involving wine and movies and cards, the latter cos its the same day and is sold out already (bastages takin my tickets!!!).
So it would seem I have little to say other than the usual:
YOUR MOM!
Cheers.
14 January 2005
Calligula's Horse and Suited Hedgehogs
People look and tell me justboy.
I don't believe in anything,
that's the message in your eyes
Plastic-wrapped domestic lives are all the rage these days when window shopping on Bluelight Special and Broadway. From the fuzzy hip boots to dishpan hand waders like duck cap hunting calls, they're all the fat of the fads... except Georgio Mousilini piano wire, because there's yet to be a stronger tone. Hatred and Hallmark and Hellfire with Heaven all clad in bras at the Ann Taylor summer dress collection. They are the finest crowd all dapper and diligent. The wee nunce of a man who scorns them all, well we just like to call him Ed Partruition, but God is his name all the same.
"Just like all men
I gave up the sense"
, he said like enfuego futuristic plane fuselages roaring off my baseball cap.
Saturdays are coming past midnight, like trains past Chi to Cheyenne, so much better with pi to 9 digits. It's just a sad sappy state of temporary affairs
lost
in
perspiratory asphyxiation.
I am 66 on the 38th of this past month, a day that comes rarely in a millennia let alone two. But 66 ain't so old as 12. I flew the first idea straight past Orion at that age, a rocket of a young'n with a y'all swiftly tilting past my furry planet of an imagination. I read what I wrote like it was Jack London in the winter, just secluded me and the fire burning books in pyres like Dido.
Fantastic.
But dream it like you own the world.
Not just fantastic fantasy, but more like that raw dragon on earth with knights shooting lightning. These are the sorts of
echoes
that
tandem
out out out
just cyclic
out out out
cos without canyons I wouldn't have a pressure of memory back on my sulci and gyri slick as they are. Always floating in a sea of spinal tapped fluid with maybe a tad of meningitis, or the Scottish flu... I like that, what he said just then. It was something I would have said, though maybe I did and just lost it on its way down to the ear on the floor.
Floorboards.
Too many people scuff it and then all the sound goes out, like a deadpan ringer of a Charlie Chaplin soliloquy as Radiohead goes all piano and sans-vox for their next Brit Award round while dodging the Grammy's.
Parlay, parlay, parlay, and God said Ed was right but going by me was all the better.
Such nonsense, or no sense, or sense as it were would seem? But all the while the wee babe slept hung vineward in the vineyard once waylaid
hacked and strapped
to pieces, because they're all the better for stew and such brew as a personality should be. "What fun" said me as he.
"All golden men should merely begin from small ideas to trees."
Cheers.
I don't believe in anything,
that's the message in your eyes
Plastic-wrapped domestic lives are all the rage these days when window shopping on Bluelight Special and Broadway. From the fuzzy hip boots to dishpan hand waders like duck cap hunting calls, they're all the fat of the fads... except Georgio Mousilini piano wire, because there's yet to be a stronger tone. Hatred and Hallmark and Hellfire with Heaven all clad in bras at the Ann Taylor summer dress collection. They are the finest crowd all dapper and diligent. The wee nunce of a man who scorns them all, well we just like to call him Ed Partruition, but God is his name all the same.
"Just like all men
I gave up the sense"
, he said like enfuego futuristic plane fuselages roaring off my baseball cap.
Saturdays are coming past midnight, like trains past Chi to Cheyenne, so much better with pi to 9 digits. It's just a sad sappy state of temporary affairs
lost
in
perspiratory asphyxiation.
I am 66 on the 38th of this past month, a day that comes rarely in a millennia let alone two. But 66 ain't so old as 12. I flew the first idea straight past Orion at that age, a rocket of a young'n with a y'all swiftly tilting past my furry planet of an imagination. I read what I wrote like it was Jack London in the winter, just secluded me and the fire burning books in pyres like Dido.
Fantastic.
But dream it like you own the world.
Not just fantastic fantasy, but more like that raw dragon on earth with knights shooting lightning. These are the sorts of
echoes
that
tandem
out out out
just cyclic
out out out
cos without canyons I wouldn't have a pressure of memory back on my sulci and gyri slick as they are. Always floating in a sea of spinal tapped fluid with maybe a tad of meningitis, or the Scottish flu... I like that, what he said just then. It was something I would have said, though maybe I did and just lost it on its way down to the ear on the floor.
Floorboards.
Too many people scuff it and then all the sound goes out, like a deadpan ringer of a Charlie Chaplin soliloquy as Radiohead goes all piano and sans-vox for their next Brit Award round while dodging the Grammy's.
Parlay, parlay, parlay, and God said Ed was right but going by me was all the better.
Such nonsense, or no sense, or sense as it were would seem? But all the while the wee babe slept hung vineward in the vineyard once waylaid
hacked and strapped
to pieces, because they're all the better for stew and such brew as a personality should be. "What fun" said me as he.
"All golden men should merely begin from small ideas to trees."
Cheers.
11 January 2005
Porous Maps and the Waterproof Coordinates
(insert incomprehensible The Pop Song lyrics here)
We are all on our own. Whether repub or demolition, child daughter or prodigal son of Aristophones, we have yet to be a part of anything so long as we reject that we are a part, a massive stake in, a tremendous mistake in, everything we have created out of our perception. But that's just me being weird at 5:40 in the evening on an empty stomach as it grumbles the hour at every tick of a clock I've obviously yet to buy. Did you suddenly grow a pair of bosoms? Did your penis suddenly recede into a cunt to make you my mother? I wonder, is she really all my mother, or just a fragment like we all are of ourselves. That's what wondering
is for
no?
So I write in illiterate states and shout through megaphones at the shackled deaf, because what better way to free them than by swimming in their sewage. All those unused words, neither spoken nor written, do they ever die? Is there a shelf life for the things we've yet to say? Or have we got unperishable goods of our goodly selves only spoiled by a rotten nature of the better halves that know what is to know for sure? Maybe there was more to Kerouac, but maybe he let it all go out with the Sunday paper and that quart of milk still sitting in the sun.
But maybe,
just maybe once or twice,
maybe the word molts. Like a crustacean tired of a shell, maybe they become better or worse. And maybe
just maybe tonight
that's what we were for all along. Consequently, have we ever then traveled the full length of a sentence? Or always been stuck on the one misplaced modifier that someone left out of the greatest novel written?
an open letter to jean-luis lebris,
was it grey who taught you to dream so monochromatically, or had you always been chasing down the west wall with unicorn skulls in hand? kafka had his beetles and you had your sea, for that i admire both city and town. maybe we'll all be mad to live and mad to burn across stars in a blue burst and fading web, just mad men with mad streaming eyes.
We are all on our own. Whether repub or demolition, child daughter or prodigal son of Aristophones, we have yet to be a part of anything so long as we reject that we are a part, a massive stake in, a tremendous mistake in, everything we have created out of our perception. But that's just me being weird at 5:40 in the evening on an empty stomach as it grumbles the hour at every tick of a clock I've obviously yet to buy. Did you suddenly grow a pair of bosoms? Did your penis suddenly recede into a cunt to make you my mother? I wonder, is she really all my mother, or just a fragment like we all are of ourselves. That's what wondering
is for
no?
So I write in illiterate states and shout through megaphones at the shackled deaf, because what better way to free them than by swimming in their sewage. All those unused words, neither spoken nor written, do they ever die? Is there a shelf life for the things we've yet to say? Or have we got unperishable goods of our goodly selves only spoiled by a rotten nature of the better halves that know what is to know for sure? Maybe there was more to Kerouac, but maybe he let it all go out with the Sunday paper and that quart of milk still sitting in the sun.
But maybe,
just maybe once or twice,
maybe the word molts. Like a crustacean tired of a shell, maybe they become better or worse. And maybe
just maybe tonight
that's what we were for all along. Consequently, have we ever then traveled the full length of a sentence? Or always been stuck on the one misplaced modifier that someone left out of the greatest novel written?
9 January 2005
Myanmar in Post-Coital Smoke Rings
it's prosperous lying awake invitation guess what
coast to coast, vivid i'm a visitor here
i'm a visitor here
parking and walking away parking and walking away
ting ting those four feel the pavement is poor
i still believe in getting low i still believe
the history of half past ten
Did you know I'm leaving you in 14 days? Take all the precious things.
Midnight Mania has come a bit early, but I suppose it is all in anticipation of another term. I can't yet recall what I was gonna type before, it was profound, profundissimus as it were even, but nevertheless, lost. Alas, poor brain, I knew him well, that is before he got all knackered with lack of sleep and fingers of scotch that danced in my guiness filled stomach upon my return to home. These are the pitfalls of impending doom.
I feel like painting, something in watercolors maybe or with fingers and hands, something hands on, so I can feel the creation. It's one of those small impulses that creep from the base of your skull in your sleep and then warm your ears with humming of strange little chords. I found Murakami absolutely brilliant, but I'm still short some Kerouac soon to be remedied I hope. It's part of my continuing education of sorts, reaping and raping ideas for all I can, building things on top of things in a sort of plunderous hazard of philosophy and acoutrement.
And then the idea vents into my brain as the text spreads like diseased gangrene on this blank little bit of cyberspace.
It occured to me midflight somewhere over Newfoundland, or one of those silly Canuck islands in the Atlantic, that I didn't really mind not seeing the acquaintances that had hounded me upon my arrival, that I couldn't due to logistical problems and such. In fact, I really hadn't desired their company, for the most part anyway, because they really didn't feel it was worth making an effort to see me. So they could sod off, but for the hassle and the turmoil they created, those things were the bear of the burden, tiring me and making me ail after several days. But, bollocks to them and the whole catastrophe of the event of birth. I enjoy having become to them as to you, what few readers may chance and endure the length of my cold way of creation. I enjoy this fashioning of myself as text in a gui environment. Just a screen and a window and text upon it. Because to those whom are aquaintances, I have had so little contact outside this, and what memories have they ever had. I like the rather quaint idea of them forgetting my face and my shape and merely recalling the color and the font of this my digital self, the completely one-sided fabrication of my personality, bodiless, formless, and only a partial ven diagram of what is encompassed by me. Now it is all boiled down to billions of lines of code and accessible on demand, a whore for the world to suckle off of. In truth, it is perhaps my darkest side, because here no one looks onto me expecting me to be something to them. All you want is controvery, something to feel opposed to, something to hold onto and feel cliche about. This I can give you, I can shove it down your throat and watch you gag and swallow that last sentence, that last word, that last ariel italics letter and beg for more or less or for my death or shame.
Freedom in the greatest stretch. Whose to say I am not god here. An interesting thought.
Cheers, children.
coast to coast, vivid i'm a visitor here
i'm a visitor here
parking and walking away parking and walking away
ting ting those four feel the pavement is poor
i still believe in getting low i still believe
the history of half past ten
Did you know I'm leaving you in 14 days? Take all the precious things.
Midnight Mania has come a bit early, but I suppose it is all in anticipation of another term. I can't yet recall what I was gonna type before, it was profound, profundissimus as it were even, but nevertheless, lost. Alas, poor brain, I knew him well, that is before he got all knackered with lack of sleep and fingers of scotch that danced in my guiness filled stomach upon my return to home. These are the pitfalls of impending doom.
I feel like painting, something in watercolors maybe or with fingers and hands, something hands on, so I can feel the creation. It's one of those small impulses that creep from the base of your skull in your sleep and then warm your ears with humming of strange little chords. I found Murakami absolutely brilliant, but I'm still short some Kerouac soon to be remedied I hope. It's part of my continuing education of sorts, reaping and raping ideas for all I can, building things on top of things in a sort of plunderous hazard of philosophy and acoutrement.
And then the idea vents into my brain as the text spreads like diseased gangrene on this blank little bit of cyberspace.
It occured to me midflight somewhere over Newfoundland, or one of those silly Canuck islands in the Atlantic, that I didn't really mind not seeing the acquaintances that had hounded me upon my arrival, that I couldn't due to logistical problems and such. In fact, I really hadn't desired their company, for the most part anyway, because they really didn't feel it was worth making an effort to see me. So they could sod off, but for the hassle and the turmoil they created, those things were the bear of the burden, tiring me and making me ail after several days. But, bollocks to them and the whole catastrophe of the event of birth. I enjoy having become to them as to you, what few readers may chance and endure the length of my cold way of creation. I enjoy this fashioning of myself as text in a gui environment. Just a screen and a window and text upon it. Because to those whom are aquaintances, I have had so little contact outside this, and what memories have they ever had. I like the rather quaint idea of them forgetting my face and my shape and merely recalling the color and the font of this my digital self, the completely one-sided fabrication of my personality, bodiless, formless, and only a partial ven diagram of what is encompassed by me. Now it is all boiled down to billions of lines of code and accessible on demand, a whore for the world to suckle off of. In truth, it is perhaps my darkest side, because here no one looks onto me expecting me to be something to them. All you want is controvery, something to feel opposed to, something to hold onto and feel cliche about. This I can give you, I can shove it down your throat and watch you gag and swallow that last sentence, that last word, that last ariel italics letter and beg for more or less or for my death or shame.
Freedom in the greatest stretch. Whose to say I am not god here. An interesting thought.
Cheers, children.
6 January 2005
The Compuservice Whoredom of Tomorrowhood
If the children don't grow up,
our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up.
We're just a million little gods causin rain storms
turnin' every good thing to rust.
Well it too for fuckin ever but I got those sodding photos up once I reached stateside. I shortly realised that being stateside had one advantage, pirating. I shortly thereafter became physically ill in different ways depending on different days until I flew out and arrived back here to a grand Glasgow welcome of gray skies, high wind, and cold rain. You cannot possibly imagine how happy I was to return to my country. That's right, my country, Scotland, you can't have it.
But at anyrate, those photos are up, a few were just taken to relieve boredom on a few days when I decided to walk through the neighboring gardens. I don't think the queen really minded considering she doesn't come here very often at all. Just as well seeing as the place has recently been in a constant state of repair as theyve been updating the older glass greenhouses that were beginning to fall into disrepair. How they're going to replace a few of the windows in that thing is beyond me considering the curvature of the glass has to be nearly perfect.
Now some might expect me to talk or feel badly about the tragedy of the tsunami that occured, but frankly, it really never concerned me. Shit happens, all the time in fact, and as I've recently read, the small things should be attended to with the uttermost detail, the big things should be dealt with lightly. Proving further that I was right from the get go. Yes, a lot of people died, yes the remaining people are screwed, but everything has a pattern and everything works out, so why stress and whimper and whine, why pray, why do anything but that which you do best.
Bah, I'm really just killing time trying to jumpstart my memory of what it was I was gonna type considering I totally lost it in the fog that was yesterday. Being awake for 36 hours straight has a very bad effect on ones brain if I do say so. I was turning into a narcoleptic.
The end is important in all things.
our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up.
We're just a million little gods causin rain storms
turnin' every good thing to rust.
Well it too for fuckin ever but I got those sodding photos up once I reached stateside. I shortly realised that being stateside had one advantage, pirating. I shortly thereafter became physically ill in different ways depending on different days until I flew out and arrived back here to a grand Glasgow welcome of gray skies, high wind, and cold rain. You cannot possibly imagine how happy I was to return to my country. That's right, my country, Scotland, you can't have it.
But at anyrate, those photos are up, a few were just taken to relieve boredom on a few days when I decided to walk through the neighboring gardens. I don't think the queen really minded considering she doesn't come here very often at all. Just as well seeing as the place has recently been in a constant state of repair as theyve been updating the older glass greenhouses that were beginning to fall into disrepair. How they're going to replace a few of the windows in that thing is beyond me considering the curvature of the glass has to be nearly perfect.
Now some might expect me to talk or feel badly about the tragedy of the tsunami that occured, but frankly, it really never concerned me. Shit happens, all the time in fact, and as I've recently read, the small things should be attended to with the uttermost detail, the big things should be dealt with lightly. Proving further that I was right from the get go. Yes, a lot of people died, yes the remaining people are screwed, but everything has a pattern and everything works out, so why stress and whimper and whine, why pray, why do anything but that which you do best.
Bah, I'm really just killing time trying to jumpstart my memory of what it was I was gonna type considering I totally lost it in the fog that was yesterday. Being awake for 36 hours straight has a very bad effect on ones brain if I do say so. I was turning into a narcoleptic.
The end is important in all things.
30 December 2004
Scenic Deviatory Mus, Muris
And since there's no one else around,
we let our hair grow long
and forget all we used to know,
then our skin gets thicker
from living out in the snow
The Main Building of Glasgow University from beyond the River Kelvin
The bell tower of the Main Building
The Cloisters leading to the Eastern Quadrangle
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My oak tree
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Evening over Great Western and Byres Road in Kirklee
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3.30PM, Oran Mor
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Raise your autumn arms to the heavens
Bridge over the River Kelvin (Botanic Gardens)
Westward on the River Kelvin (Botanic Gardens, my surrogate backyard)
Sleeping tree
Riverside couple
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Rearview of a stroller passed by
we let our hair grow long
and forget all we used to know,
then our skin gets thicker
from living out in the snow
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18 December 2004
On Airlane Infrarction of the Arctic Emotion
It's an odd moment to realise. The process of constructing enough lies in an attempt to save another is always going to hurt yourself, but somehow I have developed such a personality that I don't mind the damage. A result of years of beatings and thrashings finally to numbness. I think this is how the clarity has come to settle. Having edged away from the last bit of flogging, I've finally cleared through the echoes and dust and managed to carve out a spot for myself. People often say that you cannot recreate yourself or life, and maybe I'm a little farther behind on such things, but still here I am, a different person to 20 different people, new stories and ways of speaking. I'm almost proud of the amount of creativity involved, the deftness at which I can easily just ghost and give up one shell for the next. I've woven a million times these robes and masks, and they are becoming more and more complex. A menagerie nearly enough but without the cages. I have my own space where I alone exist and then the areas where all the costumes take their chance at the stage.
I think that not merging groups of friends was wisest, just streaming between them as I was always forced to do. I'm glad to have had this small touch of experience for the moment, now that I notice exactly what it is I've become, what I am yet to be. Very interesting to know that I was never very far off.
Enough of this, I shan't be sentimental because people expect me to feel guilty for my lack of emotional involvement. This especially holds true when I have merely 30 some odd hours til departure to the states. Well, that and I just saw an amazing concert headlined by Franz Ferdinand. Sure, they're spectacular and even gave away free singles on vinyl, but the highlight for me was the Ramonesish openers Kaiser Chiefs. Pure brilliance in terms of indie rock with an infusion of old school punk. I was blown away, literally, but that could have been the 5 beers and a ew cloves that I relished as my last thrill prior to returning to the hell that is America.
Unfortunately this entails a great deal of stress, not only on the home front, but also on the airline vs. my ego front. I don't much like being thought a terrorist, and I sure as hell would like an id card saying I'm not so that I could avoid getting the security wand up my freshly molested naughty bits. Alas, I also must endure a cumulative 12 hours of flight time in crap-class seating, ie. a small saet not wide enough for my shoulders and without the leg room I so desperately need. That and there's always the first-time flyer that can't shut up for the duration of the shite movie. Go figure.
But as always I shall plod on and wake up early tomorrow in order to do laundry and prepare for my last huzzah at the movies with the few "aquaintances" I have here. Another sodding day in which I am forced to feel completely crap and yet don't. Odd.
Cheers.
12 December 2004
Kamikaze Typhoon Bettys
Mother, sweet mother,
Please don't discipline your hands.
Just kiss me in the morning,
In your dirtiest pants.
I've beens staring at printed notes of sheep gestation and feed and slaughter weights for more hours then is humanly normal or humane. Death, death to the man that subjugated our ovine brethren. Disgustipated suddenly is playing in my head, go figure. I can hear the screams of the carrots as well, but they're just a bunch of wussy (wimp + pussy) whiners. Go eat some cheese you douches. Speaking of douches, interesting piece of advice. When talking to people not from the U.S. refrain from referring to any person as a douche/douchebag, especially while mercilessly pummeling your liver with toxins (for all you no-brainers, that means drinking). The problem isn't that they don't understand the term douche/douchebag, more the way in which a person is like a douche/douchebag. I think it's just another one of the problems with the english language and slang of any sort. I watched a poor guy and his girlfriend try and explain the usage of douche to a kid from Germany who for the life of himself just couldnt grasp it. He seemed to think that the guy being referred to gave douches to other people, but he couldnt figure out if he sold them or performed them. Oi, the problems. I watched for about 30 minutes and lost interest when Kat came by to bother me at my bartending position. Note to all people throwing parties: never work the bar, or don't have me working the bar, I tend to horde beer for myself and become anal retentive about keeping the beer in a nice pattern and the table clean. I'm such a nerd, luckily certain Greek chicas dig this sort of thing.
I said it once before, and I'll say it again for good measure. I'm completely hot stuff, just not in America or to American women (this is why Guess Who are such badasses). Had I been told about this minor snafu earlier in life, I woulda totally been out of the country sooner. It just makes sense. But in the meantime, my name is Jonas, I'm carrying the wheel. And this has been a look into my ever-altering physical state.
Please don't discipline your hands.
Just kiss me in the morning,
In your dirtiest pants.
I've beens staring at printed notes of sheep gestation and feed and slaughter weights for more hours then is humanly normal or humane. Death, death to the man that subjugated our ovine brethren. Disgustipated suddenly is playing in my head, go figure. I can hear the screams of the carrots as well, but they're just a bunch of wussy (wimp + pussy) whiners. Go eat some cheese you douches. Speaking of douches, interesting piece of advice. When talking to people not from the U.S. refrain from referring to any person as a douche/douchebag, especially while mercilessly pummeling your liver with toxins (for all you no-brainers, that means drinking). The problem isn't that they don't understand the term douche/douchebag, more the way in which a person is like a douche/douchebag. I think it's just another one of the problems with the english language and slang of any sort. I watched a poor guy and his girlfriend try and explain the usage of douche to a kid from Germany who for the life of himself just couldnt grasp it. He seemed to think that the guy being referred to gave douches to other people, but he couldnt figure out if he sold them or performed them. Oi, the problems. I watched for about 30 minutes and lost interest when Kat came by to bother me at my bartending position. Note to all people throwing parties: never work the bar, or don't have me working the bar, I tend to horde beer for myself and become anal retentive about keeping the beer in a nice pattern and the table clean. I'm such a nerd, luckily certain Greek chicas dig this sort of thing.
I said it once before, and I'll say it again for good measure. I'm completely hot stuff, just not in America or to American women (this is why Guess Who are such badasses). Had I been told about this minor snafu earlier in life, I woulda totally been out of the country sooner. It just makes sense. But in the meantime, my name is Jonas, I'm carrying the wheel. And this has been a look into my ever-altering physical state.
8 December 2004
Charactre Agenda From Lanark to Glasgow
And if it was just how you wanted
You'd be glued to his bones and his brainstem
And changing your image and attitudes
I sometimes miss Burgess Meredith up on the screen
leaning as he did with wry-ity
Just like jungle gyms and quarters spinning
he had that simple silver grin
like blank black photos we all thought never developed
People forget
People go on
The Sauchiehall hell we created is no different
much like a cat with no fangs and flat teeth
it makes much more sense through a window and rain
staring at the frames and finding the subtle touches
left of ourselves
It strikes me as odd how often things are completely different between one person and the next, just the way they see a color or feel a touch of wind. Is this, then, what lends itself to the charactre of a person, to their very nature of existence, because it seems more often that they never realise their perspective is so very individualised, complexed and complicated by the infinite myriad of circumstances and positions of everything else. Chaos to order, my dear, as always is the way with thought.
You'd be glued to his bones and his brainstem
And changing your image and attitudes
I sometimes miss Burgess Meredith up on the screen
leaning as he did with wry-ity
Just like jungle gyms and quarters spinning
he had that simple silver grin
like blank black photos we all thought never developed
People forget
People go on
The Sauchiehall hell we created is no different
much like a cat with no fangs and flat teeth
it makes much more sense through a window and rain
staring at the frames and finding the subtle touches
left of ourselves
It strikes me as odd how often things are completely different between one person and the next, just the way they see a color or feel a touch of wind. Is this, then, what lends itself to the charactre of a person, to their very nature of existence, because it seems more often that they never realise their perspective is so very individualised, complexed and complicated by the infinite myriad of circumstances and positions of everything else. Chaos to order, my dear, as always is the way with thought.
Nine Lives and the Power of Kats
Days don't end
Skins crawlin'
Pure mornin'
I feel a bit like a post-rock song these days, tied up in infinite depth, hoary, exasperated, completely third person disconnected looking down and away and yet all too fervently venting, emotional, thrashing at life and all there is. Mmm, post-rock. Silly me. Silly broken nose of mine (which by the way still feels funky 3 days after the fact... no more tickle fights methinks).
I feel I'm missing something that I know I had before. A piece of myself that I never remembered losing or discarding, but then again, nine lives is a long time to live and die within, a grave at the end and homes in between and all that jargon of long ago thought. I suppose I am admitting that despite my overall clarity and tranquility, if you will, I am at a loss for once, unsure, unstable, but undeniably enjoying the adventure. I think after all the adaptation and stretching of ideas over the past years I filled in all the crevices that housed every other emotion besides anger, because, of course, anger has no rational root and is never subdued by rationality. I'm just a bit of a dense cloud of sand and fog at the moment realising that maybe what I'm after is only inhibited by myself and not all the extrinsic forces I blame normally (it makes life a lot easier when you can simply point and say, "nyeh nyeh, its all their fault," much like the little kid you are at heart).
At the same time I feel numbed, I also have a sense of something waking up, maybe the very numbness, like pin needles in a wrist is subsiding, or it could be something far worse. I can't really conjecture or care to when all-in-all I'm not that concerned with the entire situation. Let that be a lesson, one day at a time without thought or worry can often lead to the best run ship, ie life. I'm really just an insensitive bastard and and ass, and most of all, just really feckin lazy.
It's fun, it's good, it puts me to sleep at night. I tend to wonder if what makes life so difficult is this emotional labeling, this identifying and leading ourselves down into a further caustic trembling, all the while I can hear Christmas Steps just trancing off oblivious and yet oddly passioned for something it doesn't seem to be a part of. We should all be post-rock, negligent to ourselves, subserviant to others, but then again, I've been away for a long while, traveled some perilous ways and places, and what is left may not be myself or anything remotely like it. Just a remote part of an idea I had as a child buttressed by the personalities of everyone I encountered along the way. But as long as there's a warm bed to go home to.
Skins crawlin'
Pure mornin'
I feel a bit like a post-rock song these days, tied up in infinite depth, hoary, exasperated, completely third person disconnected looking down and away and yet all too fervently venting, emotional, thrashing at life and all there is. Mmm, post-rock. Silly me. Silly broken nose of mine (which by the way still feels funky 3 days after the fact... no more tickle fights methinks).
I feel I'm missing something that I know I had before. A piece of myself that I never remembered losing or discarding, but then again, nine lives is a long time to live and die within, a grave at the end and homes in between and all that jargon of long ago thought. I suppose I am admitting that despite my overall clarity and tranquility, if you will, I am at a loss for once, unsure, unstable, but undeniably enjoying the adventure. I think after all the adaptation and stretching of ideas over the past years I filled in all the crevices that housed every other emotion besides anger, because, of course, anger has no rational root and is never subdued by rationality. I'm just a bit of a dense cloud of sand and fog at the moment realising that maybe what I'm after is only inhibited by myself and not all the extrinsic forces I blame normally (it makes life a lot easier when you can simply point and say, "nyeh nyeh, its all their fault," much like the little kid you are at heart).
At the same time I feel numbed, I also have a sense of something waking up, maybe the very numbness, like pin needles in a wrist is subsiding, or it could be something far worse. I can't really conjecture or care to when all-in-all I'm not that concerned with the entire situation. Let that be a lesson, one day at a time without thought or worry can often lead to the best run ship, ie life. I'm really just an insensitive bastard and and ass, and most of all, just really feckin lazy.
It's fun, it's good, it puts me to sleep at night. I tend to wonder if what makes life so difficult is this emotional labeling, this identifying and leading ourselves down into a further caustic trembling, all the while I can hear Christmas Steps just trancing off oblivious and yet oddly passioned for something it doesn't seem to be a part of. We should all be post-rock, negligent to ourselves, subserviant to others, but then again, I've been away for a long while, traveled some perilous ways and places, and what is left may not be myself or anything remotely like it. Just a remote part of an idea I had as a child buttressed by the personalities of everyone I encountered along the way. But as long as there's a warm bed to go home to.
2 December 2004
Close Encounter of the Greek Nature
I believe in a thing called love
Just listen to the rhythm of my heart
There's a chance we could make it now
We'll be rocking 'til the sun goes down
I believe in a thing called love
Ooh! Guitar!
Mmm, The Darkness. Soo, tasty. So yeah, I've typed about Greek food in Scotland, but I think I left out the hottie Greek women, or woman. But I'm just gonna keep leavin her out cos she's too damn cute for this hole of a webpage. At anyrate, I've been picking up itsy bits of the language whilst being laughed at by Akaterina. You'll have that. I'm an American, I suck as a person, but I'm weird. This makes me sexy, despite all my ill looking physical disparities. So SUCK IT AMERICA!!!!
Well there's my normal rant of superiority. If you haven't been keeping up on Foamy or Strongbad, I suggest you jump on the ball and get with the program before all the coolness is sucked out into the cosmos from within your tiny pecker or midden twat. And by this point you're once more saying that this rant is in no way, shape, or form anywhere near entertaining. Well, nay, I say to you, NAY and then a hearty mooo. I realise that the past, say 20 million, entries have been far below my standard of nonsense and hooplah, and not to mention the distinct lack of ricketa racketa. But, I'm sick, only for the past few days I'll grant you, but nonetheless, I've been sick in the head most if not all of my life. So, I am justified in my suckiness of craptacularity. Seeing as I no longer have a loyal reader fanbase-- ie. you all come once and never again, just like all the one night stands with your mom --you're totally missing the point. The point of this was just to express my opinion from moment to moment and without giving two shits, let alone one, about whichever way you lean on these issues of pointless, tactless, idiocy.
So I'm gonna go dunk my head in bleach and hopefully kill the majority of bacteria and virus capsids swimming around in my brain without damaging too much of my cerebral cortex. With any luck I'll be back up to rockin' out status, maybe even with my cock out, just in time for the A Silver Mount Zion concert at Oran Mor (my new fav all-time greatest venue). Sons and Daughters rocked it up and out there jsut about a week ago, and lemme tell you, the raw vocals totally owned the studio versions, not to say its all shite, far from it. But you have to respect the completely pure nature of live and shite soundboard vocals and instrument. I think it didna hurt that I was right at the stage feeling the guitarists boots slamming out the beat as he fixed everyone with a frigid fecking glare. Metal thrashing with booming bass and slamming drums. So it wis but a good show. One of many from which I'll take a way a button and maybe even a quality tshirt.
\m/ (><) \m/ Rock, Rock Hard, Rock for Life...
Just listen to the rhythm of my heart
There's a chance we could make it now
We'll be rocking 'til the sun goes down
I believe in a thing called love
Ooh! Guitar!
Mmm, The Darkness. Soo, tasty. So yeah, I've typed about Greek food in Scotland, but I think I left out the hottie Greek women, or woman. But I'm just gonna keep leavin her out cos she's too damn cute for this hole of a webpage. At anyrate, I've been picking up itsy bits of the language whilst being laughed at by Akaterina. You'll have that. I'm an American, I suck as a person, but I'm weird. This makes me sexy, despite all my ill looking physical disparities. So SUCK IT AMERICA!!!!
Well there's my normal rant of superiority. If you haven't been keeping up on Foamy or Strongbad, I suggest you jump on the ball and get with the program before all the coolness is sucked out into the cosmos from within your tiny pecker or midden twat. And by this point you're once more saying that this rant is in no way, shape, or form anywhere near entertaining. Well, nay, I say to you, NAY and then a hearty mooo. I realise that the past, say 20 million, entries have been far below my standard of nonsense and hooplah, and not to mention the distinct lack of ricketa racketa. But, I'm sick, only for the past few days I'll grant you, but nonetheless, I've been sick in the head most if not all of my life. So, I am justified in my suckiness of craptacularity. Seeing as I no longer have a loyal reader fanbase-- ie. you all come once and never again, just like all the one night stands with your mom --you're totally missing the point. The point of this was just to express my opinion from moment to moment and without giving two shits, let alone one, about whichever way you lean on these issues of pointless, tactless, idiocy.
So I'm gonna go dunk my head in bleach and hopefully kill the majority of bacteria and virus capsids swimming around in my brain without damaging too much of my cerebral cortex. With any luck I'll be back up to rockin' out status, maybe even with my cock out, just in time for the A Silver Mount Zion concert at Oran Mor (my new fav all-time greatest venue). Sons and Daughters rocked it up and out there jsut about a week ago, and lemme tell you, the raw vocals totally owned the studio versions, not to say its all shite, far from it. But you have to respect the completely pure nature of live and shite soundboard vocals and instrument. I think it didna hurt that I was right at the stage feeling the guitarists boots slamming out the beat as he fixed everyone with a frigid fecking glare. Metal thrashing with booming bass and slamming drums. So it wis but a good show. One of many from which I'll take a way a button and maybe even a quality tshirt.
\m/ (><) \m/ Rock, Rock Hard, Rock for Life...
26 November 2004
Samo Hung a Head on the Alley
Rebels are we, though heavy our hearts shall always be
Ah, no ball or chain no prison shall keep
We`re the rebels of the sacred heart
I said no ball or chain no prison shall keep
We`re the rebels of the sacred heart
So I wish that my shower faucet would end its tireless demonic posession and let me enjoy a nice hot shower instead of alternating between freezing fucking cold and completely skin peeling, bacteria obliterating hot. I take it by it's current, sudden spew of water from the shut-off nozzle that it knows I'm thinking ill thoughts. Rot in hell you craptacular piece of plumbing. I'll plumb you. Plumb you reeaaal good-like.
Simplicty is the order of things, not like the order of things really changes. Surely it seems to, with people coming and going and objects traversing the sky and stars, policies made and broken, friends forgotten, etc, etc, etc. I must remark how little it changes. It seems complicated, the whole lot of it, yes, but it isn't. We just can't resist the layering of the actions, one atop the other, that make it so, we expect to see such fantastic complexity that we will never fail to see it. There are desires, but they are merely desires, there are dreams, but they are but dreams. Life is life, it is unexplicable and delightful, and sodding hard without any doubt, but it is life. I've congradulated myself in this realisation, because it has been a long way to have come this far, a great exploration in idea and belief and abolishment of all restrictions. Brilliant really, because all along there is just life. Quiet and innervating, shy and firm. I am diluted, perhaps, well, more likely than not, simply am, without the perhaps, sans the corollaries. But at this point I fail to see where I should begin to be concerned.
I am restless in a new fashion. When I am truely tired I sleep and I sleep well, dreaming in black and white, vivid yellows even at times, all traversing and settlig. When I am restless I am unwearied and startlingly clear of purpose at any moment. Very unlike the insomnia, I almost welcome it, this trace of energy transducing to thought that recently just flows without hitch, weightless and streamed.
A pint of Hoegaarden and a window over the city of Glasgow was all I needed and had the other night. I was burning to do nothing but sit and listen. No clutter of thought, no digestion of motive or action. I looked out over the quiet campus in the wee hours of the morning through the lit glass of sleeping buildings and found it absolutely the most beautiful thing. So much like a toddler gently and slowly curling into slumber. So tumultuous, violently erupting into fits of tremors and howls, just then so absolutely silent and fading from the world, ignorant of every pain and parting that had and would occur. I could never do justice in human language all the things I see, or at least the way in which I have witnessed them. But I will sleep all the easier for their occurence, for their existence in these late evenings. Mush it all seems in retrospect but I have such clarity these past few days that I feel your foul opinions of my banter are just quite irrelevant.
Ah, no ball or chain no prison shall keep
We`re the rebels of the sacred heart
I said no ball or chain no prison shall keep
We`re the rebels of the sacred heart
So I wish that my shower faucet would end its tireless demonic posession and let me enjoy a nice hot shower instead of alternating between freezing fucking cold and completely skin peeling, bacteria obliterating hot. I take it by it's current, sudden spew of water from the shut-off nozzle that it knows I'm thinking ill thoughts. Rot in hell you craptacular piece of plumbing. I'll plumb you. Plumb you reeaaal good-like.
Simplicty is the order of things, not like the order of things really changes. Surely it seems to, with people coming and going and objects traversing the sky and stars, policies made and broken, friends forgotten, etc, etc, etc. I must remark how little it changes. It seems complicated, the whole lot of it, yes, but it isn't. We just can't resist the layering of the actions, one atop the other, that make it so, we expect to see such fantastic complexity that we will never fail to see it. There are desires, but they are merely desires, there are dreams, but they are but dreams. Life is life, it is unexplicable and delightful, and sodding hard without any doubt, but it is life. I've congradulated myself in this realisation, because it has been a long way to have come this far, a great exploration in idea and belief and abolishment of all restrictions. Brilliant really, because all along there is just life. Quiet and innervating, shy and firm. I am diluted, perhaps, well, more likely than not, simply am, without the perhaps, sans the corollaries. But at this point I fail to see where I should begin to be concerned.
I am restless in a new fashion. When I am truely tired I sleep and I sleep well, dreaming in black and white, vivid yellows even at times, all traversing and settlig. When I am restless I am unwearied and startlingly clear of purpose at any moment. Very unlike the insomnia, I almost welcome it, this trace of energy transducing to thought that recently just flows without hitch, weightless and streamed.
A pint of Hoegaarden and a window over the city of Glasgow was all I needed and had the other night. I was burning to do nothing but sit and listen. No clutter of thought, no digestion of motive or action. I looked out over the quiet campus in the wee hours of the morning through the lit glass of sleeping buildings and found it absolutely the most beautiful thing. So much like a toddler gently and slowly curling into slumber. So tumultuous, violently erupting into fits of tremors and howls, just then so absolutely silent and fading from the world, ignorant of every pain and parting that had and would occur. I could never do justice in human language all the things I see, or at least the way in which I have witnessed them. But I will sleep all the easier for their occurence, for their existence in these late evenings. Mush it all seems in retrospect but I have such clarity these past few days that I feel your foul opinions of my banter are just quite irrelevant.
21 November 2004
Life Carries on in the People I Meet
The universe is shaped exactly like the earth
If you go straight long enough youll end up where you were
Moments of clarity, utter uncongestion of thoughts and mere emptying of all emotional channels. This weeks theme it seems, so clear and definite, a final sort of cathartic release that I still don't quite understand. Point A suddenly traveled directly to Go and missed all the rest of the universe. I could recall for the first time in some years all the facts about anything just effortlessly, so nietzchean, so pure. I almost fell over at the opportunities it presented, but I was completely too enthralled in it to realise all the potential of the moment. Only days before I had a shorter moment of such that I suddenly in class just stood up and decided defiantly that I would got to Tibet and Nepal. No real reason other than that which propels me seemed to call it so strongly and I for once was clear of consciousness enough to hear it. That is what I think I am to seek, the final absence, a sort of cleansing, a swift breeze to shuffle the litter out and allow me to hear it all for once, see exactly what lies before me.
Not to competely detract from the humour that once was in these spots, but I am coming into my time of year, it is winter after all. And recently I have reminisced less and less, deleting all the memories that seemed foreign and extraneous this time around. The useless is useless, no? or if nothing else merely needless for the moment while I have the distance to examine it. One more week til I'm at home again, back with my feline cousins and playing as I used to. So simplistic those two are, so oblivious to all the hardships and happy as well. But then again, I am too, or at least closer to it. Very satisying in that post-coital way. Like a clove and Stella in my hand with a bit of sweat on brow, I am a man hard-worked and underappreciated, but it matters little with a true sense of home at heart.
I'm still a step ahead of you, like an evening shadow as you walk east. I'll be out of your way soon enough, just as sure as the sun will set on me, it will set on you as well. But then again, I was always partial to the twilight and afterglow.
If you go straight long enough youll end up where you were
Moments of clarity, utter uncongestion of thoughts and mere emptying of all emotional channels. This weeks theme it seems, so clear and definite, a final sort of cathartic release that I still don't quite understand. Point A suddenly traveled directly to Go and missed all the rest of the universe. I could recall for the first time in some years all the facts about anything just effortlessly, so nietzchean, so pure. I almost fell over at the opportunities it presented, but I was completely too enthralled in it to realise all the potential of the moment. Only days before I had a shorter moment of such that I suddenly in class just stood up and decided defiantly that I would got to Tibet and Nepal. No real reason other than that which propels me seemed to call it so strongly and I for once was clear of consciousness enough to hear it. That is what I think I am to seek, the final absence, a sort of cleansing, a swift breeze to shuffle the litter out and allow me to hear it all for once, see exactly what lies before me.
Not to competely detract from the humour that once was in these spots, but I am coming into my time of year, it is winter after all. And recently I have reminisced less and less, deleting all the memories that seemed foreign and extraneous this time around. The useless is useless, no? or if nothing else merely needless for the moment while I have the distance to examine it. One more week til I'm at home again, back with my feline cousins and playing as I used to. So simplistic those two are, so oblivious to all the hardships and happy as well. But then again, I am too, or at least closer to it. Very satisying in that post-coital way. Like a clove and Stella in my hand with a bit of sweat on brow, I am a man hard-worked and underappreciated, but it matters little with a true sense of home at heart.
I'm still a step ahead of you, like an evening shadow as you walk east. I'll be out of your way soon enough, just as sure as the sun will set on me, it will set on you as well. But then again, I was always partial to the twilight and afterglow.
17 November 2004
With Walnuts? With Walnuts?!!
Look at slow motion asleep at the door
Next to destruction, reach for the source
Get up, get up, get over, take me to your blackened sky
There's not enough fairy dust in the world for you to fly now. You're too much Dustin Hoffman and not enough Andrews as a boy. Yeah you may jump on beds but I doubt you could ever knit a dinner from thin air, now could you, tiny one. But maybe yet you can sew a shadow onto your face at night and make it all so very not Rufio. No more swords or words of hurrah, it seems, all ordinary and paisley-tied in tongue and cheek. Cat may be at play or a frog about to jump, but what can you do about it all as you fall faster asleep. It's all a lovely tra-la-la without the Pan, just a whistle in the distant hung aviary blue traveling along a thin wired wheel to a never seen land of ne'er do wells and thieves of soul.
So you simply see there's no way for you to quite get the jist. Straight lines are too few and far between in mind for you to tread lightly and blindly, blonde. Pick up the penguins and the moose, a few elk, and a whole score of ambiguity in boxes of overweight truth. You can't capture Marx or Monty but you can surely gleen that life is more than the obvious and extraordinary when there is absurdity in the pilot seat and hysterical glibness along for the ride.
Next to destruction, reach for the source
Get up, get up, get over, take me to your blackened sky
There's not enough fairy dust in the world for you to fly now. You're too much Dustin Hoffman and not enough Andrews as a boy. Yeah you may jump on beds but I doubt you could ever knit a dinner from thin air, now could you, tiny one. But maybe yet you can sew a shadow onto your face at night and make it all so very not Rufio. No more swords or words of hurrah, it seems, all ordinary and paisley-tied in tongue and cheek. Cat may be at play or a frog about to jump, but what can you do about it all as you fall faster asleep. It's all a lovely tra-la-la without the Pan, just a whistle in the distant hung aviary blue traveling along a thin wired wheel to a never seen land of ne'er do wells and thieves of soul.
So you simply see there's no way for you to quite get the jist. Straight lines are too few and far between in mind for you to tread lightly and blindly, blonde. Pick up the penguins and the moose, a few elk, and a whole score of ambiguity in boxes of overweight truth. You can't capture Marx or Monty but you can surely gleen that life is more than the obvious and extraordinary when there is absurdity in the pilot seat and hysterical glibness along for the ride.
11 November 2004
Indiscreet Ingrids
We peered through the windows
New bottoms on barstools
But the people remain the same with prices inflating, inflating
As if saved from the gallows
There's a bellow of buzzers
And the people stop working and they're all so excited, excited.
I came across the realisation in cinematic mirror shards that as long as Bergman is beautiful and London is the scene for intrigue, I will always want to be Cary Grant.
So, I edited the post, sue me, I do it all the time you just never notice.
I realised that with all the things I've seen and done, with all that my still unaged eyes see, I seem to take the awe-striking moments for granted, and only later do I appreciate them in my memory, replaying every second. So here's what you are going to do. Come to Scotland. Fuck the cold weather, fuck the rain, fuck the sodding food and everything else. Come. Go to the highlands, or even the midlands, just to see the sun rise and set. It cannot be paralleled. Come, visit, stop being arses, and I'll stop editing posts when I get bored.
New bottoms on barstools
But the people remain the same with prices inflating, inflating
As if saved from the gallows
There's a bellow of buzzers
And the people stop working and they're all so excited, excited.
I came across the realisation in cinematic mirror shards that as long as Bergman is beautiful and London is the scene for intrigue, I will always want to be Cary Grant.
So, I edited the post, sue me, I do it all the time you just never notice.
I realised that with all the things I've seen and done, with all that my still unaged eyes see, I seem to take the awe-striking moments for granted, and only later do I appreciate them in my memory, replaying every second. So here's what you are going to do. Come to Scotland. Fuck the cold weather, fuck the rain, fuck the sodding food and everything else. Come. Go to the highlands, or even the midlands, just to see the sun rise and set. It cannot be paralleled. Come, visit, stop being arses, and I'll stop editing posts when I get bored.
10 November 2004
If One Were to Coagulate the Viscera
Anyone perfect must be lying,
Anything easy has its cost.
Anyone plain can be lovely,
Anyone loved can be lost
I'm all vaclempt, yet strangely not Yiddish, hmm, how odd. And another thing, my fingers are cold, so I may have some typing issues, don't laugh you jackhole in cunt, I kick you for it.
Just ritz bits and corduroy snaps
like goldfish and whale bone sails
nonsense
complete and utter nonsense, no?
eight year olds and portrait memories, nevermind the sturdy wooden legs.
At any rate, I wis quite excited about the whole thing of my final box arriving, but it was doomish, oh so doomed in doomishness. It came, opened and resealed, and most importantly missing some things that I's like back. So I appeal to you almighty internet, return to me my pen needles and tattoo art, most assuredly long lost already. Blah, Glasgow still shimmers, though, brightly these days as the sun sets now at 4 and rises around 8. It's really brilliant in fact, seeing as I am as always a bit of a shadow myself, what with the creepy looks and whatnot that I'm purported to have about me when I where a baseball cap. Nonetheless, maybe I'll seem more preppy once I own a GUVMA rugby jersey and get all muscle-y and calloused after hits and tackles and scrapes and cleatings.
I have to endeavor to pull my act together and resist the temptation to go and sit for hours on end after class tomorrow afternoon. I am a man on a mission, a mission to City Centre to retrieve several tickets for Flogging Molly in Edinburgh. It will most assuredly rock my nuts off hardcore. I wouldn't be surprised if I came back with a urinary problem. But then again, it may just end up being the clap or something. Traveling does so have this effect on me, the few instances of excitement and anticipation. Again to push on east over the hills to the coast once more and find ocean and sky tangled up and rolling again like some lovers quarrel gone awry. Hmm, poetry in motion perhaps much like Kerouac or Murakami. At any rate, I have an anatomy exam with my name on it which means I apparently need to accept responsibility. Fuck that, I'm gonna go do something non-productive. It wis the sole option in the whole bloody affair, hyah. Cheers at any rate, and watch out for your wee cotton socks, lass.
Anything easy has its cost.
Anyone plain can be lovely,
Anyone loved can be lost
I'm all vaclempt, yet strangely not Yiddish, hmm, how odd. And another thing, my fingers are cold, so I may have some typing issues, don't laugh you jackhole in cunt, I kick you for it.
Just ritz bits and corduroy snaps
like goldfish and whale bone sails
nonsense
complete and utter nonsense, no?
eight year olds and portrait memories, nevermind the sturdy wooden legs.
At any rate, I wis quite excited about the whole thing of my final box arriving, but it was doomish, oh so doomed in doomishness. It came, opened and resealed, and most importantly missing some things that I's like back. So I appeal to you almighty internet, return to me my pen needles and tattoo art, most assuredly long lost already. Blah, Glasgow still shimmers, though, brightly these days as the sun sets now at 4 and rises around 8. It's really brilliant in fact, seeing as I am as always a bit of a shadow myself, what with the creepy looks and whatnot that I'm purported to have about me when I where a baseball cap. Nonetheless, maybe I'll seem more preppy once I own a GUVMA rugby jersey and get all muscle-y and calloused after hits and tackles and scrapes and cleatings.
I have to endeavor to pull my act together and resist the temptation to go and sit for hours on end after class tomorrow afternoon. I am a man on a mission, a mission to City Centre to retrieve several tickets for Flogging Molly in Edinburgh. It will most assuredly rock my nuts off hardcore. I wouldn't be surprised if I came back with a urinary problem. But then again, it may just end up being the clap or something. Traveling does so have this effect on me, the few instances of excitement and anticipation. Again to push on east over the hills to the coast once more and find ocean and sky tangled up and rolling again like some lovers quarrel gone awry. Hmm, poetry in motion perhaps much like Kerouac or Murakami. At any rate, I have an anatomy exam with my name on it which means I apparently need to accept responsibility. Fuck that, I'm gonna go do something non-productive. It wis the sole option in the whole bloody affair, hyah. Cheers at any rate, and watch out for your wee cotton socks, lass.
6 November 2004
Saganaki Dreams
Here we are
Foreign to their world
Straight and composed
Your sermons I can do without
And I finally found that everybody loves to love you
When you're far away
So what, you may ask, is an average Friday night like in my city of warm weather eternal? Well, for one, it's toasty in so many ways, for another, well... I couldn't tell you seeing as I spend the majority off my tits in drunken debauchery with the multiple hotties that follow my every move. I have a sweet ass, I can't help it!
Apparently today, Saturday, was some holiday called Guy Fox day. It's like the fourth of July in the states, except their reason for setting off fireworks while freezing their tits off isn't as well grounded per se. Apparently, way back in the day, some random guy, let's just call him Guy, decided to try and burn the Brit's parliament to the ground. Possibly it was a good idea, maybe it was just plain assinine, I can't say cos honestly I couldn't really bring myself to entertain any sort of interest in the subject. At any rate, he, like all Scots, failed miserably much to the joy of the Brit wankers. So every November apparently, the Scots celebrate this grand failure of an event by setting off fireworks and drinking until they vomit profusely. Now maybe this strikes you as it does me, completely normal. But it is the only occasion that I know of that the Irish don't take part in but the Brits celebrate, only because they're so happy to have their fugly yellow building intact, go figure.
I personlly celebrated by going out to eat at a decent greek restaurant, still somewhat tainted by the British idea that everything different can be homogenized, such that the mousaka had a light tomato sauce over it... yeah, cos its oooooooh so normal. Nonetheless it was cheap and filling when coupled with a nice Pinot Grigio and a glass of port with chocolate gelato. I'm a lush I realize, but it's all in an attempt to prevent my expounding upon my new found hatred of all the "friends" (aka "aquaintances") I left in the states save one.
For now I shall wish you a wonderful Guy Fox day, go burn down some government buildings, blame it on me, I'm good at pissing those G-men off anyhow.
Cheers.
Foreign to their world
Straight and composed
Your sermons I can do without
And I finally found that everybody loves to love you
When you're far away
So what, you may ask, is an average Friday night like in my city of warm weather eternal? Well, for one, it's toasty in so many ways, for another, well... I couldn't tell you seeing as I spend the majority off my tits in drunken debauchery with the multiple hotties that follow my every move. I have a sweet ass, I can't help it!
Apparently today, Saturday, was some holiday called Guy Fox day. It's like the fourth of July in the states, except their reason for setting off fireworks while freezing their tits off isn't as well grounded per se. Apparently, way back in the day, some random guy, let's just call him Guy, decided to try and burn the Brit's parliament to the ground. Possibly it was a good idea, maybe it was just plain assinine, I can't say cos honestly I couldn't really bring myself to entertain any sort of interest in the subject. At any rate, he, like all Scots, failed miserably much to the joy of the Brit wankers. So every November apparently, the Scots celebrate this grand failure of an event by setting off fireworks and drinking until they vomit profusely. Now maybe this strikes you as it does me, completely normal. But it is the only occasion that I know of that the Irish don't take part in but the Brits celebrate, only because they're so happy to have their fugly yellow building intact, go figure.
I personlly celebrated by going out to eat at a decent greek restaurant, still somewhat tainted by the British idea that everything different can be homogenized, such that the mousaka had a light tomato sauce over it... yeah, cos its oooooooh so normal. Nonetheless it was cheap and filling when coupled with a nice Pinot Grigio and a glass of port with chocolate gelato. I'm a lush I realize, but it's all in an attempt to prevent my expounding upon my new found hatred of all the "friends" (aka "aquaintances") I left in the states save one.
For now I shall wish you a wonderful Guy Fox day, go burn down some government buildings, blame it on me, I'm good at pissing those G-men off anyhow.
Cheers.
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