5 Nov 2019

blank in water

Facebook is for spite. That's the face I keep there. I see a vote for slogan, vote for blank, and I get a panging, like I wish jack back sometimes, he's perfect for it, the zeigheist, the biggest spiritual heist since, I dunno, weak indoctrination, propaganda. A ping for my pang, sent a packet for you, a care package of information.

31 Oct 2019

pre white rose

I don't know why I couldn't write something. Maybe was being tortured, forced to accept another's reality, bend light and category for me, boot on my neck, seeing extra lights - I didn't wanna go for these references but it's almost like the ugly times are demanding it

30 Oct 2019

After watching Donnie Deutsch on a panel show

If I was worth 200 million dollars, but I only got one vote, the same amount as somebody worth 20 thousand dollars, I'd probably think that was unfair. So, I'd vote with my 200 million dollars, or I'd take at least 20 million of that, and turn it into raw political power, cause I could. Cause I had 200 million dollars, in a country where that could be converted into raw political power easily, legally even. Depending on where you live, the exchange rate of dollars to votes can be quite good, in some places you can get the equivalent of 20 thousand votes for as little as 20 mil. I probably shouldn't be allowed to have 200 million dollars. Girl, you're not a firework. Show them what you're worth, but I'm telling you, it's not 200 million dollars.

25 Oct 2019

after watching the next episode of Mr. Robot

Welcome Back Mr. Alderson

that previously on segue they did, wonderful - and the stuttered ending - now i'm eschewing the vocals, focusing on playing - wish i had words sometimes, but it goes into the music instead - ah, in the world of words, we need an anchor of sarcasm, hang out in this empty chasm with me, i'm alone with you, hail satan, some fake savior, fake some savior, hail reverb, off the chasm wall

23 Oct 2019

escalator to nowhere

Improvised at my work piano. H4 recorder's card filled up at forty minutes while I was playing, don't know how much I lost, guess it must have been in wav mode, didn't feel like I was done yet so I used my phone for the rest.

22 Aug 2019

Barbie evolved into Malibu Stacy. Malibu Stacy evolved into Lisa Lionheart. That's not nothing, that's an upgrade. Forgetting your troubles with a big bowl of strawberry ice cream turned into platitudes about believing in yourself and you can achieve anything. Conviction became a convict, chained cultist to the god of Belief. Lisa Lionheart became Ashley II, played by Miley Cyrus. That's not nothing. It's not Coke 2. But it's certainly not Coca Cola Classic. It has no real cocaine in it. It's just a cola. Not even a Pina Colada, no tequila, nothing but cola.

Winter's coming. Such as it is, anymore. These days, these crazy days. The yield curve is looking bad. I feel fine, but R.E.M. is not my jam, not at this time. All the wrong people die. I want to see more Epsteins, a scummy life reduced to an encouraged suicide, die shrieking, never understanding anything except a self-justifying warped morality. A few thousand of those is not too much to ask for. There's honour in sepuku. Do it, and don't give your money to your kids. We'll come for them if you try.

Achieve anything. That's your trophy. For achieving so hard, over-achieving, even - see the sullen derivative bass player? She's doing nothing new, achieving nothing. But in the future, everyone is over-achieving. Everybody learned to code. Everybody got a trophy. They're worth nothing, we need desalinated water, can't buy it with bitcoin or trophies.




19 Aug 2019




aka, westworld, when we gettin more'a that? I've got an urge to onomatopoeiacly ornament the colloquialness of the flow, you know? it doesn't have to swing, nobody's gotta be cats, hep or otherwise - swinging is optional, always the option, paralysis option...


15 Aug 2019

You're a vessel for sickness, you pay it forward, perpetuate. The little girl isn't worth saving, she's beyond salvage, innocent kool-aid drinker, no need for no acid test, skip straight to poison. Paper over your sickness with a red eye patch. Strawberry ice cream color. Doesn't it make you feel good? It's all about you. Your pleasure is my own. Am I being sarcastic? I don't even know anymore. Irony though, that's always operational. Operational exhaustion, battle fatigue, well beyond the days of shell shock, there's no poetic way to describe it, just algorithms.

It'll take another global cataclysm closer to home to kill irony again. What will another season of dead irony dread feel like these days? In these times, I guess they'll be different times. At least I won't be quite as alone, I'll have an epic bacon win reason to live. Actually, a much better flavour than that.

I look like a pirate... Manic giggle. The red dead redemption mission where you get to kill KKK guys and not lose any honour points, there's much to be gained. The dread pirate Janine, red in deeds, so pink in countenance, bloody in words, a hot mess, dumpster fire. So fucked up. Can't turn away.

The apocalypse was always coming, I was always obsessed. Twas ever thus, I heard a chant that soothed me enough to feel like I could spin off the wheel of life and death for a playlet, aesthetically pleasing, elegant like an attractive equation.

13 Aug 2019

smells like heroism

after all this chaos and irony, the notion of a hero, is this when the dumb is sublime? i guess so

you can think what you want - which you know... so....

9 Aug 2019

tell me what to do, Q

Runon hypotheses ripple corners of my media, bits of other's dementia, here comes everybody. Pretentious references an emergent property of social applications I'm platformed into since allowing my phone's location. Society is a tightening cortex, more a crystal protomolecule, malign. Mass psychology's devising a suite of new virii for reasons unknown, you know? Good enough for me to worship blindly.

Maybe I won't send this to that person but instead bask in being a low-promoter, the modest mouse. I might as well have a thick band of red cloth fastened across my mouth with a leather knot at the back, tight as the ruling elite - it's their centennial year without a class traitor, they're having a Mary Antoinette-themed ball at the national mall to celebrate, they're even above irony, it's passe, doesn't matter, how you say? A certain je ne sais quois.

Meanwhile, Q anoners keep above the expanding rustpile of ennui like a Cadillac Escalade bouncing above crunching metal roofs. They're waiting... waiting for a wily moron, a guy that'll believe anything but somehow keeps winning a silly game, congratulations chosen one, another strike, you bowled a three hundred again, amazing, how do you do it? Can someone get Penn and Teller on that?

Inherited wealth from a white collar criminal of Fred's status will go a long way, will beat whatever remained of an american spirit, and ironically, beat that spirit with its own platitudes, to the pathetic but long-backgroundized sight of a battered woman singing about her man in Atlantic City, such a sweet voice, some guys get off on that, real connoisseurs. The son's done a sloppy job with the Legacy, but still got the job done in a bumbling kinda way, knows enough to grease the worst oligarchs, the house of Saud kinda scum, the ones with the off-blue blood, so damaged from hypoxia bubbles, every family who excretes indiscreetly in literal throne rooms. Junior bragged about palling around with the mafia, just one of the pallies, no one gets away with asking him to get his shinebox ever again. One of the better WWF characters. Wrestling is real, turns out. Much like the distinguished Legacy of the most recent serious elder-statesman of the Grand Old Party of presidents got the Nickolodean treatment [remember the aughts?] by the born-again fail-son Yale-man with the Gentleman's C - but he got the job done, made a far higher pile of dead arabs than either the elder republican managed or the current one has yet.

That Fred-class money, turns out, lets the son turn your world, now his world cause we all have to live in his world, into his private episode of that Twilight Zone with the omnipotent child who can make reality. Low cunning gets the job done, who's the real idiot? It's that drive to rich idiocy - the power it yields and perpetuates is akin to a fusion reactor built by Boeing, its only currency is that it's backed by racks of offensive nukes, cause a Boeing weapons system wouldn't work in a combat situation where battlefield credulity had to be established, its only purpose is to cost lots and lots and lots and lots of money, everyone's money. That's why you can't take a first strike off the table, they'll remind you on CNN or any other major network, the only difference is the military contractor, can't remember which is the Raytheon News and which one's Lockheed Martin Times.

Maybe they'll win but maybe it's gone too far, no option left but to rage, damn the blood. Now I sound like them, the rage made me do it, I had no choice. Rage as a word is impotent as words usually are, a thing to type, laying it out on the table, the floppy cock of rage.

Doing is theory, I never did anything that spilled blood, that's good, right? But if the whites keep crying genocide, it's tempting to give them a taste of the real thing. Or more reasonably, restrict their ability to spark one with a hundred slug drum under the gun. Oh, is that inconvenient for their dumb hobby? Does that chafe their beloved delusional libertarian fantasy, owners' so small-dicked their tricked-out long-gun redeems their man cards? Ammosexuals are so stupid, Zarathustra's laughing. Hey, we can always still play Black Ops on xbox, the guns are cool and look real, they haven't banned videogames, they might try, lobbyists protecting hobbyists' right to buy culturally significant killing machines, deflect and say games are to blame, but they haven't yet so how about this compromise? Game guns! The pentagon is just a bigger, dumber, version of it. Useless expensive over-complicated weapons are cool and fun. I know, this is kinda boiler plate, warmed over, cold take.

I know they want a race war. I wouldn't really help that dumb dream. I'm not gonna lie though, after all these targeted shootings I would get some enjoyment seeing a body count begin to build on the other side, finally, cause prestige TV serials are not cutting it, they're fairy tales. There are sides, I'm not gonna say I'm in the middle and pretend the centrists are not themselves a side that is appeasing if not collaborating with nazi scum. Like when those people chanted the annoying british troll out of the new york bar. You don't have to be some kind of crazy left extremist to fight for decency, I mean dirtbag decency, the kind of decency that any dirtbag can practice, the humble but arrogant decency of your own royalty in solidarity with others who are sick of the stench of human trash, the royal we as opposed to a mediocre middle. In some ways I'm a man of the people, despite lacking cred in trash taste and a little too vain in eschewing superficial vanity, I don't like elites, I can mistrust 'em with the best of them, I don't wanna be no serf, but I guess everyone's into that these days, idiots...

And just like that, we're back to human trash, although I'm talking about a specific human, not a large group, but it gets dangerous again, thinking I can identify the worst one percent. Let's say I'm taking a break from self-loathing, oh that's always running in the background like one of ms window's superfluous processes, but setting real-time priority to the task of loathing the really loathsome I hear about, the ripples in my media - deciding to believe, at age 37, that I can extrapolate from my tailored screens, to reality, thinking I'm not in the algorithm. It's mushy in the algorithm. It gets muddy here folks, when you're trying to be so serious, and sounding shockingly extreme to yourself, knowing a quick search for hypocrisy would turn up a thousand hits in a microsecond. But I'm on the anti-fascist side. You could call me antifa, even, although I don't deserve the title, I've never so much as been at a protest, they're so gauche, but voidbless those loud cringeworthy goofs that do it.

I would get some enjoyment from points on the board, scores beyond the pedestrian spectacle of a brownshirt punched by a blackbloc, I mean confirmed kills I can appropriate like runs from a fanatically-beloved sportsball team.

But it's sick, sick, sick.... to wish for that. I can see the sickness, not give the sickness a gun to play with. "We've got to play", the men's circle said, there's even a chakra angle to it, buddhists can kill rohingyas now, it's cool, it's backwards compatible, it's a 510 thread, vape cannabinoid oil while you're killing the enemy, the parasites, I can see how rage can live in me and my life has still been pretty comfortable most of the time, materially.

Thank whatever sorry excuse for a God exists in this universe... for love, I'm in love, that can keep a man from rage, I met an angel, we like each other, and crucially, love each other, no need for lawyers tricks. For that love, let's get specific, for her love, her scent, our oxytocin. I should say your love I guess, and make this a letter rather than a blog post, cause, gross, who wants to read that besides me and her? But this is my new style, unapologetic wanking, yeah, so novel right? And I guess I did kinda apologize just now, indirectly. Where would language be without lawyers tricks?

I'm not interested in races anyway, really. What I feel like waging war against is an undead network of chauvinists, bleached of morality. I'm not talking Caucasians, although anyone who calls themselves Aryan is probably one of them. I'm sure there's a few catch-22s here. I know some personal benefits do trickle down to me from this network. It's personal but it's not. My business is their chintzy business, a bunch of philistines preaching "culture", selling books, raking it in, whining about taxes, please build your space ark Bezos, take the rancid offspring of Falwell and Billy Graham with you, take Jake Tapper with you, get the fuck out of the way, heaven is a place on earth.

Respect for TYT and people like them, I'm not above that, not too cool for it, I dream about it for CHRISSAKES, dreams where I'm a guest on my favorite podcast with my fraaaaaands! 🙄





My dreams are the best when I'm a god on the fretboard, running the board, a six string ninja, getting away with murder. Not the best when I'm choking on my fluky fling as this version of myself that the Chapo collective dirtbag noun somehow knows, lethally embarrassing, maybe someday I'll be on that tier, like how every musician really wants to be a comedian with intellectual acumen. But really, if I'm not too cool for it, why will I reference a youtube channel I like but not link to it? Cause.... argh, it's so gauche, such a guilty pleasure, how good it feels to feel right, right on, righteous babeeee! I'm not too cool to get all stupidly fussy about looking gauche, keeping up with the non-gauche joneses who exist only in my mind, they're neighbors to Chuck Schumer's Bailles - they have to know that I know that channel is pretty hacky a lot of the time.

But it's my participatory daily show on crack, a better drug than the substances I was taking at least... They're doing what they can, trying to take their country back. Justice Democrats, haha, like Q except real! Re-purpose the burned-out chassis of the party and make the boomer conspiracy junkies eat shit. You can pry the gun I don't have from my cold dead hands. Just stop voting you fucks, if you won't have the decency to die. I can say this cause I got an American girlfriend. For my part, I gotta make a deal when it gets diplomatic in the complicated future and agree to perform espionage at extreme risk for the safety of our child.

Scratch the child part of course, let's thin the generations in gestation after the toxic gens have been overpowered, empower the inheritors of collapse and ruins, then phase ourselves out with modest natural lifespans, find the CEOS who escaped to islands and bunkers, hunt them down and kill them, humanely, don't even give them the operation paperclip treatment, we've got our own eggheads who can begin fixing the mess. Oh, it's all our mess, let's not get delusional with deflected blame, but they self-described elites are vastly more proportionately responsible, you don't get to weasel out of the bill collection, not this time, it's catching up with you fucks, you can't drink it away, can't fuck it away, can't meditate it away, can't AA it away, can't AI it away, we'll catch up with you before your artificial intelligence does, it's my mission to prevent your singularity. I have no control worth talking about though, things could just as easily as not end up with a de-torsoed Lincoln statue, like an alternate ending to a Planet of the Apes movie that still doesn't make any sense, except with a homemade algorithm.

Manifestos are a cheap vehicle, often fueled by amphetamine, a lemon, won't start, will only start a puddle of blood on the floor of another mass-killing. There's mass insanity and guns, it's getting worse, the insanity boosts the gun sales, break your back trying to save capitalism if you want, I've got better things to do, I'd expend about as much energy on that as I would rehabilitating the public relations of Jeffery Epstein, and that's even if I was getting Alan Dershowitz-sized fees wired to me, with about as much enthusiasm

No wonder fentanyl is sweeping through the guiltier and guiltier ranks of relatively privileged miserable pricks like a cleansing rain, like what all hateful psychos say about their enemies, like a randomly chosen Alex Jones rant except typed on a blog post, not with Vitamin Force Brain Power powder-money-enabled sets and mics and production values. Valuable, like a form of entertainment on a commute, not that much less similar to a morning with Howard Stern.

Fuck your tattoo, oh yes, fuck your tattoo, take it to the singularity, that's where I'm taking my rage, let's pray it never takes. Meanwhile, alternate-universe James Hetfield wins Taco Bell employee of the month award for March 2006.

8 Jul 2019

For Erin and me

I could die now
But I don't wanna die now.

I could die now
But I really don't wanna.

I wanna live in this moment.
And enjoy the memories of the last several moments. And live in this moment. And enjoy the next moment.

Like this moment. And the next moment. Like this moment. And like the next moment. Like this one. Just like that. It's amore! Crimson and clover, over and over.

I'm your vampire. No one else's vampire. I'm the paranoid self-imposed exile projecting inner rejection on some perceived outside force (delusions of persecution based on real but random persecution from earlier decades), estranged from the consortium of individual vampires that scorn any collective, (us spiritually-weak collectivist self non-governers, from their Aristolean perspective), the winningest vampires, like the best kitten at being ugly on the internet.

 I'm not one of them, the rugged individualists collective. I'm independent from them, indepence day is today, celebrate! Don't masturbate, now is not the time for narcissism, it's not empty, look not through the mirror but through the camera lense at her, or through the eyes, opening the mouth, independence day, year zero, irony is back, baby! Time for a twenty minute guitar solo, squeedly VS meedly, go meedly, meedly wins!

Are you ready for some ha jin?!

She. Is good to me, good for me, I'm good for her, reflect, project, an art, a song, ironic and not, a knot of sincerity, she's good with me, I'm in love with her and I feel fine.

I'm no one else's idea of a vampire, not conventionally vampiric enough. Not Count Chokula esque. Not counting things to muppets.

Get up and get down to Platonic solid energy and the earth, adoration is mandatory, she is adorable.

12 Jun 2019

Prolifery

I'm working out new ways to perform and record. They take the form of melodic fragments, half-assed renditions of half-remembered songs, old ideas of mine resurrected, and wherever the associative flow and feelings lead. I'm also using the recordings as a way to audition vocal effects. I'll be posting some, just because I'm in a long gestation period between produced tracks. Instead of having nothing to show musically, I can at least offer some raw precursor material.

Prolifery 1 - Way to Breathe
Prolifery 2 - Fresh Mind
Prolifery 3 - Sick Charade
Prolifery 4 - Paranoid About

a nice bit of randomness

Back in those days, we would print stuff off the internet with our Netscape browser, jokes, quotes, text, always text, images took too long to load. I spent my attempt at higher education in a particular library cubicle that bleak winter, so tired, a slump of sores.

"Spoon!" Coming upon that Discordian "quote"' was the funniest thing ever, made me laugh for minutes. That joke religion from the seventies. It was like a revelation on nitrous oxide, "overall there was a smell of fried onions", the Robert Anton Wilson parody of "everything in this universe is the smell of burnt almonds", the William James axiom, randomness that is really all encompassing, implications in minutia.

3 Jun 2019

It doesn't take a miracle to make a miracle

The old songs slipped away the moment we embraced. I didn't need them anymore. Suddenly I understood the cliches, which is itself a cliche, I get it now! I laughed every few minutes thinking how apropos they were, how they applied. All the new songs I would have to write. All I'd had to do was hang in there til I found her, like the kitten in the poster. Her lips are the best thing ever, the floodgates, torrent-drowned tornadoes, lox underwater, lux aeterna, requiem for a life of getting by.

27 Apr 2019

undertow

i'm so ugly, it's okay cause so are you, broke my mirrors
gonna shave my head in mourning of myself as sexual being, fuck it
forget everything and run, it's a fun run
not a grueling run, not even strenuous,
just a run of blood and luck you didn't know was luck
when you bleed out, pale and sexless
but fertile in serenity
a serene sterility, negative legacy
that feels so positive for opening space
for someone else, the chain letter ends with you
when you're so bound to your ego
no gift of life for anyone else, it's okay
don't have to conjure a life
don't have to feel alive in fucking
feel dead in ducking an old trad duty
duty-free and carpe noctem
it's not a marathon
it's a waterslide into the warm ocean drag

20 Apr 2019

porcine frottage indulgence

Cadmium voltage. Graphene foliage. Carbon dottage. Dated. Fated to be here. Great. Make it so. Wet croak, choke that rhythm, I got rhythm, who could ask for anything more faggoty, lay the real thing on me, rivet slabs of platinum into me, I tell myself, I'll do that, let's get it done - let's modify, it's a fantasy with no allegiance to reality, swapping genes, epigenetic, in my carbon dottage. Cottonpickin elevator operator piece of culture, that's the kinda boy I am, unworthy of even writing about that, the carbon boy with too many silicon implants, but silicon is my second skin, it contains most of myself, the relevance of my dna diminishes day by day, that's the plan, they're only making plans for nigel, I didn't know about it, but it's for my benefit, and I have to believe I'm following it of my own free will - using the words "own free will" gets me under scrutiny from dark tales of christianity, duck tales of irrelevant tangents in chocolate factories.
















It's a British Steel future here, you know? It's fine, you're waiting for the funnel, I'm waiting for the funnel, we're all waiting for the funnel here on the street, it's a no-go zone for everyone else but we're waiting for the funnel, to suck us all into heaven, that deadlight, it's dreadfully delightful

let it be, let it dilate, let your soul dissipate like contaminant on dishes in detergent, frothing, frollicking, frottage being a cottage industry in this province, after you bloodlet, let the dishpit disintegrate, bet you didn't think you had it in you, did you dipshit, to use that word? the shameful story, what else can turn a dubiously honorable sepuku into a self-immolated activist who nobody cares about, he went to that extreme, doused himself with gasoline, and was a fleeting story on some boiler plate news aggregator, dishonorable discharge from life, the self-despiser can't even respect himself as a despiser anymore, couldn't even be a good addict, couldn't act the part, couldn't commit, contribute, kernal panic? Yes, don't hesitate, just do it. Do it accapella. Try and contrive that rhythm that we need, automatic, manual manipulation by an autonamous force above my head, above my pay grade, automatically, making me an automaton, but when i manage to metaprogram, for a microsecond, that frequency i can never climb to, i feel like i can set the nodes of automation for my track to forge a personality, a soul out of that, that's the best i can do these days, that's what i say, that's how i see it, that's how he sees it, that's how johnny sees it, ceded no ground, seeded apples all over it, was a groovy orchard for aeons, a skull orchard for ages beyond that, site of a garden of corpses to fade, crumble, a layaway, by the wayside, down the drain-o - some didn't want to drain, didn't like the hole, how dark it is, could not conceive of a pinprick yang in there, down there, could only see it as the funnel of oblivion, no tunnel, no other side. One way means one thing when there's time, and another thing when there isn't.

there's things i supposedly did, in dreams, i still connect to, the ones that haunt me the most, like i must orbit some hideous secret - but i don't know about all that, that's my special report, today's special, don't know why it's not on the menu, it went the way of that rotini i loved and business as usual, it's ripples in a river

and corporeal's going away


signal

Just hide, that's all you gotta do - just let it be - even when nothing's nearby. Just contrive a rhythm if there isn't one - just do it - just like they say, can't beat the real thing. Just bounce it off the wall, have it resonate, reverberate, certain half-life contrivance fade out. Just dream, that's all you gotta do, iterate through the dreaming brain, whatever form of consciousness you wanna call that, no reason whatever to think that...

A special report: Troper, Zoe Troper squirmed out of those clothes you made her - energy, made this life a painting, twists in vector perpendicular to the cube, a hole inhaling time, like that guy says, when words mattered more, a funnel forms [- She was made by a replicator, you could call her a replicent, I reported on this event. The replicents were replacing the mexicans, who replaced the mexicants, but finally even mexicans opted out of manufacturing maxi pads for pennies, the americando spirit assembled them instead for a transition period, like next gen nuclear kept things glowing for a golden age of atomic electricity, but ordinary pieces of toast, another fantasy that coulda been, theoretically, a blueprint for a free energy machine, impossible, things are too tangled up now, calm down, Nuclear People -] when they almost had the power of a replicator, coordinated directed molecular assembly, atomic sub routine - holographic replication to the planck constant - the other side of light maybe. The only things to ever avoid replication, assimilation into the replicent collective, were the guys that were so freaked out about jews replacing them, this master race of idiots, doomed to getting shot to death in pointless Monster Assaults or becoming Henry Hill, severed from his mob franchise, it got real eighties for a while there.

Mash it up properly, don't take anything that seriously, can't, can't be, it mustn't. But the parable of that episode is that it can be, let it be, just do it, it'll happen to you. THE experience simply happens when I let it, have to blood let it, practically make myself dead to make it happen, but when I go through semi-lethal contortions, put myself through anesthetic pull towards flatline abuse, then I can stop doing, it simply happens...

...the legends are true, I can exist here without a body, it's like if I was stuck firmly comfortably in the rut ringed with ripples that spread in expanding circles, perturbing a crystal lake with myself as oasis island, it was always like this, already, I just didn't notice, now I see, a lake, a sea, an ocean, a plane for simple beautiful movements that make a difference, so we can recognize signal, feel, up and down, did I stutter? Did you hear me? I think you did, but how is any hearing or seeing possible when there is no time, or it's more like time is a living thing, it's the erosion of your thing, it shapes you into that squiggle I wouldn't tag it with a name, like the lamia, I'll extend it to that - if it doesn't have a name, like the last track on your album, it can be heard as audio waves, the size of the spectrum is plentiful, multiple home run, extensions, replace me, I need something better to occupy this space, some one better, replace, cause I don't matter, I'm trying to give it up, this is my signal.

blank in water Facebook is for spite. That's the face I keep there. I see a vote for slogan, vote for blank, and I get a panging, li...