20 Apr 2019

late night cottage 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

it's 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 yin 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

just hide, that's all you gotta do - just let it be - even when there's nothing 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, reverbate, a certain half-life contrivance fade out

just dream, that's all you have to do, let it iterate in 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, it twists in some other dimension, there's a hole sucking space time, like that guy says, so fine it blows my mind, 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, i dunno. 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 being shot while righteous 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, 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, actually i 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.

12 Apr 2019

The Special

Well, here I am again. In this strange place. Contemplating a strange action. Insane, one night say, insanophilic, the desire to go there, the place of insanity and self administered retina scars like black rainbows. If it's so special, why's is not in the menu? That cobalt blue verbiage.

Nobody knows you and nobody wants to. Contemplate that, completely, sink to the bottom of the mudhole, get every mol in you, and feel the deep reality of no one wanting to know you. That takes care of the bullshit but doesn't leave one with much.

It's returning, I'm reverting. Losing cool, drowning in paranoia and self-abnegation, fearing and affirming the worst about me, choking on the old useless paradigm that's just next door to murder, suicide, apocalypse, personal political, singularity of anxiety. There's an urgency building up slow and sly, a force behind the lines, critical mass'll hit some time, compress time, rough squeeze through raspy organ tubes.

Can't deny the need for void to be filled, take it seriously, I'm not careful what I wish for, fuck that. Fixing worked last time, for long enough, I'll take anything, the vacuum is so cold and sucking out everything. More reason to hope for a miracle, reasons to deconstruct it as a 'miracle', reasons for I shall be released any day now, cause of something she told to someone. It's not all sarcastic, the miracle doesn't require a miracle, when it happens it becomes the new paradigm, thanks God, but I found a parking space, nevermind, don't need you.

Heat death coming for those trapped in linear time. But I'm not being stalked. When I'm not cool, I'm burning alive with nerves and adrenaline, I don't like adrenaline, I don't get off on it, I'm not being stalked by saber toothed tigers, I don't need that stuff pumping in tight headache pulses at a tempo I can never catch up with, to work with. Losing my cool, confidence, identity... uncomfortable in the skin even though I'm sober (for all intents and purposes) and taking better care of myself.

Not teachable. Not able to be a fan, of anything anymore. Wanting to be my own greatest fan, but failing at that. Sure, I can say that, why not?

Be like the boy. We like Roy. Whichever. Why do we care? Why write about apathy? Why expect anyone else to care about writing about apathy? Because it's not really apathy, far from it, apathy is a misleading sugar coat euphemism for caring so much it strangles me. Not so much you. But it's really true, it's not empty, or at least it doesn't have to be. Just seems eternal and infinite when I'm in it.

The thing I have no euphamism for returning, because I'm losing my cool. Feeling not worthy of anything. Gotta find the cool again, but can't through chemical crutches, and I don't even want to. Don't worry. I'm so upstanding I worry about you worrying. But the squeaky wheel gets the cock greased. I should ask for donations, fund my dickstarter. Hah. Ha. Yeah.

There's purple prose that isn't very visual, it's just like a bruise, a good old-fashioned bruise from when injuries were from having fun, as a kid, not from daily meatgrinders, online mindtinders. Any day now, I shall release. Inside. Within. Not without. So horrible to say this. Actually it would be fine to sing it, and I could give it an intonation and rhythm that would make it sayable, with style even, clothe in mesh-layers of sarcasms like kevlar, but writing, oh god, no prose is purple enough to obscure the bare words and their implications.

2 Apr 2019

Sgt. Draper, the seed crystal, and the Dead Angel

The dying angel is losing grip, the dead hand set to trigger the end of everything, for aeons anyway.

The poison seed crystal flows through me right now, liquid crystal, generating words that won't matter almost as soon as they're crystallized. Nothing lasts, but nothing is lost, here, we're all clear, there's a pointlessly gunshot man in the cabin, another one who died for nothing, like all death is in the real world, art imitates life and death.

1 Apr 2019

the spring low

it's here again, the super low, the sub high

not even a fucking word - so fuck it then, fuck everything

this useless fucking blog, these useless fucking words, these useless fucking people - there's no good way to say it, it's nothing but a verbal suicide - not even this, not even that, not even death and pain - god fucking damnit, fuck - just leave me alone then, i wasn't even the one reaching out - it's the last straw, and all that - just gonna be a sick ramble

it's not even my face, it's not even my body though that doesn't help, the fatal flaw is the most personal part of me, it's the thing i care the most about if i can't care about a person, the only power i ever feel, expression in pretty patterns of words and tones - it's sick, i just want to immanentize the sickness, let it take whatever final form it's plaguing towards, be that forever, finally and forever out of the nightmare of history, unstuck from ugly time

form the quarantine, a wall of eff words - fuck off, fuck on, but no fucking, no using, no mutual, no nothing - let X be Y, let it be ugly, the only thing left is an eternal season in post-human paradise that looks so hellish, but you can't see, you won't see, no one will see, no entelechy, no body, no source, gone off the grid, fishing for electrolytes and endorphins

i wish i could get payback by tricking people, disappointing, letting down enough to equal the endless chain links of let down i've had to feel as payment for trying to improve things for myself - the sick joke is there's no improvement, there's only pitiful devolution as evidenced by these fucking words that aren't doing me any favors, but fuck favors, i'm becoming one with the tumour of my rancid personality, giving way to sounding like a silly fucking edge lord, let it be whatever it is

time to be guarded with a fuck-off arsenal, cultivate an apathy that will one day be genuine, operate from earned paranoia, some said they like the cynicism but it isn't for you, or anyone, not to be used by anyone else

it's so fucking ugly when i write, driven by emotion like this, it's so much better when i'm detached, but i don't care anymore, not gonna contrive any distance, just gonna report from the ugly epicenter of depression

17 Mar 2019

Don't be an ass

I berate myself in that voice, the rough authoritarian self-despiser: Don't be an ass [by which I mean, a silly-ass jackass like somebody on the TV show of the same name] and play the game of trying to meet someone. It's a game that some playas will freak at you for calling a game. Game?! One of them berated me because it was enjoyable to express rage at a bad week by making me a punching bag, sure told me off right good, and if I care that you care then it's your victory, a suicide troll, a deep game. I'm supposed to take you seriously? In all this noise? You ain't signal bitch, fuck outa here with that sheeeyit. Fuck all y'all.

That game isn't the whole world, I'm mercifully distracted for a minute by watching my friend's kids find a metal chest with their magnesis ability in the river of the Hyrule forest. I'm watching them play Zelda, eyeing the little yamaha keyboard. I wanna play music, participate in some way, but I'm paranoid, with a flush palette bloating out against the corneas. I'm not entirely free of the fear of dizzy spells, not quite feeling back to active yet, still pacified, fried. Almonds. Pax Canadiana. It's hard to do fragments. But some people do well with that. Hats off to all y'all. Not fuck all y'all, tapada marnin tooya! Tula lula rula!

Nobody wants me lucky charms! I say no body instead of no one, cause "one" sounds like a free-floating intellect, disembodied, sterile, omnipotent in cerebral realms I can't navigate but impotent in flesh - and "body" emphasizes the corporeal warm-blooded source of energy I feel so empty of, free from. I don't want that kind of freedom, want a bond instead, deep desire for the prison of devotion that is a bond to a body with a mind, a package to love, some body to love, like Freddie sang of, the feeling from which great songs are born, with hackneyed lyrics but rhapsodic voice.

There's a theoretical object of theoretical love, impersonal, because I don't want to describe how personal it gets sometimes in this mind o' mine, constrained online, in the infinitesimally niche way I'm online. It's still mostly empty, the substance is like a proton in a mega-parsec sized cube of vacuum. It's a cube, not a sphere, cause I'm Aristotlean, not Platonic, I don't do spheres, cubes are convenient for this right-angled human-brain, I like to visualize it as a room of space, with the surface that is the "floor", a direction, orienting, which might be arbitrary from the perspective of a proton, or the being looking in at it from the outside. I'm not platonic, I'm not fiending for some abstract ideal, I want something real.

Coming back to "don't be an ass!", the voice is sheriff droogan, dragon, drogan, whatever it is, once chief of the Santa Monica PD, now kind of a big deal in Randall Flagg's America. He's scolding the "Rat Man" for impulsively pumping his shotgun and pointing it at the prisoners in the prison truck as it drives through the psycho mob toward the dismemberment machines in the New Vegas town square. "Don't be an ass!" Dragen growls with a withering contempt so potent it could describe my exasperation at myself for trying, once again, to find love, and the latest petty setback that scatters the small heap of self worth I've miraculously salvaged once again, ephemeral salvage washed away, as before, rinse and repeat. Self pity. Cop to that, cause the man who despises himself still respects himself as he who despises. Such romantic metaphors, to me they are, which is all that matters, to me, such purple prose for what purpose? Purple-vein dick jokes, really. No dagger in my heart, just a catheter in my cock, blocked.

Don't be an ass, Drogan says, and don't you dare kill the prisoners for being smart asses for God, before Flagg has MC'd their public torture and execution. You'd be like that guy who was supposed to shoot the judge, but for fuck's sake preserve the head so it can be recognized when it's air dropped over the God Squad in Boulder. And he couldn't even do that. So at least get this show right, don't fuck it up for Drogan. Torture and executing kinda blend together when some body is being drawn and quartered. Farmer John's gonna think about his mother as he's going out in the most horrific way one can imagine.

When I'm not an ass I get shit done, dunno now if it's worth doing. When values are up for grabs, it gets to be a pretty freaky eigenstate. The Eigenstate is the freeway that connects to hidden variables all over the multiverse, possibilities and timelines, fractal fractures, infinitely progressing possibilities in logarithmically increasing smallness of gradation. Things are different than ten years ago, I feel sheepish now talking like that and using such words, when I used to take myself more seriously. Gotta put the sarcastic tag on it now like an FDA label. May contain nuts known to the state of California to cause paranoia, and delusion. But, entertaining delusion, monetizable possibly if you only lean a little bit on the multiverse, the slimmest bit is a good bet, monetize delusion to stay in purchasing power for musical doohickeys. A Whoopi Goldberg contraption.

12 Mar 2019

Don't Stop Me Now

I'll never be interviewed. But I've got the best take.

On everything.

Da da da da daaaah, ha da da ha haaaaah, ha de daaaah, daaah de daaah ah aaaaaaaaahhh oooooooooooooeeeeoooooo-oooooeeee.

I need some kinda cry therapy maybe. Nothing can permeate my armor of medication. Enlightenment, cursement, ecstasy, robust depression - you get to miss robust depression. And still sing "I'm in love with my car". It's a good running joke, that joke's got legs! It runs at hundreds of horses.

Even if something could penetrate my armor of medication, there'd be a kevlar underbelly, a scab lattice of cynicism. Except for this depiction of a Live Aid concert in 1985, the movie cuts through me, leaving me misty-eyed. The elegiac cliche "that [recently dead musician/performer] taught me how to be weird!" was a syringe, pricked right through my scabs, pumped me full of that chemical that I hardly ever feel so it grabs my attention, that precedes crying, that only throbs for a second or two, but then I was getting those pangs on the regs for a while. Rami Malek had something to do with it too. How to be weird. Except I was watching smurfs when Freddie was teaching, but I appreciate retrospectively. Can I nostalgize about times I wasn't born? I dunno but fuck it, I will anyway. There's all kinds of manifestations of weirdness. There's the monday morning kind. Let's fuck it up, business-like. The show must go on, civilization's too big to fail. But there was nothing too big to fail really. In the shadow of the mushroom cloud. It's okay if it reminds me of an Abba song, that's the water I'm swimming in, a mystic droning in, drowning?

I'm teetering on the edge of becoming Jeremiah, the cult leader, reaching such a pure level of self-righteous entitled rage as to tap into some demonic power source from beyond Jupiter. Except I wouldn't tap into that power, if I even knew how to sell out in an alien language. They accept venetian latin as an interchange, but I don't travel through time the same way I travel in space, so that's not an easy requirement for me. I'm not like them but I can pretend. I'm not even drunk but I'm quoting song lyrics constantly, they're in everything, like cancer. Maybe I'll partner with Cancer, Candace Cancer, we'll be workmates with benefits, she's like Fry's alien worms from that vending machine sandwich that had expired in ancient times, Cancer will be my manager, she'll improve everything about me, focus me into a laserbeam of precision and get results! Like Freddie Mercury, ready? Pure, crystallized abortionist on a glass focal point. Rapidly changing minerals in rocks, dynamite with a laser beam.

Good enough for Now.

Don't you see, don't you see, don't you see? Don't... you... see? Do you see? My name is not Jeremiah, I would never want a name like that. It's a cursed name, circa 1670 something... Don't you see, don't you see what's coming to me, what's got... to come... to me? Or am I looking into a mirror and bashing my head into the mirror asking "tell me what to do, tell me what to do," crying: "tell me what to do" - i'm telling my reflection to tell me what to do, my bloody headed rejection, that pretty hair getting bloody, but it's dark hair so the blood is just an extended silhouette, hair clumps bobbing in peripherals, popping in and out of a frame of jagged glass: TELL ME WHAT TO DO!

And I see a smile on the other side, and I start taking instruction, cause I'm learning high venetian latin, a second century dialect, I know what to do! What that is, I'll tell you... sometime... I promise... you forget things... I already paid you, remember? You don't remember? You don't see?

Wishful thinking, continue the gaslighting, keep the fire burning. Keep the windshield wipers going. It won't matter. We're all circling the drain. I looking forward to saying that again. In years from now.

This is gonna be another descriptive blog post, a missive from a passive consumer of lite conspiracy theory. Not heavy, just low grade acid.

It's great, I'm not accountable to anyone. I'm trying to talk myself into positivity, that's all. Don't hold me to account on that front. With a heavy head. Don't know where my heart is. Am I gonna start talking about that now? Better to just cry with no object. Or a doppelganger object. The object was replaced, and I have capgras delusion, my limbic system doesn't work right, I can't attach the emotion to the object, the organ that more than any other keeps me alive, or is that the brain? Hard choice, like Hilary's book. Actually, nothing like that. Distracted by tits. Clits. Porn. Tawdryness, objectifying. But it's pure art. But the beauty is a tangent off that, a crazy angle I can't crick my head to see.

Don't you see, what's got, to come, to me, come to me, come to me. Come hither.

If nothing else, if all is lost, I'll still be cynical, so cynical, blackly cynical, that's what I'll clutch in my cold dead fingers.

9 Mar 2019

.don't you see?
..don't you see?
...don't you see?
....don't you see?
.....don't you see?

the answer

i'm president
that's the answer
whatever you say to me

i'm the president
of i don't give a fuck

america's my protectorate
i'm like Emporer Norton with actual money
i'm taking the wheel of this planet, the republic of earth
we're taking this thing to mexico!

nothing can wipe the smirk off my face
you thought osama had a smirk, check this shit out
i'm the president, that's the shit
the real funky shit
because president

here's a conspiracy i believe in:
my military burned my school records
i don't worry about fetuses
but i'm good at pretending to worry
one of my skills

i'll tell you what's going on
even the "opposition" is propping me up
they'll gag or kill their journalists if they have to
but most of the journalists do what they're told
cause the money's too good
way too much money, money money money - money
because they're scared of my followers
and what they'll do if i'm taken down
they're 35% but they have more guns than the other 65%
way too many guns, guns guns guns - guns
because when you get locked into a serious gun collection
the tendency is to take it as far as it'll go
the 65% are collecting drugs, the 35% are collecting guns
who's gonna win d'ya think?

the answer is: i'm president

3 Mar 2019

Space Mormons

You gotta laugh. What can you do but laugh? Don't cry. Check out the Space Mormons. The Galactic LDS. They're giving ECCO a run for its money. The Office of the Control of Coincidences concerning Earth is like, what, who are these Space Mormons, they're not galactic, they're not even stellar, although they got ambitions, like I wanted the free state of Slackerdonia to be a nuclear power, just for peace of mind, and some say that's taking the definition of home defense a little far, but nah, that's how I roll, dawg. The Space Mormons want that planet that was prophesized, or is it a whole system of planets, maybe a whole galaxy, so everyone can get one. I like to imagine that engineered utopia, but I also gotta engineer this space ark, and if the Space Mormons think they can stiff me, they better be sure I haven't sabotaged that ship for its three century trip. You be trippin. Bitches be triflin. But you're a version sexy mormon. Very hard to please. You can taste the bright lights but you won't get there for free, in the Space Jungle, welcome to the Space Jungle... and you, as a demographic, are famously polite and charming, even insane freakouts you do politely, you gotta laugh. It makes me laugh in particular, being an amateur investigate scholar of freakouts, it's amusing, even as it's tearing me apart lobe by lobe.

I wish I had a prophet who promised me a planet. Me personally. The bigger the Lie, the more likely it is to be believed, that's what they call "The Big Lie". That's a lie so big it's worth believing in, like that story of Pi that was supposed to make me believe in God. If you wannit you gaaaaaht it you just got to believe... believe in yourself, ah. See the key word is the self. That's the self-coda, that's the Kravitz Guarantor for the insurance on your soul. It was a good story though.

The bigger the Thetan, the deeper the quicksand, you know what I mean? Sometimes a cow's gotta die. Hey, we all die, don't cry for any of these organisms, it'll be your turn soon enough. I got actuary tables if you want to know how you're gonna die. No? Okay, just thought it was polite to offer.

Offer yourself up as a sacrifice, a holocaust, every last nerve being painfully immolated one at a time. Sometimes an ox gotta be gored, man. I've already killed all my darlings, they're already dead. But I talk to em everyday in an unhealthy amount of seance sessions, nostalgia abuse benders. Keep em alive past bedtime, stay awake my beautiful eyes, show me some skin, the regions of the mind I wanna see, train my brain on that, who needs the peace corps? What's there to live for?

The Space Mormons were successful in their interstellar journey, and we were all rooting for them, all the time, well I was anyway, I know I don't speak for y'all. But unfortunately, when they got to Vega they ran right into that Time Rift from Star Trek Discovery, and things got all four dimensional, and I had to trust my math, and you know what? It saved my butt. From that moment on, I worshipped math, I made geometry sacred but that didn't do it, so the little got mo' and mo'. I just keep trying to get a little better, said a little better than before. Just doing what all my friends and well-wishers wished for me, to get a little better, get well even, cause junksick is a drearily-sane forever war, you get what you pay for, forget about fighting more - huhah! Abso lutely nothin'. Some day I might want for nothing to be enough.

26 Feb 2019


Some good things going on... like I'm finding a way to enjoy this new sci-fi series. And... putting up a front of bravado against that bleakest feeling, trying not to read anything into any thoughts of fronting, it's all good. Meh. It shows me how things are empty. Not that I agree, but it shows me, again and again, pretty convincingly. Gotta fill somehow, flood fill.

The technological updates in this sci-fi show are analogous to modern conveniences like dishwashers, or more contemporaneously, streaming videos on the internet, the guy is worried his employers are gonna screw him out of growing a new arm, after he got it sheared off by a chunk of ice they were mining that unexpectedly shattered - to have that option, theoretically, of growing a new arm sure sounds like a wondrous new age, but why'd he have to get it cut off in the first place, and why is it only theoretical, the really ugly reality of capitalism grinding on into later centuries puts a damper on things, like in every age. What do self-important media assholes always say when we talk about inequality? The poor are so lucky, luckier than ever, they have dishwashing machines, clothes drying machines, smart phones, why are they complaining? Just work harder. Live, work work work work, die.

23 Feb 2019

You have no idea how other people see you. You'd be shocked. The disparity between words voiced, and how you're 'seen', by which I mean, the feelings people have about you, a complicated mix usually, they sometimes congeal in words, text, email, diatribes, confessions, declarations, giggly conversations. Like how I see people, and all the things I must be quiet about, at all costs. Self-policing, but I think I'll mostly keep at that. They're not all bad things, sometimes there's illicit love, and petty anger, and ways I see people that reveal things I just don't wanna reveal about me.

22 Feb 2019

cellllll le brate half measures, c'mon!

It's hard to watch. You hate to see it.

Hard to watch what's out there, what works. Folks. Just plain folks. With sleeves of sophistication - people I know. It's hard to watch even people I don't know. It's also hard to watch just about any movie, even though I've been bathing in the medium lately, because there are always these attractive people in them, good characters, fucked up beautifully, larger than life, reminding me how small I am. Whatever emotion I get wrapped up in as portrayed by a director and an actor in some character -some character wrapped up in some hollywood actor- whatever that emotion is, it's pathetically vicarious, can see it but I can't be it, can't apply a molecule of that flavour to the modest things I want. For myself. Why not go whole hog, damn the metaphor, never mind the style, just go, do it, just, do it, just do it, but you hate to see it.

This Child of the New Dawn says: the screens mirror the radio waves I send out into the universe to scan for something I can use. I say "this child of the new dawn" to distinguish from "those children of the new dawn" the ones who signed on to stick around failed folk singer Jeremiah's "beautiful dream he's having" and participated in murder and self-inflicted games of russian roulette. I won't bother with the special words anymore, it can be as vague or cryptic as I want, to hell with everything else. I know there are hard limits on any potential sociopathy, no need to worry, it's all done for love, in love, with the half-dead companion who's hovering above the abyss, hanging onto the cliffs by a couple fingers. I'll use anything, throw everything but the kitchen sink at the wall, see what sticks, where my enemies are dead, still in a line against. I'm not going for some brand of rage and hatred, that's not me, never been me, not my parameters - just self-respect, in as ugly a manner as I can dredge out of me, like a fuck-off aesthetic, the only voice that's right for this epoch. Fuck off. But not really.

All the songs are gonna be about the same thing now. Until I get what I want, that's how I'm creating a hostage crisis. It'll be like a cartoon-writer's strike, no one will care. I'm really my own hostage and my own ransom. So I will care, greatly. I'll care so much, I'll make a masterpiece out of it. Or a garage, where I write all of Weezer's songs before they do, but never get success. But in that alternate universe, I don't require any tradition to define success for me, and the physics of this universe allow me to fit in just well enough, while preserving and enhancing the charms of my eccentricities and imperfections, to feel good, to not feel the void almost all the time. But thank heavens for my anti-depressants and the pharmaceutical mega-corporations that oversee their manufacture, even if they're evil, because they're a rope stretched over the abyss beyond the black rainbow.

21 Feb 2019


I can't punch up what's already been perfectly stated. Anything I add will be a fist through drywall, not productive. I'm down, so I'm gonna punch down, though there's nothing to punch here. I'm due for a breakthrough.

When I didn't care, it didn't help either. That conventional wisdom is bunk, that I just have to stop caring. All this magic, all these secrets, I've had enough.

The anger is at this place I've gotten to that makes me react despairingly to minor things. It's not personal. I wish there was a person I could focus it on, but there isn't one, it's spread even and vast, it's somewhere between chunky and smooth peanut butter.

"At least I'm sober", sarcastic obeisance to the benign cult. I'm not a pedant about sobriety, I don't care if I meet the definition in the Queen's English. Oh good, there's at least one thing I don't care about.

Still care too much about all the rest of it. I'm due for a breakthrough.

Maybe I can make a breakthrough by quitting trying, it's the first step towards failure, as homer said, but actually, it's been thousands of steps of rejection. I won't hold myself hostage, that's not my intention, if I'm a psychic vampire then get your neck out of my mouth, it's not like I have any power.

I'm due for a breakthrough, but it's like the Big Quake that's supposed to hit sometime, it might be after I'm dead. So what if I'm due?

So fucking bleak, too bleak for poetry. Oh it could get much bleaker, I know. So what? So what if I'm due for a level of bleak that makes this look weak, I'm still gonna say what I'm gonna say.