read my lips, no new narcotics

ugh, i feel like utter shit

the mind fuck is over
but the body fuck is just beginning

i wish i could explain what it feels like
mentally i'm utterly drained, total lack of enthusiasm
can't even care enough to even attempt to make this artistic
can't even take any joy in some self-pitying lament
i'm only writing because i've tried every other thing
to distract myself, or dullen myself
can't shut my mind off
even though my mind and body are utterly exhausted
in an exhausted world
total lack of meaning and purpose
saying utterly exhausted things

every nerve ending feels like it's being painfully stretched
a tension, constantly pulling on me, everywhere
tugging at me, trying to get me to go every which way at once
when i can go nowhere, can do nothing
utterly useless

dull aches everywhere, especially in joints
but everywhere, especially extremities
but everywhere, anywhere it's possible to hurt
i hurt, anything it's possible to loathe, i loathe
feel like i'm as low as i can go, everything i've ever
done, said, is utterly worthless, everything i'll ever
do and say will be pointless, dull pain
radiating all over my face, skull
body rejecting bones
teeth complaining
hyper sensitive body or tactile hallucinations?
whatever it is, it won't stop, hour after hour, can't sleep
sore, tired eyes, tired muscles, can't sleep
can't even clench anymore
i must look like a zombie, almost a sleep walker
and yet i FEEL clenched everywhere, i'm
trying to relax, i think i am relaxing physically
but no matter how little effort i expend to do and think anything
i still feel clenched and tense, when i relax my body and mind
my thoughts and physique radiate outward in pain and strain and tension
and everything feels pointless and every thought articulates
that pointlessness with what feels like utter clarity
hyper articulation of how every joy is a fleeting moment of delusion
a moment of successfully blocking out the ugly and tired truth
of a world that died a long time ago
and i could go on
and i will
because, i dunno
because writing is the path of least resistance right now
and even that is painful and disgusting and hideous
and my neck is so sore

i don't have any good medication
the standard drugs, thc, caffeine, and alcohol are just exacerbating the problem
creating a perfect storm of psycho-physical maladaption and discontent
i don't have any good downers, although dram might be good enough
in a brute force way, to knock me down, so i don't have to keep
thinking about this shit, and even if i'm able to put myself out, i'll still probably feel it
in a semi-conscious way, but i'll be able to avoid the extra ugliness of my mind
articulating it for me, and pondering the implications, for life, the universe, and everything

there seems no solution, this is a position of utter negation, and even negation doesn't offer anything - it could be worse, it's not intense pain, just a lame strain, a brain drain, and it rhymes with itself, an endless riff on itself, self-similar feelings, fractal discomfort, an itch that is an ache that is a pang of futility and despair - but no guilt, it could be worse, i don't feel like there's a moral component to it, yes i feel like i'm a bad person, but i also feel like the unavoidable product of a bad world, it's all bad and couldn't be any other way, and the pangs continue, radiation, decay felt infinitely, regressing and progressing, a long half-life, decay felt infinitely, regressing and progressing, a long half-life, zeno's paradox is just a never-ending itch, and i keep scratching at decimals, they keep burrowing deeper under my skin, i can never get at them and their blunt logic, their truth is spread over my body, elusive, when i think i've pinned it down, in my stinging fingertip, or my sore spine, it becomes a thought, it shifts to the mental, then i try and reason my way out of it, it's not that bad, i can transcend by shifting my thought-context, but then the baseline reality seems to be that my head aches, the unignorable, yeah, unattainable, et cetera...

and i hear hughey lewis in my head, i need a new drug, or whoever sang that, it sounds professional in my head, i can hear every note of the articulated sax solo, precisely what sold albums in the 80s, but probably more consumer products via commercials, than albums. I'd say what I did today, but it doesn't seem worth bothering, all my sketched out brain and body can be bothered to do is write about the pain it's in, it's not tragic, it's just ugly and pointless and that feels profound, and it's ugly and pointless that it feels profound, actually it "is" nothing that i've said it is, it just feels, it feels and feels and feels, it feels like everything i've said it feels like, and writing makes it feel even moreso like it feels like everything i've said it feels like, and i guess i feel like if i push the feel pedal to the floor, i'll somehow get to the root of it, and be able to transcend the feeling, but it's seeming like there is no root, it's like trying to catch a river, and the pain continues to flow through me

ugh, it sucks

and i itch again, back of the head, my skin feels like it burnt off, my mind feels like it rusted out, an itch in the foot that turns into a pang in the instep, a pain that spreads in a two second bolt through my leg somehow setting off a stab in my side, makes me think how some christ reference here would be cliche, and fitting, fit right in to my tired niche in the tired universe, and one thing that is uniquely mine is how often i talk about cliche, and drugs, that's my niche, the master of my own drug cliches, i have succeeded brilliantly in sounding like myself, itch, and something about the mind, isn't it so rewarding to write visceral? A weak attempt at sarcasm, subverted the disgusted sincerity, oh well.

Well I finally popped a soma to prove I'm not on some self-torturing sado-masochistic trip, on a blackboard to an apathetic and aching student body of quantum metaphor observers, affecting analogies through channel surfing algorithms that turn out to be tediously patterned, not random enough to be surreal, and the distilled essence of jungian symbolism, in the mono-context of duochrome subject object agreement. Although sleep seems like weak tea mixed with rancid milk, no solution. But hopefully when I wake up, if I ever get to sleep, I will have regained some sense of self worth.

Hiromi with her quartet, Sonicbloom

Yeah, that's the funky funky shit.

Hiromi with her trio

Wow.

Hiromi

killer

It's sad that a shaved head is so cliche.
In fact, so cliche is so cliche.
It's my superpower these days
seeing tiredness, where no one else can.
It'll be the reserve currency, the gold standard
when the oil runs out
cause bliss is inexcusable
except when insulated with wealth.
Then you can blissly see disaster, dispassionately
write about it, blog about it, not with urgency
but with the leisurely distance of the third martini
at the garden party, the cocktail party, pre
apocalypse.
Maybe I am chronically insulated though.
Maybe my bubble is large enough to protect me
for the rest of my unnatural life.
I'm such a standard sell-out, I'll say yes
mediocrity in favour of catastrophe
cause I don't want to live in heroic times.

A sufficiently punishing crash
will drive market forces
to stash the fentanyl vault.
It'll be the welfare cosmos, jumping the gun and
splurging the anesthesia reserves, the poppy dust
laid out in a field.

When you want to pull down death's hood
he'll be waiting
and the market will be your chauffeur.
You can write about it now
leisurely
and fraidy cats will tell you
"don't whistle for the wind unless you want it to blow".
For the record, I don't
but I'm not jinxing anything.

My superpower is a superweakness. Higher consciousness
and higher despair.

Maudlin glam serio-comic psychewank.

Yeah.

Cause bliss is inexcusable
except in the bubble
except in the bubble that I can't call "narcotic"
when I'm making half-hearted efforts to purge drug associations
even as I swim in the chemical soup, crumbling all kinds of crazy
crackers into congealed currents of neurotransmitting molecules.

Art is still there sometimes.
And I'm worse than mediocre

I'm self-indulgently maudlin, and arrogant about it
except right just this second, living in the present

the present shameful situation
prostrate before the ideal of failure.
I'm worse than you, I'm sure.
I don't buy your charming false modesty.
You would understand if you were this much of nothing.

Poppies are renewable
and bliss is inexcusable
and talking of suicide
a glam, flashy suicide
is a coping mechanism, a therapy, a remedy
for the unpleasant feelings

when considering the ramifications of mass scale slow suicide
that might necessitate a fast suicide at some point
or maybe it's not mass scale, maybe it's small scale
self scale.
Maybe it's spiritual, a give up.
I gave up trying to wrap my head around
what chemicals are doing what to my head
what head?
It's just the same sane-drain blame game.
That's an assonant justification for applying
for my cosmic welfare cheque. Usually a month's supply
is all you need. It's a thirty step program. Give or take a few steps.
A few stumbles. Some people run. Some people crawl.
It all leads to the same place. Some people talk about white light.
Some people talk about a black curtain.

Fentanyl is serious medicine. Even though it doesn't have an x or z in the name. It's not your father's heroin. I'm applying for a research grant. If my application is accepted by the politburo of the cosmos, I will be paid in fentanyl. One installment. If I survive the first month, I make it to the inner circle. That extra week makes all the difference. Hi-five! That's when it turns into De-Loused in the Comatorium. It's always nice to lose the lice.

Google and the DEA have become very effective at annoying users. They make us do shady things. Well, we can't have our actions appear dignified. Not mine, anyway, I don't know about yours. Your actions are probably okay, maybe even state-sanctioned, even if you are a mess of crazy ideas, damaging neuroses, paranoid reactions, inabilities to cope, but you hold onto that rope, and you cope. Me, however, I apply for fentanyl grants, under the guise of research. There's even a database somewhere that has me in it, as a purchaser of synthetic tryptamines. It's not a stonecutter conspiracy. I never tried to change things. I never cared enough to. Why would anyone come after me? I just wanted to tweak a few things and see what happened. I saw a few things. There was no gateway. It just was.

Maybe if you feed me enough ephedra, I'll become an activist and make trouble for the government. Any government. I'll start a mercenary firm that only takes anti-authoritarian missions. Cause I'll have energy, man. I couldn't get through Gore Vidal's essay on McVeigh. I don't really care about Waco. I weild what apathetic power I can, from a distance, the power of apathy, the dignified apathy. Whatever. My mantra. Indulgence in the occasional paranoid fantasy of guerella warfare in the kootenays, sniping americans from my sacred tree. Minus the glamatics, riddled with bullets from automatics, eaten by a bear. But before that, consuming my emergency invasion package, my pinko birthrite, the handout from my true homeland, the republic of planet earth, the mama matrix most mysterious, gaia's medicine, fairy dust. Cause we saw what happened to Iraq, and we think fairy dust is the only thing that will protect us. And maybe some native indian inflected remix album. They're feeding the generals prozac. It seems to work okay. I don't usually think about nukes, do you? They're too abstract.

Same Old Nothing

bread and roses

bread and roses

we want bread…

and roses

was buzzed on codeine

fuzzed my dreams

i like the itch

i like delirium

i wrote a lot of letters

to family, friends, love and lust

things i exude, in a waveform

they would recognize as me

doing something with energy

i know i'm not the worst off

i'm in the top three percent

of the bottom one percentile

so i should be happy there are six million

worse than me, globally

six million make do with less

six million killed their sex drive

with selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors

and have found comfort in television

three thousand in this country alone

three times as many as died at dieppe

which means whatever you want, comrade

i don't want chemicals and i don't want a song

though i've got one, another one

a surplus of songs

maybe this human being’s worth for scheming for

maybe that one’s worth a scheme, a seedy scheme

a contrived method

method acting, employing

my true heart-felt rusty lust

to creak open a door with a near-forgotten password

the tongue of the great old one, a charmed avatar

for a wall-smashing caprice, a stunt

ending in stagger

jackass

possibility, fantasy

what would i do with this ridiculous body anyway?

what would i say, if it came into play?

it will end in a tryptamine dream

the place where possibility is torture

and pain subsumes pleasure

healthy ribald wretch, twitching reptilian riddle

insoluble

efforts are contrived

and the worst part is i know

there’s something that could fill me

but what are you gonna do? huh?

what could you do? i mean really

come on now - be realistic

what do you do with the drunken sailor

is there a tank i can sleep in for a while?

is there a deck i can swab?

is that what she said?

what could you do? i mean really

come on now - it's a riddle for a reptile

we're on a more sophisticated level

in negotiation with chaos, a butterfly

dictating the terms

and what could you do, maybe i made a good

enough impression once upon a time

to cash in a mercy fuck in 2012

it's a date, it's fate!

bread and roses? bread and roses?

i’ll trade you some bread for some roses

it’s a trading post

post partum depression

i didn't like the womb
and i don't like what's outside of it

it’s post orgasm for the organism

now i’m hungry but there’s nothing in the fridge, so…
licorice tea is the only thing separating me from the void
i need a new word for the void
but i don't have one

this is what i look like in the morning
when i don't care
i'm wondering what i'll look like to the others
when my living arrangement changes
will i find new people to be unkempt around?
i've always wanted to grow a big fuck off beard
i've always wanted to be myself

but there's something in the way

something in the way

because the dog almost had his day
almost got his treat one day, almost
thought he had it so his brain jumped the gun, said

good boy in the language of neurotransmitters, you got yours
but it was a game, higher level than he could understand
and he hadn't gotten his after all, but the imprint

the imprint imprinted
and every time the bell rings
though he knows, now, it's futile, failure
he still feels the feeling, beyond his control
hardwired to possibility, and the neurotransmitters
flow, beyond his control, here they go:

the craving for those healthy natural endorphins

brain's reward for meeting healthy natural objectives
like having healthy natural children
with healthy natural girls
on healthy natural birth control
at the healthy natural drink-hole
will make me do unhealthy
unnatural things
for no gain
but memories
of my brain flooding with endorphins before
reaping the real reward, a rush

like a hoot of crack, leaving me wanting more
then leaving me lacking and

calling the void a void

for lack of anything

else to call it

memories, imprints

face recognition sub-routines

sophisticated modern analogs to primal social cues, hardwired

contours, sweet voices, degradation that runs
on the same circuits as libido
because those things gave me that rush
i can't grow my fuck off beard

because even though it gives me a warm tingly feeling
to tell everyone to fuck off
and even though it makes me feel at peace with myself
like i'm on god's tranqs, a spiritual, syphilitic traditional

hardwood hymnal, in the organ loft, haunting your opera
nonetheless, i crave
and facial hair is one thing i'm willing to control
to maximize potential

for being loved
physically

because i'm so bored with my mind
and anyone who loved me for that
would have to be seriously ill

which is why i'm rich
in half-crazy platonic contacts
so useless for my agenda
so motherfucking useless
so cocksucking useless
and not crazy enough
discerning, discriminating
you know who's gonna provide
the endorphins you need, it ain't me

yes, it's just an ancient chemical craving
it means nothing but that, that petty thing
so just pretend i've got my fuck-off beard right the fuck on
and fuck off… and i'll save myself, from myself


audio version

aftermath

later on, the party was going on
the guests were all cheering and applauding
It led the merchants of Tunis to the gates of the mansion
or the merchants of tennis to the dates of dimension?
Probably the first

ideals of bliss synergy collective mind
while isolated, up too late, starting to dread having to go to work
burned out but still tweaked to having a good time
like a lone man with pabst, “partying”
wrapped in my blue ribbons, playing stride piano
imagining jamming at the next christmas party

oh come all ye faithless
joyful in delusion
come ye to dextromethorphan
the second unnatural act of original sin

one thing you can’t get across in translation
is the nuance of sumerian sophistication
a megamix of obfuscation
as the source material for all future history

i forot how to be deluded, then i remembered
it helps – love the leather, love the love, love the anger, love the hate
i’m okay, you’re not – are you?

everyone’s in the megamix, in little bits and pieces, some are undigested, it gets bilious and acidic inside sometimes

Edony asked everybody to come on in
the rumor of the festivities was heard all over tunis
this is how is born the word hedonist

and I owe it all to skipping church!

The thread pops up again, like a near-drowned corpse in a thriller. And yet, it's edony time, hedonistic. She clapped, and I came. In my pants.

The Mars Volta are allowing this level of inspiration. Ikey Owens is playing a locked oscillation, a vibradrone, a tense groove, many beats per minute. A pretty good bootleg from austin. Cedric is singing something. Awake from your slumber. Splinter in your eyelids. Very Cedric. I can make out the words fine. Omar is doing a very omar melody, loping over the fractured verse, jaggedly, a splintered aesthetic, ennioesque at times. Holy crap, a divergence. A fantastic divergence, polythematic, polytonal, polyrhythmic, and yet perversely, brilliantly connected. Omar and Cedric playing off, in isolated caves of vision. Off and On. Ives rock. Binary fracture to the sparse bit - modulated every note vibed to crazy, amplitube. Indulgent/exploratory, glorious. "Bring it!" someone yells. Theodore is doing some kind of thing on the drums. Can't explain it. A pastiche of feels. A shiverring feeling. Strings, amplifiers, crazy glue, teflon flinting sauce. Virtansitionaclle beside the fence in syruposites'lls, back in the frame of chafed brain sandwiches, you follow? Portrassle, worth the hassle of obtaining memories of the intrisacies of hestricties, for however much soreness is necessary. Heavy feeling, great Scott, important-feeling-freak-easies that inspire me to write profound-seeming things, except in this node, heavy on the freak, little sense of irony in the intensity of ground zero of something...

buildup - the world comes back to me - the world - the world

no, it wasn't a typo

no, no no

no, it wasn't a typo

no

it was the perfect freeze frame of a music video

it was designed and destined to be that

maybe if i went back in that state

i would understand, state boundaries

meaning taking on new contexts from new consciousness

yeah, that stuff of stuff

no, it wasn't a typo

it was that sort of stuff

holy this omar track is so brilliant, i'm thinking... no, i'm shredded, shread dead. Dead in shreads.

Can't think. Blown away by the bullshit of mundane life. It's an anti-coping mechanism this minute. The ten aeon jitters. Honestly, it's quasi hallucinogenic.

Ironically, I call it a "chill"

when it's anything but being chill

it's tension, vibration - energy waves maybe

but it's feeling like i'm shaking

feelings shaking

seeing it? not sure

many ways to take things, many more to intend them, many more still to take them, taking and meaning and faking and things and many, many more to come, back when gravity was groovy, like depression era dogmatic demons that are nothing i could believe in, unless I was forced to at gunpoint - hyper-stylistic exposition for extra terrestrials, if you catch my drift, free contempt, pick it up like wattermellons, barrels full, not to fear, jade sharpening tool to the rescue - or is it just chasing after edony? Edony? Do you hear me? Clap your hands and I'll appear. If you're near me? Do you hear me? Sung to the tune of Caledonia Mission. G dominant seventh shots. Organ gliss descending. The only piano banging band I can stand. Hexagrams dramatically cryptic, haranguing me like scary strangers. I don't know them. I think I know you enough to have an unhealthy contempt, a sickness, and a sick respect, and maybe I'll live on, in you, as a parasite, be glad to infect you with negativity and doubt, cut you down with passive aggressive, or aggressive aggressive oblique comments that sink in later. When I allow emotional indulgence. Cause emotions are recreational drugs, easy to addict to. And sometimes, I allow myself anger. Wow, it's been so long since I did, regularly. Almost brings a tear of nostalgia to my eye. Along with those tears of rage and grief. Yes, this is a hideous new paradigm, pathetic, and pretty vacant of anything resembling dignity, except the unapologetic pursuit of artistic whatever, whatever this fucking aesthetic is, anyway, it's got a beat, sometimes, often, and when it does, those warm ambient occasions, it seems to be in its element, plutonium, or something, can't commit, wavering isotope in the wastes of knowledge

the big chill, it feels too dead too soon

done with the mars volta, but something else will have to fill

japanese psyche song, another one of those items i pilfered from meth's cultural catalog

yes, welcome to the pathetic new paradigm

but i can square that with the anti-coping mechanism

the whole world's on suicide watch

let's play the suicide game, let's pretend

see how close we can get to pretending to end

how close can come conviction, the bottom of the pool

the bottom of the bottle - fade out again

wow, i am shaky

twitchy

just got this shiverry spasm sort of thing

i find it really freaky...

but i guess that's just a product of paranoia

feels so real

like my friend says about his campaign bullshit

feels so real

i wonder if it might piss him off to call it bullshit

well, i have plenty of my own bullshit to deal with

paranoid fantasies and bullshit seem to be pretty good synonyms to me

these days, which is 1 daze, which is a hilarious hilarious pun

simply brilliant, tito's odyssey, you oughta see it

well, so what, a spasm, i guess it just feels like an anti-coping mechanism

like the end result of the gag reflex was once, i guess i've seen that

theroetically, it's not the end of the world, but that doesn't prevent panic

all the time, sometimes, some stuff, some stuff is not the end of the world?

I wonder how long till the next black out? Then I can pretend I'm seriously mentionally ill, have fun with that delusion, think believe I'm sicker than I am. I don't think slashing my wrists is worth the price of disability cheques at this point.

Yeah, there's a chill, to some effect, even though I'm warming up my hands on my neck. Re-distributing body heat manually for short term relief of cold hands. Cold cold hands. Here comes the cold poetry. A genre for the season. Seems like a metaphor for the world these days. Cold hands. Short term relief. Look on the bright side. Tangerines in Manitoba. Goodbye to the cold cold part of the world. Hello to the sunny cobalt sixtie perma-spring. The few people who can see things clearly, are clearly not part of the program. Not good for the bottom line. Sustainability is quaint. This is the bender. That's why drugs always work as a metaphor for everything. Why wouldn't they? How couldn't they? Chemicals. I'm rapping about chemicals. Cause my sentimentalist bent lent a hand, and chemicals and rap are a sentiment, when I get nostalgic for what I just cursed. The bitch I wouldn't call a whore. Wouldn't dignify with that comparison. That's an honest profession. She’s just a selfish bitch. So I’ll be selfish too. Feel anger, enjoy anger, feel that it's justified. All this is for me, is a high. Cause when I think clearly, I think, there's nothing to be sorry for, nothing to worry about. I can hate you if I want, and I will - you know hate and love are kind of the same thing. So I can feel good, about the hate. Just chill, you know, in my icy gloomdome fortress. Feel real good about everything, like I just set the equalizer controls for life PERFECTLY, all the hertz ranges fine tuned, high fucking fidelity, brutha. Everything's groovy. Except for the pretty bullshit I'm in. This sad stupid little corner of a life. Sometimes corners are bouncy and fun, and feel so good, like in that dextro music video, when I'm the corner of the universe, and I can lie down while standing up, or kind of float, and crack jokes, like "ow, my brain is burning, there goes my frontal lobe", riffing on the stereotype that "drugs" fry your brain, like an egg on a skillet...

Turning on a dime, turning to the prophecy, as told by a veteranarian's anesthetic. Ripping a hole in everything, filling that with the bouncy corner.

ivory sale

Del. A djembe loop made things fortuitous for a fortnight, focusing a laser web on the concession stand of the jungle pothole joint, renegade vendor, unlicensed, selling blinking things to retards.

Lilly saw Ivory, bought from him a forced lovesong with heartfelt lick, a bag of licorice, and two gelcaps of brown codeine crystal resin - a good sampling of his wares, he agreed. All for desert, of course, when else would you use such things? Yes, a night of reverie for Lilly.

She was talking in a most refined language, suave tones, with pleasant peasantries like tasteful grout in the grotto. Taking pictures.

"Lilly, I'll do anything to be your friend. Just clap your hands and I'll come again."

It never got timeless enough. It almost dissolved on level 29. It just happened to be that. A trick deck of tricadecimals. Gaming the system. Taking advantage of hybrid children and homonyms, mythofractures, almost shameless wank. Without the psyche. Forgotten. Remembered schematics for realtime writing, structure poetry, point A to point Z, not structured, but structure itself, pure form. Yeah, that was fun. I was into it once. Then it became an identity which looked awkward on me. Felt worse. So I slunk away from a monstrosity of virtuosity. A vice. But hectrosity is nice. As I see it. A call. And a dial tone. Where did the djembe loop go?

It was a meth idea, long since negated. It dissolved in the whirlpool of a memory. When the whirlpool was a whirlpool, not a hot tub, or a jacuzi, or anything, but it was what it was in its pure introduction, when it was imprinted on me, when it was upstairs, in the only true and pure whirlpool room that will ever exist for me. When it overlooked the exercise room. When there was no such thing as confusion. Just blissful whirling ignorance. In a retro rosy tint, because childhood was most likely constant trauma I can't remember. I betray the past and the future for present delirium. Delirium is where my allegiance is. I render unto delirium what is delirium, which is everything. Delirium for president.

I never feel bad about delirium, when I feel good about delirium. That's why I'm sitting on this lawn chair in the afternoon sun letting bygones be bygones at the crackhouse behind me, laughing at the property values, pretending that fall is spring.

When I can't get what I want from the world, I write. I would sell it all, the ivory, everything, if anyone would buy. I'd be the person you want, I'd be jewelry, ornamental, for that fortuitous fortnight. I'd deal drugs but nobody's buying, but I can write about drugs, and I will, even though the thought loop is okay, with a djembe, I'll say, hey, even though it's odd, it doesn't stick out on this blog. Del.

love and self-loathing

What do I do? Do I copy romantic comedy clichés that aren't funny in real life? Have you ever even seen one acted out in real life? Would I be the first to realize that cartoon?

Love and self-loathing. I'm not worthy, but I want it.

Maybe I like the awful idea that it takes as long to get over the relationship as it took to enjoy/endure it. A symmetrical ripple of equidistance angst. Because then I can stop souring all experience with the feeling of failure, and wrap myself up in the blanket of defeat - bundled up, besieged by the better people, who make me look bad. Maybe there was compassion in the notion of down-time. In sharing it. Seeking will drive me insane. But waiting will drive me insane. It's all a draining game.

Home to Nothing

I'll tell you what I fucking hate

coming home from a long, hard day at work
to nothing
absolutely
nothing.

No food
no email
no conversation
piano still in limbo

not a goddamn thing.

You'd think something nice would have accumulated by now, but no.

Sometimes I console myself by telling myself
she'll be sorry, when she wants to come back to me
but then it hits me
she's not going to want to.
It's not going to happen.
From here on out
it's nothing
because
she doesn't need me anymore.
After five years of service
and I do mean service, in every sick sense of the word
I've been retired
one of those shifts
I can't perceive until far in the rearview mirror
with the damage done.

I have to devalue in turn
and writing this shit is not a good start on that
but whatever. Nothing
makes me bitter like nothing.

methadone for a memory junkie

This morning, it's

manufactured consent with self.

I'm not chasing dragons

or chaste maidens

or even the whore

who scorned me.

Dram fills the cracks

with hard candy.

I don't taste the sweetness

I just admire the glassy sheen

of allowed oblivion

the iridescent cracks in the care-free front

a fractured brain patched together

with the ridiculous synthetic.

I laugh as the waves of stupidity lift me

up for a queasy view of the big picture

how absurd, this vantage of

a stupid self, dishwashing

ing, dish washing in the kitchen

at the kitchen, the station, a mechanism

laughing, continuing to wash dishes

and sweeping the bottomless feeling into me

the dead certainty that life is meaningless and ridiculous

and seeing myself plunging deeper and deeper

into that ridiculous ness, sicker, deeper into life

but not having to take it seriously, not having to accept the horror

of being so integral to it, a machine tool, and continue ing to

wash dishes, watch dishes, wash dishes, watch

how I continue to wash the wheel as it spins

sloughing off the seriousness, saying

I am not a player, sometimes a tweaker

like God, but not a player, still prodigal son

to a father that never existed, guffawing at the

G word, the english word that most closely

balances the triad of funny, stupid, common.

This is a decent plateau if you can get it

if you can ride what feels giddily stationary

like the center of the gravitron

the steady sickness of solid-state obsequem

where I take jesu at face value

where the void looks into me

and whispers to me:

“ooglebooglebaka2”, where I faced the fear head on

dead on, swallowed it, where it left me

happily over the edge, gibbering.

I’ve made a ghost town of my city, cause my inner

strength is tapped, we’ve run out of resources

so I’m sitting on the porch hallucinating and

claiming I don’t need people, real people,

to the desperate degree I did

in the gold rush days, the endorphin rush days

when I would fall in love with people, silly circuits

still tantalizingly tweakable, so close to the surface

that when opportunities to activate them come along

my heart races, I get that uncertain sluttiness, readiness

to do anything for the thinnest sliver of possiblity

a hail-mary pass, always an airball.

Now I’m a lone hedonist, alone on the range,

mimicking those full bore life livers

apeing their player patterns with hallucinations

a womanizer without the women.

Living with rejection, eating drinking rejection

having dinner with rejection, making comfort with despair

yes, I'll take the hard room to live in

anything for a change.

One day the candy will melt, and I'll have to feel voids again

and take things so seriously.

I want to put on my grim game face and blank my way through today

and the next day, shrug off response, abandon obligation to be better than I am.

I've taken on too many connections, shallow connections to people

that don’t satisfy, I’ve taken them all on, out of desperation, a hundred

lottery tickets in my pocket, a scatch-and-loser, a rolodex of reichmarks

for some post apocalypse that’s never gonna come.

Abusing nostalgia

Abusing nostalgia

looking back makes me sick.

Hallucinations are sicker, and better

methadone for a memory junkie.

styl eyes

it's not enough
to look at your picture box

it's not enough
to write this

xanax is good
but valium is better
seroquel is best
the flesh torments
but the mind hurts more

i think it's possible
it keeps me going
although another thing will keep me going
when its time comes

the picture box
is personable
in a way that connects to those old time endorphin rush days
that are now ghost towns
but still
stupidly
sacred

i was at the bar tonight
and that was something
when i'm listening, i can learn all kinds of things about people
but ultimately, it doesn't help me
i'm not a user

it's a sickness - a modern sickness? yes
let me throw my lot in with sick modernity
or post modernity, whichever triggers the satelite rain
that flattens bankok

when i'm not playing piano
i'll be an instrument for eurocorp's campaign
cause i love a good satelite rain, the flashes, the flattening
the city blocks in rubble
i reap the rewards, pick over the new epoch church corpses
plug in some modern worthy synthetic neuroses

pitch bend

grim settle catcher catches a good bit of bettle'd butter in that sawyed matric quest betwixt the tenver and the better. Remember when those wenembers said those trenvered things? Of course not, and yet, the aesthetic remains, eight flanges to the seventh left of your poorly focused socket on caught and emptied planguingburgers of paramenticle possibliities.

Anti Coping Mechanism

Best forget. Let it drip off your memory. Remember forgetting. Bring it up. Yearn, and scorn another one for yearning. The scorn yearly catalogue. Best ulull. Remember when ulull was cool? Remember what that means? No. Just something that particular flange would say. Dead weight. Ungutton. A glutton for the non get.

Got greedy. Got over the nervyness, now I want to keep going.

There was a long moment where it seemed, all coping skills were absent. Familiarity does breed contempt. If I had any true understanding of kosmic justice, I'd consider myself lucky it lasted as long as it did. The great delusion. Nymph grace, pennies from heaven. Heaven is actually dingy and disgusting, but it is the source of true love. Love so bright that it makes kaleidoscopes in your head, so you don't see the STD-ridden grime of its surface. True love is truly love. Lovingly true. Whatever tautology you want. Delusion. One of the cruelest and most blatant state boundaries yet. I'm left with nothing but a plague. Thanks, beautiful. Oh well, I'll pass along your genetically defective message.

Anyway, I'm going to stop milking it, cut myself off the sympathy mainvain, the pity feeding trough that was lean and malnourishing anyway, not enough to feed a prodigal son, and pretend that I'm alright, cause I might as well be, in vain life drama, some synthetic opiate that barely gets you high. But gets self high enough to keep going. So I'll say I'm alright, pretend there's nothing to cry about, cause I can't anyway, I guess it means I'm the cold hearted bastard I really want to be, cause it's what all the cool kids are into these days, and I'm still a kid really, wanting to be cool. So I'll purge associations to what extent I can, but not resist so much that it persists, the addictive substance that has been cut off from me, the withdrawal from a person. I'll just roll with the nu-paradigm shallowness, say the whole thing is cosmetic, my delusion lasted longer than the others'.

Consign it to youth's final luxury, or the first of many, although I jettisoned idealism long before. And anyway, it should all be taken with a gram of soma and banged with a gong hit, recorded for the midnight special special edition collector's VHS box set. And anyway, it's been overdue, and grotesque, and I deleted all the jpegs that jogged my memory as to what void i should be fixating on, and I'm left with those such as Aki, and Katsu on my desktop, and that's good enough for me, sick of being Mr. Hair, I might as well let that go as well. Yeah, asceticism would be great for me, as long as I can have my drugs. Cause I'm not really a drug whore, but I play one in reality. Yes, I love being slutty for chemicals, they can take control of me. And I love donning my labcoat costume, and calling it all an experiment. A BS in pharma-porn. Well it is all just an experiment. And nothing more. "Nothing more" being a judgement call, but it's all a chemical experiment. It is. With superstring pullers. I only said that to sound charmingly vintage in 2025. They'll have more sophisticated niches of charm by then. That's all they'll have, when the oil runs out. Charm will be the currency, the gold standard, of the post apocalyptic future. Regardless of all the bullshit implications, and flimsy models I'm imposing. Like when I was running through the jungle. Failing to cope. Hoping for some kind of mechanism. Crossing the river, bleeding from two holes in my body, one from an arrow through the, uhh, pancreas or spleen, or one of those organs down there, and the other from a spear through the chest - but I walked it off, I barely feel those wounds anymore, we've got a new beginning to seek, in the jungle, nevermind those spaniard ships. Hey, the rest of them hit ALT-D and self destructed, they were predators with fetid honor, whatever. I'm Jaguar's Paw. People make mystery science theatre commentary after everything I do. They put words in my mouth. Which were better than my script. Exit with caution.

conspicuous consumption

new song:
conspicuous consumption

lyrics and vocals by Lynze
song by me and Lynze, recording and backup vocals by me

***

got up today and made the bus
try to keep my head real low
i don't know what's in front of us
but i really don't want to go

on the streets at five a. m.
join the workforce zombies
don't know if they'll let me in
but i gotta get my abercrombies

it's the brand junk
brand junk
brand junk

don't wanna think about it
don't wanna think about it
don't wanna think about it
mmmmm
that thinkin thang

turn on the tv again
it is sure my special friend
keeps me company at night
when the chat site dont' treat me right

sniper on the crosstown bridge
bombs up in your attic
the killer in the businsess wig
it shore is democratic

it's the brand junk
brand junk
brand junk

Intentional

What did I do in the pre-internet days? I swam in the same waters as Skora the Gentle Shark, but I didn't know it. A couple hours of power out. Decided to try and get really high, damn the consequences. Wander outside in silence and dark – see all kinds of crazy things – my brain filling in before my eyes can resolve the horizon as a specific block with recognizable features. Power comes back on, the power that comes with – this birthrite. Plug myself back into everything at once, immediately.

Visuals, at what price? Fringes of perception. Maybe more than that. Deja vus, skewed views of older things, taken seriously. It all looks like a cartoon now, the past. And the future is even more garishly caricaturized.

Pretentious Jabberwocky. How do you like them apples?

I won’t be around there. I’ll stay here, caress myself with treefingers.

The game, maybe it’s best that it end. Problem loading page is a solution for this age. This daze. This craze. Remember why I like to take DXM, because it makes life into a music video. I like that – trying not to take something seriously. The serious anesthetic. Not trying for a level four shamanic something or other.

Lesson nineteen: Don’t dance after drinking cough syrup
at least, not for two or three hours, after that, basically, go nuts, cause you are nuts anyway, in a barely lucid dream – your heart beats like a drum, like a drum – and work is shirked forever because you’ve been deputized by internal aliens to fight crime – and you know, it doesn’t even matter if it’s a fantasy – maybe the categories are so scrambled that you just let it be – be it – i don’t know in a coma in toronto – old decantown – and a randomly generated american state – flotsamjizm crayon rememberences, modulating to the sucrets flavoured vibration, colorful raisons of settled etra poetry, justified, sweet, heard through the grapevine – how will i remember this dodgy smear??? ? ??? ? believeing selfhoods

a mix of frags and ments and ak and i and fiction and fact
i never intend to fuck with people’s heads, but i can because
of the general mundane honesty of most of what i write, confessional, because lying and imagining doesn’t interest me so much as the ironic, ridiculous, sad, and occasionally sickeningly gratuitous-gracefully elating texture of my everyday life and its seeming implications for the universe at large, the one they never found, except in tensor equations, particles blinking on in mathematical justification, birth by chalkboard squiggle – that’s why aki was riddled with clues to its inaccuracy, the reality behind a flimsy fairy story

tears in fragments of heaven, haha, my heart beats like a drum, like a drum – clues don’t matter – even if they’re turquoise – several steps ahead of the indian beltway – a frequency for gladhandled handrails, glad to be of service, surgically precise in their handrail smiles, whorish, but bountiful in sudsy fun of detergentical maidenhood, as it should be given up, for the first boar, filmed for a studio – edited tastefully by a leering, waifish, connoisseur of sleaze, the much-respected judge of the 2007 Pornies.

The My Little Pornie Trophy winning movie also happens to win the academy award for best picture that year. How did this indie underdog hit that duofecta, you ask? By incorporating scripts of such improvised plausibility with sophisticated actors to simulate real and common, but hot, sexual encounters – with bonafide hardcore cumshot porn. Unabashedly pornographic, being primarily designed to aid and enhance onanism, being willing whores for that grand and noble purple… and yet having undeniable gobs of artistic merit – the final frontier of fusion art. And also, this artistic merit being not a liability to its effectiveness as porn, but in fact, through this believability factor, giving it a voyeuristic thrill that was like crack to the users, the users of porn. Because it was like, beyond the best fetish video you could ever imagine, man. Because it was tailored for your personal depravity, there was a catalog and everything, they had you pegged, they had a niche for you, yes you, even you – because it seemed so real you could easily believe, imagine, but yet it was engineered for maximum sensory thrill – you know, all the buttons, all the kinks in your psychology, all the weird associations that are responsible for rush-hour on the endorphin superhighway. Like narratives. Degrading narratives, disgusting narratives, maybe a beautiful narrative every now and then, just to feel quasi healthy and, but no, no beauty is not pornographic, it’s not a drug, not to be sullied. Drugs are plug ugly, and they sound blurry, a slurry of you and me, but they feel, they feel, they feel so pretty. The graysky corporation, in association with arc-en-ceil laboratories, presents a million monkeys film:

I won’t go there anymore, or make references to the splinter. I would rather – no, sometimes I do lie to myself – or it’s all meaningless and inconsequential anyway, and i don’t understand anyway, and it’s all just a brain drain, when i lost part of my brain, in those synthetic twangs of thought… and it’s all just the main vein drain to death – good looking corpse a typo graphal error. They don’t make life like they used to. What do you think the children are coming into? What is satire going to look like fifty years from now? How many patterns will remain the same, imposed in some form or other? The answer squiggles around like an abstract waveform – synesthetically smooshed into something else. Another embarrsing deja sleeve, flapping in tatterns of tense and sense, over some saint johns landmark, foamy. Worry slurry.

Another novel in WHERE, you ask? In a matrix of 12 shared associations, that, when taken in aggregate, equals ideal geisha number 13, poetic image number one hundred and ninety four not found. Maybe a dream, maybe kinetic synesthenic breakneck hit the deck calisthenics, maybe a vacuous scheme, maybe psyche wank. You have to riff to the right baseline, and sometimes no one feels the beat. Sometimes metaphors don’t resonate. Sometimes metaphors are just flimsy man, pathetic, tepid, tattered. Sometimes you just want your face pressed into the sloppy scales of soppy failures. What do you do with that? A serpent left you with a tablet. Where’s the texas ring modulator when you need him? I could riff off the ringmod, remember the alamo and whatever else it wants me to remember, as a viral transmitter, a multicellular virus, but ultimately, a lowly genetic replicator of redundant lingual information.