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.