31 Dec 2007

am i going to have to purge more music?
more painful memories? i hope not
i owe nobody any explanation

nursery neitszches want the world
and they want it now
it’s 2007, and i don’t know what to draw

my dear friends
and family
of this much i am sure
we’re all gonna die
and worms are gonna eat our eyes
sugarcoat that trip however you want
you gotta, right?

tapered, tattered, what does it matter?

i’m losing it
the trance, all trace of inspiration
there’s no hallucination anymore
there’s just the void, reality, all that

there’s no point in rhyming
nothing to use it for, no beat
there could theoretically be

all work and no play
all play and no work
a passe insanity, 1973

i need some better drugs, or a better life
or a decent death

life keeps me around, long enough
to get a rise out of a mildly clever line
that i think of as my own, even though it’s an inevitable chain
of association, cultural, detritus, up through the ages
to this pathetic age, this slagheap, this overcrowded world
with redundant population

what the hell is technology for?
telos must be banished from science, you can’t ask why
you can make sneering metaphors, say it’s for the big electron
that works for me, i guess, it’s my cosmology, for lack of anything else
it’s bad form to even talk like this, it’s too self-referential
but what can you do, if that’s your style?
and you’re stuck in a feedback loop of fate?

stupid headache
stupid misunderstanding bitch, that i still love, unfortunately for my mental health
she couldn’t get how being stoned messed with my mind

i’m trying not to love anyone or anything – it’s not that hard, most of the time

the game isn’t worth the candle, i don’t think

you can’t appeal to my reason
when i don’t have what i need
or uh, bluh, whatever, i’m trying not to love
but i thought of someone i shouldn’t have
triggered a chemical reaction
yeah, still those circuits embedded in me
it’s unfortunate – it’s ironic
it’s got a vangelis soundtrack
how come we’ve reached this fork in the road
and yet it cuts like a knife?

you can’t appeal to my reason
when there is no telos
under penalty of mockery
by high decree

you can’t appeal to my reason
cause the town crier says so

oh my god, it’s full of nothing

the horse race
the games that may affect me down the line
but it’s hard to tell

hey, this dead is sweet
maybe my mood is improved

life is ridiculous
but the dead is sweet, haha
life is stupid and pointless
but the dead is sweet, yeah

of course, there’s psychosomatic tension
a vague itchiness in the eyes and everywhere, generally
psychosomatic realities of psycho-active chemicals
but whatever

hmm, a little levity, break from bad thoughts
then they flood in again, enhanced by THC, like a Tidal rush
like i’m a slave to thoughts, feelings, i guess i am
or am i letting myself be a slave?
path of least resistance?

i thought this was supposed to be about hedonism, dammnit?
the extra m is for, uh, i dunno
they want more m-m-monitors, please
wonder what he’s on? the haunted drum set
too weird for words, haha, what’s this guy’s trip?
maybe it’s all of our trips
maybe the dead are grateful, cause we buried their corpses
February 27th, 1970, San Francisco, California

it was inevitable someone would record an album, one day
and call it: californication

inevitabilities, dmt-inspired bandnames
what is this trip i’m on? i dunno
it smells like stilton
it’s a homemade trip
i rolled my own trip
no one can imagine
it’s got those cold steel fences
on the state boundaries

thc equals feelings (thoughts?) of higher dimensions being revealed, and they’re not always nice, like an intellectual layer to my second to second functioning, motivations
absurd details – enhancement of a mundane life, higher dimensional mundanity? hyper mundanity? ebb and flow – different state to be sure – a glimpse of things i might have to grapple with - it’s all so ridiculous – makes me wanna throw my hands up in the air, like i dunno, like i don’t wanna mutherfuckin care, but i do, so often, about so many things, real, and imagined… hey, the dead can really jam, this is cool shit – that bass player is all over the place, it’s awesome – great band – i’m almost nailed to the floor – feelings can be strong, can be bigger than a mundane life’s self pity – although also, subservient to it – i dunno, strange time to be alive and stoned – is this my life or is this a trip? sounds like something that should be in my radio play - wow, this is a weird transitional falling through the hallucinogenic cracks in self – but that is something i would say, for all the refractive marbles – blurred pasts - - been close to burnout so many times – maybe the stronger drugs did that, or had a hand in it – how would i know though? oh – i’m a k head now, that’s my doc, although dxm is still a fave – hmm, getting tense and disturbed talking about this – can’t relax – maybe i’d be this way whatever i was talking about – or doing – was it the talk, or is it just the psychosomatic progression, how i “feel” – feels hard to type, there’s a tension – hard to explain – i never seem to believe it’s real when i read later, in any way that counts, can’t feel, can’t really empathize with the poorly defined feeling, meaning, hallucination – hands intolerably cold – stilton is good – maybe i don’t want to think in context – thinking about how cold it is outside – how comfortable i am compared to what could be – dancin’ in the street, okay there’s something different to think about – this bootleg is very nice quality – 1970 huh? nice – wow, yeah, that made me shaky, that stuff, i guess it did stop the boredom, but what has it replaced that with? something freaky, uncomfortable, forcing me to think about all these huge things, and grating intricasies, in what is real, is that what i mean? what can be real in certain states - - sewer magic – chud grunts – jesus christ, what is this shit? what is this life? i think i ought to “deal” with it somehow, but i may be a creature with certain design paramaters, certain specs, certain flaws - - chronically messed up, maladaptive – adaptive enough to get to certain areas that then drive me into maddening frustrating pits of no exit desire feedback loops that i'm not at liberty to discuss in detail, even here, or there, wherever, might we just tack it to a merry go round?

it fucking sucks when i can’t control my own hallucinations – that’s what i like about k, even though i’m swept along, pulled by some alien gravity that is much vaster than me and necessarily beyond my petty understanding, there is a sense that there’s a place for me there, it pays homage to my attempts at understanding, it is my trip, feels comfortable – but thc, and tryptamines grate on it – it’s like i’m chafing against some hostile universe, that is not mine, that does not have a place for me. Life is like that too, regular sober life – so tryptamines enhance that feeling. K takes it away – that’s my kind of drug

yeah, well, candy is known to be a well-liked substance too
no special feat saying i prefer dissociatives, they’re easy
i like the path of least resistance, to a point i guess
but fuck yeah, i’m lazy, lazy bastard with a work ethic
it’s not a strong ethic, lately i’ll work for the man
but not for my art, or music - i guess a little for ravenhead
because that’s another one of those ridiculous obligation loops
i’ve gotten myself into, but – yeah, well i guess that’s why death
is always on my mind, that seems easy sometimes too, an easy way out
or into, or i dunno, but i do have suspicions, that i usually don’t like to examine
in much detail – hey, maybe that’s why i quit tryptamines too
well it is better than being bored in my mundane life anyway
there is beauty, amid the ugliness – something i can appreciate
even as i feel sick beyond words, dead, useless, a spirit chained to an ungrateful corpse
but the dead sound sweet, i can appreciate that
even if what i do and have done and will do is pathetic bullshit
and it’s all state-bounded crap
haven’t got to a sophisticated level of hedonism yet
to be able to enjoy transience, or i dunno what it is
these hifalutin, hallucinatin lines seem false a second after i type them
like meaning cannot hold for more than ten seconds, it’s changing
not focused, morphing, can never pin down the truth
or whatever, slurred, and there’s beauty in that, but not very much
cause it’s blurred and slurred with real-seeming hallucinations, the grudge match that demands of me
sucrets, to switch the flick
seems worth a headache
in retrospeckked…

yeah, the ufo trip, it is kinda like that, could never enjoy being abducted by aliens
and anal probed, yeah, that seemed masochistic to me, but that’s just how i’m wired

i’m glad i don’t have too many obligations right now
i could shrug anything and everything off, i WOULD shrug anything and anyone off
i would, cause i have no obligations
cause nobody gives a fuck about me, so i don’t have to give a fuck about anyone else either
it’s all a shallow pool of self-reflection, so like, what the fuck do i care?
so maybe I WILL shrug everything and everyone off
and if you want something from me, you can go fuck yourselves, your good selves, manipually manipulate yourselves, or secure sequestered cock mechanisms, go through the motions, use your endorphins, you’re your own parasites, yeah

i will write stupid songs and take smart drugs, haha – well, there are some substances popularly known as “smart drugs”, but that set of substances is subject to interpretation, the eye of the beholder – i won’t worry about talking about whatever i want to talk about – all we need is music, sweet music, say the grateful dead – yeah, they are sweet – candyband, man, and the nomeansno riffed on this song, the good ol nomeansno, those boys – yeah, there’s beauty in the stone, and in my head, but there’s so much shit in between – what a lovely metaphor that was, ah, yes, let the sarcasm ring, pure as the driven slush – well, it’s gross getting inside my head and digging around, but it did stave off the boredom a bit – that will catch up to me in hour 3 probably – but it’s good to dull the senses – i declare that a moral imperative

it’s all bullshit, but this entry is a slightly more hallucinogenic bullshit than the last one – something purposeful, in a state bounded way

I brought us some yummy stuff… that thick dark nelson-brewed yummy stuff, that’s not as dark as guiness, but is as dark as my soul, which is as dark as inner-city-pressure, when the concrete world is starting to get ya, no one understands or sympathizes, you just stay home and play synthesizers… you just stand there… you just stand there

slilton is a good smelltrack – oh yeah – one notch above the socksniffing untermensch
oh, there’s a grotesque hallucination for you – i can see it too – he’s got a hat, the mutation flag, the freaksignia

damn, i wish i had more k – that’s all i want, not these fucking crazy research chemicals… or maybe i do want them – i mean, they're not this tense quasi hallucinogenic bullshit like thc, they're a little more refined, brighter, probably extremely paranoid and tense and soul shattering, but at least really hallucinogenic… it’s just, they’re so strong, they break down my defenses so quickly, stress at the weakpoints and i buckle, beg for mercy

now i’m second guessing everything, the flow, the river, the thing to latch onto isn’t as strong anymore – unstead of a current, it’s congealing in confusing foam, pools of colliding currents, i don’t know where to go, what to hang on to – i guess that was okay, order in the chaos – tired words though, i continue to second guess – what more is there to say? lots probably, i’ll find little bubbles, bounce off them, between drownings and doubt and dimness, bubble drubbings

i need conscious restriction surgery – i’ll put myself in the company of such luminaries as gleeright megatrone…

It might not be such a bad idea to have a shield and a softening up. Funny how much energy I would expend, looking for, or making chemical keys. Nowadays they just come to me. Although I said I would never drink out of bottle of robitussin again. Good to have connections. I puked because I danced. But I did it again. It was good, it was like the sixth day of creation. A journey to rival the frothing pale handrails of soap-choked hope. I have to reference that every few weeks or so. This stuff will probably kill you. Let’s do another line. Cause it’ll probably kill you, not me. It’ll embalm me. Take me by the hand, to the canadian land of the dead. When things meant things. When papagenu was my father. When we waited for miracles. When we were in the sterile waiting room, where everybody had steel eyes, stainless steel. They collected iris paintings.

fuck you all

good god it's empty
shallow talk

there's nothing to say
nothing to write
nothing to play

it's not chemicals
it's not seasonal affective
it's life and how empty it is
so i don't care anymore
how i sound, what people think
fuck it, it's nothing anyway
it's all fake, it's all distraction
if you can believe in it, good for you i guess

this isn't a fake downer, unfortunately
it's a real one, cause reality is a downer
it's self involved people
i'm one of them, but i try not to be
but i usually am anyway

it's unfulfillment
why do i bother trying?
there's no future

can't even make this artistic
what's the point?
artifice - fakery - emptiness
badmitton in the woods
pathetic association
but it's real
a real association
what does it matter
the drugs don't work
what did i drink that coffee for?

i don't know why i'm writing this
i'm fucking depressed
fucking depressed
this is so ugly

28 Dec 2007


cantankerous kiwis

what a shameful age to be alive

a lot of words, this miserable week, for some strange reason
it’s not duress, it’s a verbose
but dead duracell, literary backup
a heavy meal, tryptophan
an out of the ordinary amount

i’ll ask you to clarify
then we’ll scarify
it’s the most infected he’s ever seen

i’m gonna miss you spit brother

old is the new young
drying under a carport, shaded from the hypersun
a florida export they’re trying out in this town
bought the hypersun with heavy-water money
good to have exports, and carports, carports
under the mountains with biohazard sand
and thin foliage

he got sweet fuck all
all he got’s the blues
maybe he ain’t supposed
to got what the old man got cause
maybe he don’t want power and
maybe the old man earned his money
but he don’t got what the young man have
either, he could use a little of that
he could use a little of that
he could put it to good use
better than you’ve ever seen
it’s got potential, like atomic energy
like, not fission, but fusion
would be a wasted opportunity
were it not taken, but it would
be the pyramid crown on the
pile of missed opportunities
and mixed blessings
blessings, and tonic water
a sandy monument, that’s all
and that’s it, biohazard, cursed

he would put it to good use
he would be a changed man
as opposed to a pipsqueak
squeaky, not sneaky
not trying to be stealthy
but somehow pulling off a
stealthy state worthy of a
mephistophelean minion
a middleman for diabolical skill
in whatever, a dragonforce wholesaler
and i didn’t want to know she signed on

if you could breathe underwater, where would you go?
if you had friends underwater, who would you know?
the bass octaves denote tragedy
but it don’t show up on sonar
it barely perturbs the surface
the smooth social circumference

which orgy tent?
you’re a legend dave

The Substrate

Tonight, I was shown the substrate. I’d never imagined. The soil of the mind is nurturing. It’s a cold, dead, love. I shuddered, then I shivered, then I wrapped my arms around a rock, closed my eyes, and heard the salmon spawning. Put things into a perspective I hadn’t cared about in centuries. How had I lost that excitement? Strange to feel it again. Was trying to sleep, in my slothful way, unexpectedly stimulated by a scientist on the radio, making more and more sense, making sleep less and less necessary, something I could put off for a tantric while, better enjoyed on the river styx. After mystic burnout, I needed empirical basis for wonderment. The best of both worlds. Now I’m awake, with a perfect gift idea, to patch over my gap in seasonal shopping. Intentional chocolate.

It’s something I would have laughed off as new age marketing for a clever placebo if I’d come upon it out of context, like I come upon this parade of pointless stimuli in a patchy lichen life – but I’d heard of intentional chocolate as the entrepreneurial byproduct of a laboratory experiment. It was to determine if human focus could enhance food-derived mood supplement by influencing the natural process of quantum entanglement. For “focus”, they turned to practiced meditators – you know, your monks, your drunks, your various practitioners. The subjects were your average chocolate eaters. The double-blind experiment found eaters of “intended” chocolate to report significantly higher levels of mood elevation than those stuck with chocolate sans quantum manipulation. Yeah, it’s over my head, but the guy explained a markoff chain and I got it, he’s a numbers guy, and reminded me of when I used to be, and was on my wavelength, in an old paradigm way, in causal symmetry. A bias in truly random numbers. Truly random, corrupted by intention from the future. Whoops. No, it’s okay, the mistake is the masterstroke.

Of course, when given over to business, there is the expected degree of corporate schlock – and buddhas and zen bridges, no wait, the zen bridge is mine. I make a little room for zen, if it’s red, and it’s a bridge, and it’s cool with its petname. We’ve all got our pet associations, it’s not anyone’s fault that the median is slightly distasteful to me. I’m sure the chocolate tastes good anyway, especially with intention. And if it is a placebo, well, those work too.

Intention is okay, again. Awareness. I’ll even say consciousness, with intention, from the inner, aware how it sounds to the outer, aware and not caring, smug and stretched out, in the substrate, in the rolling hills on a geological timeframe, making time for the part of me that isn’t alive, by human standards, patiently waiting for the personal apocalypse, or the general armageddon, whichever comes first, the second coming let’s say. Liberation from me – now that would be something. I can hear metal jaws salivating faith in a future stream – don’t want to go there. So maybe I’ll just use it for poetry and consumerist whimsy, for now – because the ego is a strange flower that cocked out of the substrate – ornate in violence, thorny, poison-tipped, tripped up on its own vines, can’t see the garden for the petals. Can hear the salmon swimming when I close my eyes. For a while. Then it starts to sound like static. Retrocausal static, drowns memory, taints the true random that would give rise to a salmon, what was a salmon anyway? Fuck a duck.
Why should I wait?
I’m drinking water.
So why should I wait?
Why should I code?
What should I leave out?
Why ask the void for advice?

Not sure what I got up for.
I guess the music inspired me.
I’m fargone enough to write just for myself now. I guess.
Hey, we’ve had some good times together, you and me, haven’t we?
Remember that DPT trip? Although, I eventually posted it on the lycaeum.
What cojones, wow. Or a serious lack of style. Or perhaps I had more style than I knew what to do with. Well, you know, state boundaries. That’s me. That’s my solo act, right?
State boundaries, at the arabesque burlesque, a farce of an old paradigm parody – oh god, too many freaky memories, nevermind, shut it off. yeah, it’s fucked these days, isn’t it? i’m sick, and driving myself insane – like the world isn’t insane enough – well it’s all a rich tapestry – wow, maybe intentional chocolate will make it all better - - yeah? every night i hope for some relief from the void – and it doesn’t come – i’m more alone each night than the night before – falling on deaf ears

i wish i could be one of those people who can be deaf, like i was in better times – the sucking chest wound is loud, it really sucks, i hear it suck every night, air into a vacuum, leaving me with nothing to breath - what am i gonna do with the drunken saile r? i guess it would be good to be itchy and sleepy, maybe i should appreciate that? to be able to itch and sleep at the same time – that’s a luxury

27 Dec 2007

chewing my face off

the distant future
the year 2012:

the robotic uprising
no, this ain't robocop 4
remember that? remember that tile?
that was a dreamy tile, wasn't that?
remember that? dayum, ain't it great?
in the year 2012, everybody wanna be a producer
in the year 2012, everybody wanna be an MC
hey, we're gonna party like it's '12
Ecstasy is the new virtual reality
especially since the chip size reached its limits
and oil supplies are declining worldwide
everything's permitted
except peak, even at peak?
let's take turns molesting the children
i'm so bored with my life

so it's 2012, how'd that happen? a timeslip
was just getting to grips with 2008, and then all of a sudden
oh yeah, i got a date with some mayan apocalypse, on credit
so i'm reminiscing, remember that crazy year, 07, was it 07,
that i did that crazy new synthetic that came on the market, in
that nexus, 4HO something or other, some tryptamine, or was it
a phenethylamine? if there's a god up there in heaven, he must be one
big fucking jerk! and anyway, remember, how it tied together all these
associations, all this music there was for the taking at the
time, it seemed real emotional, i really "felt" it, you know?
remember that? yeah! i remember... so remember when that markoff chain
arranged itself in such a way as there were a series of numbers, like
ripples in a memory pond, where causality grabbed a hold of your pancreas, and
smoothed over the creases, and sent you through the glowing arches
that wanted more than the other arches, if such a thing could be
classified, and thrown in a cafe, with the dragon, yes, and
cereal boxes, and, well, can i sanctify a circuit that sparks pious feelings for some nintendo pixels? yeah, a lot of money is riding on that proposition... it came down to a very important runon... sharing endorphins, it's the next big thing... but it looks like vapour ware, cause all i can do is look, goddamn, it's a science experiment, the scifimagination is tapped out, it got tapped out, someone burned it up like a cigar, last century, and yeah, the nuke exclamation point and all that, and hey, how bout another story? another entertaining rag... post-modern? ah cmon, it's a conditioned response - slaves to the stylistic imperium - yeah those people - i remember them - awed at a cinema, like most of us folks - no need for paranoia in a mirror - look at the silver - yeah, anniversary - it's just a pastiche anyway, a vacation lagoon, for shame to rest on its laurels, relax, hallucinate, see waves blurring past, hear gregorean chants singing faces into existence, animated facewaves along the wavefronts, whose got a grave, did the digital imprint give too much away, let's say there's still room for euthanasia, or whatever contract with the void he signed this week, in blood, but mostly sugar.

grease floors - larry's loving the leather - larry's loving the leather - incase you didn't notice, larry's loving the leather - - in case you forgot to keep time, i'm on beat five, and i've got pills to spare in my pocket - and i'm thinking, hey, now is better than never - hey, i love the void i'm with - i love with void i'm with - i lover tracers too - pro hedonism is professional and profound - but yeah, it's just white words anyway - on a background somehow infected with the silicon, like i wanted it to be, like a devouring river, avenging synthetic matter, like yeah, a gray goo gagation, maybe a bedtime story for your crack-addicted kid, i've been meaning to write that, but i have yet to have my crack addicted kid, but i'll be my crack addicted kid, if it be bedtime... yeah - well, it be close enough to the solstice - and yeah, maybe what i need, i will find in the void anyway, you know? you know, that sounds like a funny stalactite echo, i enjoy funny hallucinations in the cave, yeah, like a knot in a noose, hey, it stymies the flow of reality... like energy in a slack rope, to a taut rope, around a neck... hey

i saw a tour on the internet

whose pussy do i gotta lick to get a drink in this line-up?

it was an innocent question
more innocent than you could possibly fathom
and providentially, it paid-off in terms
of dividends i never spent

actually, what i want to know is
what's a guy gotta do to be acknowledged?
actually, that's not what i meant
or if it is, i will now acknowledge, it was too crude a question
and is, too, too crude for you, allegro troppo
no, don't bother acknowledging
when i ask a direct question
i gotta learn to do without
or, hey, twist myself into
some disgusting entrepreneureal scheme
well here's the deal:
i'm pre-faust
scorning what i can't get
that's the gruel of it
that's what you get at the orphanage
you get a whipping when you ask for more
and me, hey, i'm no masochist, i don't enjoy it
but that's what i get

why should it matter?
well you know why it matters
it matters to me, cause it don't matter to nobody else

i wondered why anyone would care about johnny rotten anymore
surely not lydon, if he's got any self respect
even if he is a post-idiot, hey, i relate man
i'm an idiot, but i pride myself on being in an post-idiot mindset
trying to see myself as a former idiot, trying to live in the present
even if i am in the past
even if i am fussing over my appearance
even as i am trying to let it be what it is
yeah, it's a conflict, man

26 Dec 2007

he rides a pitch black steed

How stupid is that? To wage a war of attrition - against the side that's well supplied. Against the side that's full and comfortable and happy. From my side, the side of loss, and desolation, and starvation. Yeah, I can hold out, sleeping on the frozen ground, surely she'll crack first. Good thinking there, captain strategy.

Well that's where I am, poisoned thoughts, clouded, stupid, and bitter. Telling people to fuck off, and hurting when they do. I realize this, and will continue to cut myself in spite, until there's nothing left to feel. Yeah, it's a long term strategy. I'm thinking three moves ahead. I have to think, it's all I can do anymore. Entwined in shallow social nets of fake, fickle people. Everyone wants something to happen for me - but nobody wants me.

Better say something to put that all in some ironic meta-context to avoid coming off off-puttingly self-pitying. Yeah, that'll do it. Cause how can I compare my run of the mill heartache to WWI trench warfare? And expect to be taken seriously? Cause I must be taken seriously, to be seriously heartbroken. Which I must be, my dignity depends on it. I must somehow alchemize dignity from emotional feedback loops kept spinning by life's minutia. Maintain that it means something. The fight song of Team Downer.

There was a time when I appreciated the efforts - of those people - but lately, charity feels empty - well it's not supposed to be plenty - it's a bare-bones auxiliary for use after failure of the primary, the primavera of antiquity for the parsons-flashback crybaby, and rhyming like this feels easy and queasy, that flavor of insanity that reminds me of walking the wheel in turkey, could be done by a monkey, ee ee ee!

You know who rides a pitch black steed, don't you, you lovely loyal second person. That's right, the Black Adder. Black Adder. Cause the charcoal stallion wouldn't suffice. Gotta be pitch. A shade dark enough for one of Syd Barrett's post solo "career" acrylic paintings.

I talk to fill the void. But I only do it when I'm by myself. Even though I feel the void most when other people are present. Okay, this is the moment. I'm gonna do it. Talk to someone. "I guess we close early tonight, huh?"


"I guess we close early tonight... huh?"

"Say again?"

Agh, awkwardness, agony. Is something fundamentally fucked with my vocal frequency, some genetic handicap? Retry / Abort / Fail. Nevermind. See? I was right to worry, to waver, wrong to try. There was method to my madness. Yeah. Now where are my reds and C drops? Ah, in the top drawer. Where they usually are. Some things, you can count on.

25 Dec 2007

the true meaning of something

something that churns, burns the sensitive nerves, preys on weakness - when you think you've got it pegged, it slips back into the dark, gives you a running start... you tire of running, walk, sit, lie down, relax, think you were scaring yourself for nothing, then it gets you in your dreams, you wake yourself up, shake yourself off, look in the mirror and it's still there, but there's no word for it, and you've got to go to work, a panacea - it may be your boss seven levels up the hierarchy, but you can't see from down where you are, so you're safe in your peon pit during business hours, as long as you work hard - except when hard work reminds you of how ugly your priority hierarchy is - how you wouldn't lift a finger to make a christmas card for your ever so generous family, but you would get up, on one hour's sleep, to work the holiday shift

was the big picture really pretty once upon a time? how could that ever be a comfort? gotta take it day by day, even though the day is gray, at least it isn't pitch black - what's with these stupid color metaphors? i thought i was better than that - well, at least i dropped the second person bullshit

the first person complains that a dull ache and a vague burn is the end of everything, the decay of all organic matter, and the furnace still fires, and the electrical grid's online, and these words i type will be saved in google's vast archive and made immediately accessible to all, all who matter - i tempted fate so many times, and it never called my bluff - i keep writing my floppy pre-apocalyptic verse - cut my hair, had an electric razor made for me in china, quality - let the zen fools maintain their motorcycles - too clever by half - a fourth - an eighth - a fabrege fraction - wait long enough, and it'll be like old times again - maybe even wavy and gravy, maybe even a borrowed guitar lick under a simple beautiful female vocal i could notate, cause it's one of those things that stuck in my mid-term memory synapses, which are not photographic, just barely phonographic, a tape overdubbed in triple figures, all forming a synesthetic holograph like psychedelic sandpaper, which sounds more interesting than it actually is, and i guess that's the point of writing this, if you can believe that - uh oh there's that second person again, sorry

"black curtains" was an important dream fragment, like a series of commercials following a Jeopardy! segment, which was a megadeth song title and lyric, which was a stately contour on a face of the ur object too cool for you - you can tell the hallucinations are getting contrived at this point - contrive is a chauffeur, he drives me in the limousine of limited vocabulary down the freeway of freewriting to the parking garage of inspiration where the drop of hoffman's elixir in every 6th wine cooler from the backseat minibar kicks in and suddenly i have the divine right of kings, all of them in aggregate, or individually if i want a monochrome frame to lend an edge to my monarchical rampage, to the pentecost coast, to christen a mote in a modern shantytown, in a good facsimile of formal samuri function, the one quasi quadratix, of the order of the proper name, could never anticipate

24 Dec 2007


sleep leads to sleep
trapped in a series of rooms, appalling imagery, unable to wake up
until finally i snapped awake, for real, in the real room
could barely move, another long struggle to twitch the first limb
another long struggle to finally raise myself
to come down here
to stare blankly for a few minutes
to finally write
that i want to sleep again, but i'm worried what might be there
and guilty about how much i've already slept
feel like it's giving in to sickness

but i set my alarm this time, got an escape mechanism

damned interesting dreams, but it got to be too much
i knew, even in dreaming, that i should wake up
but trying turned nightmare

i know i should try and stay awake, break this cycle
that's become a tightening spiral
but there doesn't seem much worth being awake for
seems like the world is buckling
under an increasing weight of invalids
who can manage all this strain?

23 Dec 2007


took life about as far as i could tonight
old chats, new chats
a lot of things failed
but it wasn't as bad as it might have been
i wished she was here, she agreed, she said
she may have even wished that first, and i agreed

an interlude, i'm drinking water
clear water

now, to the dark dregs
watery and dark magic

if there must be tears, let there be tears
the weight of whatever it is, i will feel it

peanut butter balls - tequila and beer

four oranges - it's on
it doesn't all have to be written down
but i try to, in the chaos

don't want to sleep
want to be awake, see the unconscious - that's the idea

four more oranges - maybe i'm in steakknife territory - off the bus, wandering a walmart in a haze, buying steakknives for no apparent reason - does this dark magic still have the capacity to make me feel strangely ill, whatever that feeling is, that i don't feel yet, but vaguely remember? the "plumbing" i've called it - is it plumbing the depths? i still taste peanut butter.

four more oranges
i probably couldn't do this so casually if i hadn't been softened up with alcohol earlier - i can't say i'm off the booze yet - still on the stupid affirmative paradigm, although with some presence of mind - enough to think, hey, drinking more isn't the best idea - and maybe think of some way of chatting that reveals the yearning, and yet is tasteful, but not too tasteful, not so much so that i become asexual - but when that's gone, hey, why not try the orange pills? i've always been less about sex than drugs - not that i like that, but it's my bent

and i'm not taking it lightly exactly, i'm writing, i'm turning it into a "thing" - but it's gonna come on hard, like that dark scorceror i know it is
it's always hard, crossing the threshold - and i haven't felt the slightest thing yet

but i can't get what i want in life
so i turn to levers, aided by pharmaceuticals

okay, four more oranges
16 oranges, no fucking around
this is gonna be a hell of a swoon
i usually like it after a while
but the onset wave is troubling
oral ingestion is always a heavy thing to take on
a long ordealish kind of thing
i remember last time i did this, i had full on hallucinations
which fascinated me

well here's my early steakknife itinerary
i think i will make a pot of kootenay spice tea
the taste is soothing - will it be in a swoon? we'll see i guess
i remember last time i did this, i actually got strangely speedy
it felt comfy in an amphetamine way, some tension-induced
mannerism was all i needed, just keep the tongue moving
and everything will be alright

the ABCs of jeremy - i hope it doesn't involve anyone else
i know i wouldn't have done this if i was sober
but i also probably never would have done anything else either
if i was sober

oh you rascal with your psychosomatic schemes
i wish i could be less cryptic, but cryptic is where the poetry is
i'm never trying to mess with anyone's head
i'm not too cryptic with chemicals, if i am it's just for fun
but when it comes to love, then i really feel the imperative
to code

and tonight the plan was to be defiantly sober - skip the social functions
read a book, then work on the script
instead i've invited hallucinations, the bonafide reality warps
amass more material for the script, i guess
the script, what'll i do with it?

i made myself a cup of kootenay spice
thin-steeped tea, actually no, it was lemon mint
thought i'd go for some novelty, it hasn't got the zing of kootenay spice
it's that halfway zone between lemon and mint

decided not to watch that nomeansno dvd
guess i was craving something more cerebral
even if they are the "thinking man's dead kennedys"
this is a chaotic approach, but it could be worse
it might be ideal in fact, let's not let morality enter into it
approach to what? oh, it's hard to define
well nigh impossible
i turned on the christmas lights
and my lamp, everything else off

it's 4 am - it's the sweet spot really
i'm right in the middle of a weekend - i have nothing to do
obligations slowly severed
i was reading some old chats
i would service the old paradigm if i could, would have relished
having that again, it turned me on the last time i remember
was memorable, i guess, feeling charitable all of a sudden
a girl's gotta have her kicks, and if she can't get them
i gotta remember, not everyone's like me, there was a girl
who was close, but not enough

feeling light headed and sleepy, it's coming on really smooth
so smooth i think it might just knock me out, even though i went into
this slightly debauched night on too much sleep

this lemon mint tea is nice

18 Dec 2007

holi jeebus

i don't really know what happened
i didn't have a plan, i didn't have auxilliaries, or whatever other aux fairies
demand laxatives in their teas
it was just chaos
it was profound
like it usually is
when i do dissociative anaesthetics

it's too bad i go straight to stone cold crazy chaos
because k is an extremely POTENT and USEFUL TOOL to explore the mind
but i can't play the powersaw like a virtuoso, i'm all over the keyboard
wow, 6:33, almost solstice time - marooned - jesus - kangover, for sure, gritty, should i try and sleep it off? nausea hitting me bad now - stupid - ugh - gotta work today - but i knew it would be like this - i will recover

total chaos

was epic and nihilistic

those nodes and networks of cosmic cause showed up again, and the house on stanley st. seemed to be a focal point, nexus, and floorboards, and nord notes, and recent associations all figured in, but wow, yeah, it really does take you to alternate universes, by that i mean, ALTERNATE or OTHER states of being that seem just as solid as reality. Springy. Hinged on a different paradigm. Alien gravity.

I think I'm done hooping k. Stupid thing to do. It's gross, nauseaus. Not that bad really, considering how much I did, but... would rather IM. Hazy kangover. Not fun. Still can't type well. What did it all mean? A lot. Too much. I didn't really pay attention. But I flowed well. I let it bleed. I bloodlet. I bled into that universe. I gave myself to it, I grooved with its alien gravity, I found a rhythm. Syncopated at times. It was cool. It sucks coming back to the body. The stomach and the head are not fond of these stupid stunts the mind demands. Tweak my brain, snort these frankenchems, tweak my brain! Nevermind the consequences, synthetic deposits? who cares? well, in the k hole, the body is whatever you want it to be, a city, a planet, energy, whatever...

good lord

it's hard coming back from a heavy k trip, it's a big heavy body load... gotta try and sleep so i can sort of refresh, and then work - it was fun i guess - interesting - good to be reminded there are those other realities out there - actually, it lets me examine mind in a pure form to some extent, i can see consciousness for itself, of course, i don't get the milleage mckenna and those folks get out of it - but actually, it shows me how pristine and fine my mind can be, it's not a flashy drug, but actually, when i thought of mckenna, and his fixation on imagination, i saw a chrysalis spinning in floral latticework, the power of the mind, intricasies that i can't describe, k sharped my visual sense nicely when i let it, it's actually very malleable, if i deign to take the reins -- focus, i thought about mckenna, as a person, a person whose ideas and personality have resonated with me, a dead person, what is a person?


i need sometbing to candy-coat the nausea - more is not necessary, anymore - okay, well, that was the gold standard shake up the frame - it was shaky alright - strong stuff - there was a half hour where i was completely convinced of my purpose in the universe - that being a musical spigot... keeping time / / / this track is skipping too fast, mogwai, well, my head's a mess, it's a sacramental headress and a redress of old grievances and sloughing off of allegiences, but i will wave the fucked up flag till the tattered end - stanley was there - now it seems pointless, but stanley is still there, tenacious.... insisting in its importance - imparting something - floorboards, corner node, nord, yeah, i'm getting a little rounded schizo corner there, nevermind the greek antecedents, floyd is skipping, my mind is muddch.

Nausea. I am going to have to find my way back now. I will gladly pilgrimage back.


with what you have to work with - a blooody slippplip lip lippelierrelip of self. A self shard to shovel into the mix - well it all works up here. Ei. AniThin. Goes. YAaKkNno. Righto. Lktghgm. LIke that little g.

Well, now what? Deliver the knockout punch? Oh yeah, sorry, forgot about this life thing, reintegers - blew through an evening - it sustains - pedals - okay, well, fuzzy, snowy corridoors.... that's the way they've been, to mimic a dialect, pipsqueak... stanley is done - alleys runne;; fun;; yeah;; that
;'lll work

random device is the best choice i guess - lord - shit show - snow job - all partakanasta - prob - sev'd - it's dead - what can i take? well, there is the hole, it's there, a totem grout... not THAT important (cosmic cause)
interesting... i am on the train, plain, to where? o no, cankaka

ride this is what we do

the hype is over
the rush is on
the business of living
opens the floodgates
sensation accelerates

yes, this is the good batch
the one that works
the many many crystals

i'm trying to get on a robust recreational plateau
that will probably contain glowing arches of profundity
that i can use if i want

wishful sinful couldn't work better
better boost while i can
just get this off to a flying start

okay, acceleration of steak and potatoes meal
de bauch
but not exactly
it's been a while
what is appropriate?
it's a quick switch flick
and here we go
i remember the taste
remember flecks of paradigms - it fits into a pattern
it burns sometimes
it hurts sometimes
i feel sometimes
i love sometimes
i remember sometimes

most folks don't know how to behave
when paradigms change
beheads and bledilliocious

yes - here here here - another eternity for you
i forgot these thing were here
strange tastes and flanges...

strange tastes and flange sand witches... it's a trip
it's why we're here - it is where we've been - it's where we are going - wow. i feel the pull...

16 Dec 2007

seedy schemes

Trying is the first step toward failure. Eating a corn chip is the first step toward an amino acid fix. Eating another corn ship is a second step toward that destination. Nicotine is steak and potatoes, for some people. They stay thin.

Which is better, sexual gratification through manual manipulation - or the rush you get from fantasy? Is that a general query? What is this "general" you speak of? I don't trust you or your questions. You're an amino-acid addict. You're hopped up on corn chips. You can't be trusted.

Plausible deniability. Trying is the first step toward failure. There was only so much leeway for me. I'm calling it a crash. I wish it was fiery, I'd like to be warmer. This season is a write off. This decade is a write off. This life is a write off. Eating another corn chip is a thirteenth step toward that destination. What destination? Steak and potatoes. I want gravy too. But I also want dreams. Dreams that can conjure those things I would never think of, in conscious thought. Things beyond steak and potatoes.

The lights are bright. The christmas lights weren't doing it for me. Neither was chat. The people, it's rumoured, that exist far beyond my perception. Were not there. This is how it is. This is reality. Steak and potatoes. A red flagged word.

I know where a switch is. I don't trust myself to describe it though. Don't know whether to throw it. I'd like to throw a lot of things. The fight. The towel in.

I'll say I want dreams. That's a reasonable expectation. I can afford dreams, they're like food stamps. They're allowed, in this state, this welfare state. They give me a bare minimum. There's always sleep to come back to. And there's the big sleep. I have to revalue things.

It's tainted because it's public. Uncouth. Should I follow some seedy aesthetic scheme by omitting that observation? The life ran out of it. Death looks good, in a general sense. Props up. Sometimes you gotta go where everyone knows your name.

I was really feeling the slocan valley tonight. It was enough, for nearly an hour. Then I came back home, some things online reminded me of the void, how it opens for me. I always come back to the void, here it is. That's what seedy schemes lead to.

Seedy schemes, they're what I do. It's not a game I play, it's in my DNA. It's my soul, man. I believe in the soul. It's a seed. It's a scheme. It's a random device. It's an evil spock. It's a warlock. It's a pawned guitar. It's all these things and more, friends. Romans. Countrymen. Country women. It's ladies night. It's comedy and booze night. It's free cocaine night. It's working freebase into conversation once a day night. It's not sustainable, but we don't know when it will run out. It goes well with IBUprofen.

I can’t say why I’m so depressed. I guess you can’t guess. Or maybe you can. Maybe there’s no reason. Maybe it’s a simple matter of something. Some pattern. The irony of desire in a nonresponsive backspace key. It wants to be general, encompass all loss. Not the fresh void opening, what renders everything meaningless, what was enough to tide me over, until all that trying succeeded in something. Sunday morning is every day for all I care. Shaved my head. I’m going on a mental vacation. I’ll still retain my good nature, but also, well, I guess it’ll be all the same to you. Except I won’t be there. Unless, you know, you need something. Dreams are weak tea, this week, this month, this life. When I went outside of life, I saw the possibilities, but quantum entanglements drag me back, eventually, to the pragmatic requirements of existing in this just so universe, tweaked for a life of hierarchical minds, playing games, allotting winners and losers. I scratched till I bled, till the ticket disappeared in my hand. I have a record in my file, I read it, on average twice a month, while I drink the local brew, the dark ale, that reminds me of days when there seemed to be possibility, when people found me, when there was fun to be had.

I don’t have to do anything tomorrow. So I won’t. I’ll be arrogant in sloth and inhabiting the niche of nothing the universe has allowed me. Maybe even dream of weak borscht. Dreams are something. Substance. I’m not banking on death. I’m not wise in assigning value to death by thinking of it as the “end” of suffering, of changing my mind about wanting anything after, thereby purging myself of fuzzy-headed wishful thinking. It’s just a struldbrugian phobia, and that’s a reverse jinx. It’ll all work out somehow. The streets will be paved with blowjobs. Every corner will be guarded by the United States marines. The Germans will run the trainyards. Mussolini will be given a job high in the organization, with a grand title. I will work behind the counter at the complaint department, libertarian division. I will tell everyone to go to hell, they’ll like it better there. I will slag life, pine for limbo. It’s just a pattern a person like me falls into, about this time in their decline. The goober moment is almost upon me, except I have no solid couch behind me, to slip back on, to let my sock dangle. This is a hopeless copeless basket case you’re seeing here. He will vote for the Amazon Queen and the fascist regime, if they guarantee him a job weaving baskets. They have to be on the streets of Beijing tomorrow.

5 Dec 2007


Well good… won’t be a lack of inspiration then.

You were fine before – which means, you’re fine now. Even if there’s this weird delay in sending simple keystroke data to microsoft word. What the fuck?

I think I may have set myself an impossible task. But we’ll see. Seems contrived. Of course it is. I used to care about such things. Maybe I’m too spontaneous right now. Feeling that way. Can’t be put to work on an old paradigm thing. Where is the poetry?

Weird freaky frigid wake and bake. Not something I really want to turn into an essay. Or poetry. Or anything really. It’s a lot of things. I can’t get a handle on it anymore. It slipped away. A hydraspectralchimera. Nohing seems right. Can’t get a handle. But everything is somewhat hallucinogenic. Thinking I need a drink. Need to stop caring so much. About what? I’m not sure. Heh. I guess it’s funny, but it feels too damned serious. Not a fun feeling.

Enthusiasm is hard to grip. You’re lucky I showed, buddy.

Feel distanced and scared of that identity I normally cling to, cultivate, make for myself. It’s oppressive, suppressive, and real. Feels. Sir Real.

I thought I was supposed to stop taking life seriously. It seems the opposite happened. To a ridiculous degree. I shouldn’t take THAT seriously, either.

Wondering if I lost it visually. Used to have ideas and inspiration, now tapped out? How seriously do I have to take it? This is silly and stupid. Hophead. I’m a hophead. I’m calming down, sort of, learning how to live aesthetically. Was just on an amazing creative flow. Still am. It seems to be grooving better. Falling into the pocket. But I’m still tweaked and freaked. But I can sort of roll with it. Wobble, not well, maybe, or maybe yes, maybe I should/could affirm.

Uncouth again.

It’s amazing how far along path of hedonism one drink can bring me. Or maybe it’s that one and a third that turns the corner. Subverts my sober decision maker.