fonebone spirituality

bonus

lady in the water, turned out to be
castaway, said she's been getting pleasure out of bad movies
seemed profound during a hallucinogenic phone conversation

kut a cross
stately profill acting up
slice me till it looks different
innovation in mutilation
fresh disfigurement forgets
that clitstim scene
maxed out cumshots
no quarter

ENIGMATIX

you aren't a crystal but you're in my head
it's aching, but i took the one ibu i had left
and two expired naproxem, bonus control
trying to settle down to sleep, it gets
crazy some nights, with shyamalan and contra
and keta and nikita and funpens and interpreters
and delusions of grandeur and illusions of telepathy
and seeing this all in a movie and talking honestly of
fears about death, what if it's nothing, but alan watts
said if we came from nothing into something, why can't
it happen again, nikita nodding eagerly, she agreed
contra hopeful, it's so funny, pretending to be a
spiritual authority, can't take myself seriously
but i really do appreciate my new friends, for sharing

k nit
waves arches groovewood
fabrege families in a mousehollow's micromicehole
schools of fish

Good God, Vintage Vinyl
dollhouse wakeup kiss
earn $ bar/MAF
are these GLOWSTIX any good?

it's bonus tonight, cortisol control
creativity surplus, seeing redundancy as artistic possibility
okay say hey sell me more of that
blood sugar control flow
it's magic enough for me

i'm thinking long range, like staying with the devil i know
for this thaw and flow, for a while, then going on vacation
if my friends are alive, i'm not totally sure, it's been weird lately
dunno if i have anywhere to go but i'd like to, since it's apparently
on me to make things happen, hopefully
with cortisol under control, exploit that bonus
situation, music school and debt and health food
a rearrangement where i can continue to play the game
and bonus, get to see that crystalizer more often, maybe
what crystalizes something, it's a necessity, the
energy has got to go somewhere, i know it's delusional
it always is, but i'll embrace the delusion again, try
and be stylish about it at least, the ibu is masking the ache a bit
and maybe style can mask the ache even more
say hey sell me some health, my stealth health campaign
under control, and endorphins are good for me
i'll get them however i can, you won't even know, with cortisol
under control, bonus

welcome to annexia

emotions are hiding - they’re out there, close, gaining strength in stealth - i can’t feel them now, but they’ll be back to rip me apart – it’s as necessary as vegetable genocide - i wasn’t build for solidity, i must be torn to the winds, i’m a weather system

"sexual frustration" is an interesting phrase, especially now, in this transient detachment - i feel uninvolved and unevolved - single-celled mindset, a lot of redundant dinucleic data - i was frustrated that "sexual frustration" didn't adequately convey a heartache i was feeling when i used the phrase, like lust was the surface rust on a centuries-old shipwreck - and then there was the time this girl i was chatting with talked of sexual frustration - i was a pinball sorcerer till i ran out of quarters, it was a frustrating game, the flashing lights drove me insane, i got a little too involved

i'm in some blank reprieve – some - don’t know which one - dull-eyed, tired, can't sleep - haven't got any useful meds - got some money and material – a materialist’s inventory but no meaningful activity - putting life in context like i put dishes in the dishwasher, my professional niche, my life’s work, my one true talent, a serf’s birthright, pays the bills, putting life in context like an obsessive compulsive puts personal items in the order only he understands, an arbitrary order that must be just so, once more, from the top – i’m halfway through a william burroughs bio on wikipedia - lost interest in health - disease seems reasonable – all behavior is neurosis, woodland stress, quasi-rural culture-shock baseline – mike told me he was diagnosed with the list – you know the list, everyone’s got one – if you get your head checked you come back with the list – obsessive compulsion, depression, mania, attention deficit disorder – implying there’s an order – well there was – it was vegetarian – but they don’t serve our kind at the CHUD café

read some of my journal entries from eight years ago - not much has changed really - i'm still this silly person with etched idioms, behavioral patterns inherited from a homeworld that won't have me, that demands imaginational reserves i splurged on level designs for first person shooters, a world i was going to write about but couldn't, that exists as notes for a novel i'll never finish - idiomatic patterns, synesthetic art - i write draw play music, soulless patterns, expressing emptiness with brilliant babble, play of light and sound, amateur - no commercial value, artistic value in that little riff i receive here and there, props from an equally amateur colleague, we're in the same pathetic league, i sample other people on occasion, sometimes feels right to reciprocate, sometimes it's even spontaneous, can circumvent contrivance on an overcast afternoon walk when i'm at my best, i sample, and one in a hundred samples is recognized - i've become lazy, atrophied, energy is rare for me, i take the path of least resistance, that's my artistry, i've become one with texture, redundant writing, the drug of dregs, the dregs of drugs, dragging me through what looks more and more like the way things are, just that way, the utility of futility

i'd almost managed to sleep tonight, the inanity of astroboy on daily motion, episode 3, save the classmate, the soporific purity of a japanime morality play formula almost lulled me to real sleep - woke up with thoughts of william burroughs shooting his wife - why that historical fact woke me up i have no fucking idea - but it did - every once in a while it hits me that william burroughs shot his wife - like whoa, how could i forget that? why do i care? i guess it's just startling sometimes to be reminded that something like that could become trivia in someone's life, rather than, say, the focal point - somehow the fact shattered a precarious hypnogogic state in this absurd life i've slipped into - so i got up and wiki'd bill - i feel a kinship with him tonight, even though i can't really write - but i like writing as an idea, and dreaming, and forging morphine scripts while living on allowance - it's a strange time to be alive, even stranger than that fucked up century he was allowed

i've managed to secure enough trappings of "independence" that i'm not on allowance anymore, even though "independence" is illusory, there are endless layers of sick support, factory farms and arms deals for synergistic slaughter, it's a lean-to shanty town, we've fallen all over each other to prop up a materialistic junkheap, gene made a machine, the machine made gene, he can't remember any other scene, it's the meme, it's clean, chlorine, what else you gonna do? stay in the pool, fluid, won't freeze, keep it warm, sober winter warmth, machine warmth, cause it's easier to warm up than cool down, summer will bring sweat and insanity, too much, maybe i'll find a way to be healthy, but health seems insanity, that maniac focus, that losing game - and the drugs i'm on are an ever-fluxing concoction of what's available and how much life is left in a pattern, how far the fractal extends before the frays blunt into boring curves, not much self-control, just self-loathing, with little blips of self-love to keep the stupid game going for a hopskotch stagger, rarely hip, futurehead, pills on a picnic, making a show of having fun at a silent auction, shallow people on facebook

sometimes i can crack the shell of shallow people, reveal their depths, revel in them till they scare me, but usually it's dissociation with a side of sexual frustration, a dream, semi-lucid, one i can't quite control, only analyze, meta-uselessness - also wiki'd crack today - guess which kind - it's very dreamy, the pale kind, not the pixar kind - not phosphorus peelback, sufficient cut-up code, how appropos - not that much has changed - let's do the timewarp again, pardner - shallow people - even the ones i love - no meaning here and now, nothing sensible to do - i'm not pushing a rock up a hill - bones in my hand, yeah, noted, note able, from each according to his ability, why do liberals love communist murderers? you said it, not me - mad TV - saturday night dead - head start - peewee's playhouse - let down your hair

five pounds of flax

depleted seeds - i ate them all, already - my health food - was glad of an alt liver to guide me - but did succumb to my own gaktastrophy tonight, and yes, there was msg in that dip, eschewed crackers when what was left in the fridge ran out - and yes, you would walk to the end of town to get some more - a pabst celebration, more of the same - let's rent a hall, a very merry unbirthday - you would walk to the end of town to get some more - or is that me? is it doable? i think so - couldn't sleep - subconscious itchy - perpetually semi - haven't had decent sleep in weeks - don't know what it is - trying to be healthy, it's been something to work for, work through - but it makes me itchy -- vitamin S, solipsism, self-reliance, living with self - strange situation - flush with what? purge in every other way - toxicity, stackheap overflow - log cabin republicaint - ain't no crisis we can define without rolling our eyes, chasing the bright shiny things of sarcasm - transparency and chemical control over mood leads to the same cycle slavery, but maybe i never said it and meant it so much as that last time - maybe i won't walk to the edge of town, but if the store was open - no tweak mission tonight - but things are moving faster, aesthetic sensibilities fading, the real test of values, the sink or swim trials like nuremburg, judgment, flashy aesthetic transience dying, what remains? hard to define - oh i managed to avoid the cycle of drinking more pabst long enough to notice the sting of heavy eyelids, the reduced oxygen levels in the brain - maybe i can sleep now, but i doubt it - i'll find a way to itch - unconscious blotch

i'm not your problem anymore?

okay then

i stuck with you, through your misery
your bottomless depression, your masochism
your infidelity, your depression
your manias, your excess video rentals
your coffee and baileys, your album, your drinking
your driving me around parsons, your convenience store job
your drinking, your smoking out in the cold
your smoking in escher's house, your st. vincents shopping sprees
your laughter, your depression, your depression
your depression, your depression, seemed worth it
despite misery, a co-dependency, synergy
in the understanding of mutual anxiety, something
to stick with, till the end

i'm the dumbass who stuck around, you say
but I'M not YOUR problem, anymore
cause i'm bipolar, too much for you to deal with
I'M too BIPOLAR, one minute insanely sad
the next minute loving you
who can come to grips with such madness? madness
it's almost as if i'm heartbroken or something
like i've resorted to that cliche

well i'm not your problem
and you needn't phone me sober
drunk will do, cause that's what you do
you only call people drunk, that's how you roll
so i shouldn't expect to ever hear you again
without slurred speech and screaming curses
cause i'm not your problem anymore
talking to me sober is problematic for you
and i wouldn't want to cause you problems
cause i'm not your problem anymore
you escaped - have a wonderful life
like a zoloft commercial
i'm sure you'll be a happy
family, i bet you get along great
with his kid

so, how do i purge five years?
how does an archivist delete five years of his life?
recordings are everywhere, collaborative songs
labours of love, but they've gotta go, like
for real, not just the recycle bin, but this time
the backups too, this is the real purge, cause it's gotta die
so she says, and she finally convinced me
letters letters - digital, hard copies, birthday cards
half my clothes are from her, no three quarters
so i guess i’ll do the thrift store on my own now and
drawings, jewelry, uh oh, she bought that book for me
well it's just a book, i can get it at the library
so i’ll toss it, along with all the pictures
wallpaper, digicam photos, videos
self-confidence, security, love, purpose
everything must go, liquidate

i'm not her problem anymore

Retrograd ‘08

Black ocean, white noise. Black ocean, white noise. I drove the emotions away. They’re now in stealth mode, plotting their next attack. They’ll be back to rip me apart. It’s as necessary as the annual vegetable massacre, I must be torn to the winds. I’m feeding an ecosystem with anxiety and awkwardness, nutrients for the creatures that feed on negativity, it’s all a rich tapestry, you can thank me later, in the natural history museum, you can mention me in a plaque, the epitaph to my single-celled life, uninvolved and unevolved, with a pile of redundant deoxyribonucleic data, recessive and depressive but there’s meds for that, here and now. I got a materialist’s inventory but no meaningful activity. Putting life in context like I put dishes in the dishwasher, my profession, my life’s work, my one true talent. A serf’s birthright, pays the bills, putting life in context like an obsessive compulsive puts personal items in the order only he understands, an arbitrary order that must be just so, once more, from the top.

Halfway through a William Burroughs bio on wikipedia, lost interest in health. Disease seems reasonable, all behavior being neurosis, woodland stress, quasi-rural culture-shock therapy. Mike told me he was diagnosed with the list. You know the list, everyone’s got one. When you get your head checked by your head checking professionals you come back with the list: obsessive compulsion, depression, mania, attention deficit disorder – implying there’s an order. Well there was. It was vegetarian, but they don’t serve our kind at the CHUD café.

I'd almost managed to sleep tonight, the inanity of Astroboy on daily motion, episode three, “save the classmate”, soporific purity of a japanime morality play. But I woke up with thoughts of William Burroughs shooting his wife. Why that historical fact woke me up I have no fucking idea - but it did. Every once in a while it hits me that William Burroughs shot his wife - like whoa, how could I forget that? Why do I care? I guess it's just startling sometimes to be reminded that something like that could become trivia in someone's life, rather than, say, the focal point. Somehow the fact shattered a precarious hypnogogic state. So I got up and wiki'd Bill. I feel a kinship with him tonight, even though I can't really write. But I like writing as an idea, and dreaming, and forging morphine scripts while living on allowance. It's a strange time to be alive, even stranger than that fucked up century he was allowed.

I've managed to secure enough trappings of "independence" that I'm not on allowance anymore, even though "independence" is an illusion. There are endless layers of sick support, factory farms and arms deals for synergistic slaughter, it's a lean-to shanty town, we've fallen all over each other to prop up a materialistic junkheap, gene made a machine, the machine made gene, he can't remember any other scene, it's the meme, it's clean, chlorine. Stay in the pool, it won't freeze, we’re keeping it warm, sober winter warmth, machine warmth, cause it's easier to warm up than cool down. Summer will bring sweat and insanity, it’ll be too much to handle. Maybe I'll find a way to be healthy, but health seems crazy, manic focus, a losing game. There’s no self-control, just a lot of self-loathing, with little blips of self-love to keep the game going for a hopskotch stagger, rarely hip, futurehead, pills on a picnic, making a show of having fun at a silent auction. Dissociation with a side of sexual frustration. Retrograd Zero Eight: The School of Hard Knockers. Well we got no class, and we got no principles. Gasoline rainbow. Immortality in absurdity.

The Pick of Destiny has been looping on the living room TV for weeks. Digital video wallpaper. Yesterday it was Blades of Glory. Will Ferrell hungover, puking in his evil wizard costume. Nostalgia for when I first saw that movie, at the theatre, with the X. Has it really been years? Now I’m intimate with K. Stranger danger cart. Mummy's ready for his mystical journey. Heavenly amorality. Eyecrust and angel dust. It tastes like wood when the crystals drip down my throat and I become the floor, curling into the grainy groove. Heaven’s on the rug, and Creek Street is the nexus of the universe. I’m an angel, a cockless wonder. I'm loved, in a distant, ephemeral way. Never physically. Not involved in earthly things. Absurd that transference to spacious telepathic being comes down to ketamine. A paradox. Absence of body is the presence of powder.

But it’s good to get drunk after returning from a reality-obliterating psychedelic bender. It feels almost innocent, alcohol. You know where you stand. Folks lend a hand. Finley’s at 1 AM, dead monday night bleedover. Kept it simple and solo, the intent was to drink, not socialize. Soaked in the bar, associations of good times, stupid fun, talking of sorostitutes, the game where you name your top three whatever. The last time the X was in town. Guzzled bulk cellar wine when I got back home, blacked out. In the morning I found that I’d added an old friend on facebook. The guy who taught me what songs could be, from those days when Nelson had a soul. I’d been on a memory trip, listening to the Charlottes open stage compilations, shameless abuse of nostalgia. I guess adding C was supposed to be a "fuck you" to the X, like hey pal, remember me? I decided, what do I care if you fucked the nymph while she was mine, you're hardly unique in that, so whatever, it means nothing, let's be friends, in that shallow facebook way. Waging the war against the girl by dropping my vendetta against the guy. Calling it ancient history.

The good thing about burnout is that you get burned out of burnout. Eventually, it’s just a part of life, not something to obsess over. Another meal. Frozen peas and coffee. Thermodynamics. I still talk in reductio ad absurdum, it's an irritating imprint, a vice. But the hollowness is no longer a revelation. It’s nature. It's the ground, whale guts everywhere. Holey. Solace in soulessness. Jo mama's so soulless she don't know what a soul is. She don't think one even exists. Sho nuff, she takes solace in this. Grist for the mill.

Western Turgid Inarticulate

No one comes to visit. Don't worry about the wrath of me. I don't know why I thought a change in living arrangement would change anything. About my fundamental insecurity and awareness of being nothing. I ran out of things to blame. I blame everything. I blame God. I blame myself. Down time. Waiting for someone to lift my spirits. Sitting on the soggy shoulder of the chunnel, watching traffic go by. There, a metaphor. The only one today, half a hallucination. Unremembered dreams. A grain of rice. What the welfare cosmos will apportion to me, a reduced ration, as punishment for artificial perception enhancement eschewing shamanic means. Can't write anything. Can't play anything. Will avoid pretending to be suicidal, at least. There is no therapy. There is no art. Tired. Turgid. Mired. Dead inside. No imagination. Memories of better times. There's no going back to that. No future. The past was downtime too, but I milked it. Ate at burger king. Now it's gone. The comfortable delusions with it. That feeling of being complete, buoyant, having a life. Awareness of emptiness. No logical end to this. Could stop now, could go on. Cassandra Gemini. Appreciation? Ration? Reason. They've been hyping valentine's day for a week already. Erotic poetry night. Happy birthday. I'm maintaining, for no purpose. Got a thousand dollar keyboard amplifier, and custom fit earplugs on order. Funny how I used to play video games. Like they were all I needed. Painful memories lost in sludge. Parties pounding at the edges, temples, gonna have to crank the white noise, lie down, summon superfluous sleep. Work tomorrow. Mindless work. The 17 minute improv is over.

nevermind

gratuitous grace

seeth

demon piglet

blunt nuzzle

broken key

first aeon of penance

cryptic thumbs in peripherals

not for me

maybe next epoch

scab, pockmarks

when you're tired of
delala flalor
when that line was razored down to something
when it meant everything because of nothing.

or something

well...

it becomes an ebn flo nthngasys

novela

binary code

Zing

A No. 1. This is it. When primary prizs,mmdmd

yay see?

anyway

...

that exsesss tryptaminninnee that i got no problelelelelel with nanaymor

hallowholo A No. 1.

Crcronernnenrnernern
eef ernernernerner

nernernernernernernerner
nenenernernernenenenener
nernernernenenernenenernernenenenenernenernerne

ehoped i helped a lil lil just a lill hel lil lil hell ful and a lil yeah

focal, heh

Dreaming on LSD

Burnt brain. Nothing to say. Thought I could finally sleep. Closed my eyes, sure I was done. The most interesting things were to come. I first noticed it as sound - had white noise playing on speakers to help me sleep, quickly forgot it was white noise, seemed to contain every color in the spectrum, several off spectrum, seemed digitally altered in many ways at once, deeper, reverbous, thick, filling the room, foaming my head. Unusually bright inside, flexible beams, glowing, grids interwoven, and somewhere in there, the personality of the mind/chemical interaction, now remembered: a multiple personality, but each facet part of a consistent hyper-human aesthetic. There was the female, casually beautiful, face emerging from a frilly windowframe that had sprouted like a paisley flower. Long black hair, pale face, knowing smile. She could do no wrong, eye candy ambassador for acid. It was all an aesthetic unit, internally consistent, looked, sounded, felt like "acid", something sly, something that knew secrets but would not reveal them now, only show the edges, coloured contours, a veildance. Then there was the male, Mr. Tryptamine, dashing, devilish, an avatar I could wear if I was to climb a little, maybe a lot higher up the ladder. Someone so much more than me, with a grain of my personality, but a skyscraper above me, highrise to my dingy basement psychology. He wore an old west style hat, but he was of the future. Bathed in an orange sunrise hue. The two people mingled and melted together, the light lattice of beams did its kaleidocycle until I'd forgotten the situation of looking at hallucinations, and had fallen asleep in a seamless transition.

The visuals continued, except now I was completely immersed in them, and believing in them. Now I was engulfed in scenes, still engorged with that brightly colored multidimensional texture, like Louis Wain paintings animate and interacting with each other. These scenes contained people, of a sort. Striking personalities in outlandish costumes that embodied their souls. A forest chamber gathering, watching a conduit of churning blue bubbles. There were several entities with me, and all had strong and disparate personalities. These personalities were like no one I know, but I felt I knew them all well. They felt like family. A perpendicular stream fed into the conduit and seemed to be spawning versions of ourselves at regular intervals. Like it was an external womb. A young woman watched a version of herself gestate from the translucent womb-stream. It perfectly resembled a prototypical version of her, smaller and simpler, less defined. Some differences. It tumbled out of the stream and into the blue bubble conduit which then frothed a lighter shade. The creature flapped around, rapidly evolving into early artistic maturity, arranged itself in an upright position, and produced a cylinder of green light/sound that was a synesthetic song, perfectly individual, colored and textured that just-so shade of the character, which was a just-so distortion of the mother, a consistent extension of the spawn. Somebody told the mother not to be distressed that it wasn't a perfect copy. "We don't want perfect copies. Your child will go her own way. Her music will be her own. You're only the seed." Then another entity emerged from the womb stream, a male. It seemed to be based on me, I could see there was some seed of me in the design, but it had emerged as freakishly other, despite that seed being evident. It was mind-blowing. It produced a blue synesthetic song-beam, and I heard flavours of my musical idiom subsumed in some larger symphonic blast I could never have thought of. The thing disappeared in its own song and the whole florid flowing mess disappeared in the conduit. The conduit disappeared into an undulating wall of hexagonal tiles that seemed to breathe.

These tiles were being removed and re-attached here and there, according to some pattern I couldn't make sense of, by somebody on the other side, telekinetically. I got the sense that the person was Robert Anton Wilson, and also that the room on the other side of the wall was crowded - by people who weren't there physically, but mentally. The wall phased out enough that I could make out the face of someone who looked very much like goateed RAW, in his younger days. This person, with the simultaneously telepathic elaborative aid of two or three others, explained the room and the wall, and what it was all for, while the undulating phase in/out pattern continued. It felt like a huge epiphany, an understanding I could apply to every facet of life. Something about creating reality, which sounds cliché and meaningless expressed in words. It was more about the feeling of this activity, with the hexagonal wall embodying and illustrating. Like we were pushing on opposite sides of the wall with our minds, with certain mental tendrils here and there, like fingers, not with intent but with habit, fractal patterns of behavior. Varying pressure points would create different levels of reality, hallucination, enable options, preclude others. It had quantum implications. It was not so much a metaphor as gnosis, expressed visually, felt physically. A mental potency, an ability - and also acceptance, of this ebb and flow. The wall surged to total solidity. I could hear no one on the other side. I lost touch with them.

Many more visions flowed together. The only other scene I remember took place in a cavernous alley in some psychedelically stylized city block, on a ground-level staircase leading up to an apartment building. The architecture was a chaos of square blocks at different elevations. I was with a crowd of people. They all seemed like that acid entity - more human than human - very alive, personable, diverse, strongly defined characters, but also alien, hallucinogenic, multidimensional, and just fucking weird. One of them, a male, 30ish, was talking with me. He seemed cocky, but also respectful of me. At least, he was including me in his cocky coterie, like he drew vast swathes of coolness across the city and into his circle with an assured motion of his hand, that excluded people who didn't get it. Whatever it was, I can't remember. His face was shaped like a vertically elongated trapezoid. I looked into his eyes and saw mirror images of rainbows bleaching out into a white void toward the edges. I had an intense emotional reaction to those eyes. They seemed beautiful and hideous, they made my head ache. The guy knew exactly what I was thinking. He said that yes, we've all got the void inside us now, because we're part of the acid entity. He was talking about burnout. The emotion I got was that all this pretty psychedelia carried a terrible price, but that it was beautiful anyway, in context. He was like Faust firmly embracing the deal. I looked around at the hipster crowd on the steps. They all had those rainbow void-eyes. I thought and felt that this was horribly wrong and evil, but so beautiful. Like I could live with it, for now. Bare witness.

frightened of a feeling?

Horray for question marks!

Been egging me on all night. Might be heavy. But I wrote myself a sedative. Got bored. Realized I didn’t care about my projects. Remembered how fine it could be, to blow my mind.

Well, I’m a little jittery, hands shaking but honestly, I feel MUCH better now that I made the damn decision. Maybe it’s that I know I have a grace period. I guess I’ll go wander like I said I was gonna. Like I’m just taking a walk, all casual like, nothing else to do, thought I’d sight see. And if those sights happen to be a little brighter and more animate than they should be, well I’ll know why, won’t I? Once I know what I’m dealing with, I should get over the jitters. Once I remember, that is. Christ, I should be a veteran by now.

~~~

Oft white, soft light.
Dancing on Carbonate and Latimer.
Oil is under 90$ a barrel!
Happy days are here again, now now now.
Can you feel the rhythm? Does it have to be kinetic?

Ergotized eyes at attention. Haha. Ha. On one of those capturing missions.

Glorious to feel a glorious feeling and say it. Then realizing I’m saying glorious and it’s all been said before, better before better. When downtown Nelson looks like Vegas, I know it’s kicked in. I feel it, electricity in my body. Extra sensory. Feelings, thoughts, slip out of my grasp. I’ve got a perma grin, and when it slips into a grimace, I try to stay positive. It usually works, haha, I’m laughing again. It’s all about creating and maintaining a positive feedback loop – and usually I can do that better than anyone else can do it for me, if I maintain focus. Looks like all the elements kicked in just right, didn’t overwhelm, I started out walking in the cold which took the edge off… so it crept in subtly. And now I’m feeling like a freak, but not a god freak, so it’s okay, not a freak of godly proportions, nothing so inappropos. And anyway, this is my new home, my sanctuary. Time to break it in, get some hallucinations happening up in the historic arched interior. I feel good. Our houseguest is a fine girl, with some fine product. Double dip and a drip away from the stwawbewwy wiver. Finchy was right in saying it’s better to be able to maintain control, and not have it control you. The feedback loop – he was all about looking after me, my sober self, like my second shadow in split light, like three of me converging in snow banks, rendered poetically in the mind’s eye, with ochre streetlights, just the right temperature, minus seven, pretentiousness set appropriately on the barometer – peripheral hallucinations non threatening – you could feel the sky, in a parallel life, when loss of virginity was very definite and aquatinted, an aqualine spiritual. Feels good to be loved by the self sometimes. I’ll take it. Dramatic acrobatics. Bocceli. Night skiing. A clean definition of a klean demolition. It ain’t easy being green. Don’t hype unless for maximum humour. Ride off into the sunset, when the peripherals of speech and text tint. I know there are purer snowbanks of poetry, I passed them tonight, and have passed them so often in the past, when I worried about writing. Even now, I worry about cliché. Except when the dream unfolds. Why not be honest with myself? Agreeing, the only way I can. Heh.

Banks, and drift. I try to forgive myself amid hideous faces. Somebody describes his dream as beautiful, it’s funny, his solemn whisper. Stately, in a staggered stuttered way, the way gravity flows, I won’t grant the obvious synonym. Nichewitch. Schoolmaiden twitch, a highscore. Amazing, the situation, the circumstance, of being this person I am. It’s profoundly ridiculous, and it’s so obvious to say that. Haha. The words are mostly placeholders to waves of feeling. My giddy grin. Comma. “Where are my feelings?” he says. Chocolate coated wisdom. Haha. Building slowly, granting me time. To enjoy the marble texture of the foyer. The all foyer mansion. Dude. Yes, laughing at nothing. That’s an acid trip for you. I’m so entertaining to myself. Waves of energy I can actually assimilate as an artist, take an ego trip and be comfy, why not? Feel, analyze, whatever I fucking feel like. Guardian angels, casting paranoia on to shadows, letting them be dark, to my light. The infernal triumvirate.

Well now that I’ve gotten myself into an unambiguous goodly electric feedback loop where I feel no possibility of threat, just a billow of down home stimuli, what do I do with it? Write I guess, seems to be working. And listening to the southern cross album. Yeah. Happy with what you have to be happy with. Even if there are tri-tone guitar riffs on a parallel thought. Yes, I can actually DEAL with this. Like I’m in Vegas. Is that the theme for tonight? Stupid card tricks?! Ahahaha… Yes. I think so. A Wax Simulacra on Letterman. Feels like a communal electric current that I plugged myself into. I don’t need to be physically with anyone to feel it. I know it’s all hallucination. So what? Is that any less of a thing? Heyahola! I only wish I had three heads. Is that a theme? Archewards and balding toward timebaby. If nothing else, more possibility.

I keep smiling. I don’t think this is gonna be any kind of breakthrough, no need to tack it to past or future schemes, just a present present to myself. Nyeti yetis on the horizon. In a year, I will hopefully have scraped all the iconography from my vocab. I need a transfusion of words like Keith Richards needed new blood. But damn, I keep feeling good. I just giggled like an ijit. It’s hilarious that I’m writing all this down. Am I gonna post it? I might. Haha. I’m so fucking high. Keepin’ it real.

So, I’m thinking I might have figured why the spacemen mentioned Jesus all the time. Don’t mean to get all christy on you, but he’s a hell of a figure. He’s all things to all people. He means something. More than I’ve even come close to accepting as my personal savior. See that’s the thing. Savior? Just keep Mel away from me, okay? I got over S&M many moons ago. Let’s say. Sorry, thoughts are racing a little too fast. Lacy racy thoughts, slinking away from me, breeding with black panthers. Yes, that’s what I was trying to say. I’m creating a texture here. A self analytical texture. Korny. It’s korny. I added a few ccs of saliva. Eggwhite. Ejaculate. Third guess, fourth guess. The golden girls. Blanche. It’s a joke. Anyone want to join my jugband? It will be a niche. It will forge all sorts of providential fires. How long can a put on be put apon? Time to cut the apron strings?

Oil goes down smooth. Pumped up, mispriced. Paradoxical paradise. Paranormal, paraspsychological. Comfort. Disease. Novelty. Habit. It’s all been done before. But then why does it feel so crucial? Because it’s a feeling. Reasons conflict. Like raisons. Cinnabun. The concressional. The professional. Slick Rick recovered from a stroke. It’s different for some folks. Been trying to claim things I haven’t earned honest, man.

I’m just letting self standards fall to shreds. I don’t have to be anybody. Righty ho, Mr. A. Don’t want to be a martyr, don’t want to be a victim. None of it means anything, I don’t think. Improvising to an Aphex track. Out of tune, pisses me off, I say with a cackle. What can I do with a crazy grin? What can I do for my country? Ask not. E pluribus nukem. I’m in a real love-hate relationship with myself. I want to love someone else, but nobody is really making themselves available. I think I’m a leprechaun. I make good conversation. But all you want is me lucky charms. You want to charm yourselves. There’s nothing in it for me. Why is it so wrong, to want a body? I’m so sick of the spiritual. I ain’t got no spirit, yo. And you can’t have my lucky charms. Good luck finding me. I hide in your reality. In plane sight. You can’t see me. Wouldn’t know where to look. Wouldn’t know to look. Think you’ve seen it all. You have, you know. I know. We know. We’re in on it, aren’t we? Is there a future? You tell me.

Sticks. Remember sticks? Remember how they stuck? Candy and a currant bun. Au courant. Maybe I can do something with it. What a hellacious Monday. Another flow, haha. When laughter is good. There’s been much second guessing though, I will admit. It gets serious despite itself. It’s a kaleidoscope, it always cycles back. Sweet dub. My music is good for the moment. Sweet dub. I will seventh guess, cursed luck of the future, and edit out most of this. Even the sweet dub? I hope not. Cause if you don’t know poetry when you see it. But it’s hard to see sometimes. All the time. Isn’t it? Maybe I should read Huxley. Is that a practical suggestion? A flow can make me feel good with however I sound. Then I hit the rocks. And I worry. Jagged. Because it’s all schemes. I’m damaged goods. I have no function. I’m a squeezebox. I’m elmo. Tickle me.

I’m not all about drugs. I just return to them, like inhalation. Like breath. They’re so part of me. Entirely. I gave myself to them, they gave themselves to me. They’re all I can talk about. I’m neotenic, married to my neurotransmitters. That’s what stunted me. I’m nursery tripping, navel gazing. Nursery neitzche, self parody. It can be so pretty, still. Loosening faucet, spraya, I wonder if that magic spell I repeated in the royal alcove did anything? I could almost believe it lately, been a weird week. Maybe in concert with the local psychedelic chemicals. But it ebbs and flows. Not bad for 2/5s of one hit. Made me hungry for more. I’d take the rest, but.

My hand is a rubber glove. It’s cute. Tremulant. I love my hands. Feeble. Fragile. But they’re mine. I have control over them, for now. Hands are easy. Faces are hard. Hard. Hard to have to be expressive. To function that way.

Aye matey. Here’s the rub. Here’s the thing. It stings, and it stinks, and it soothes. Like whiskey. I kinda like this guy I am. I want him to succeed. I want him to be taken seriously. I want to take him seriously. But he’s too ridiculous. And how can anyone else take him seriously then? In your hard playing games. Too bad he’s me. His options are mine. I want him for a drinking buddy. There’s an option.

I’ve got that tryptamine feel in my cells. It’s a buzz. It makes me swoon. It’s nice, when it isn’t too much at once. When it’s not propulsive, but a plateau. When I don’t have to do anything. Just feel, and think. Lay down on the living room floor, my new home. Feeling kinda spiritual. Little dirty thoughts in the corners.

Girl, why don’t you come on up to the house? Cause I won’t write to you, in my questionable state of mind. I’ll just let it wander, and think of how well you would ornament this new place of mine. Think of healthy. Healthy things. Not narcissism, just self respect. Paying some attention, attention to breakfast lunch and dinner, and every tendril that dendritically extends from that. You could help me with that. If you were here I wouldn’t take drugs. I painted over the agendas – the walls are looking fresh. I bonded with the rug, in front of the fireplace. I go about things in the wrong ways, cause I’m not wizened like that, I don’t know all the tricks. I don’t want to trick anybody. But it’s all a trick to begin with. You can’t trick a trick. The trick is – embracing chemicals, in that nameless, transcendental way. I love how you laugh. What do you do with that? It spills – into the void. I grab at crumbs. Hallucinations. I remember though. Some things. Can I send vibes? No, I don’t think I have that power. What would I do with it anyway? The thoughts are poisoned anyway. Ashes to ashes. Biblical brutish truths.

Four hours later. Let’s be honest here. I hate who I am. Everything that reminds me of me. Blech. I kind of like just the feeling, of being alive, but everything else. I hate the way I look. Hate what I say. Where’s the point? I don’t function normally. Not that normal people do either, but, there was some unique insight there, that I blunted, undermined. Oh well. Trying to force a smile, but I can’t really. I feel empty. Ugh. All this writing, what am I gonna do with it? I have a day off. To do what? Maybe I’ll drink. Drunk dial somebody. I dunno what happened to the happy. I just can’t function, man. I can’t. I dunno what to do. I can’t do it for myself. I taste blood. Maybe I’m chewing my face off. Like old times, a little more to chew on. Sticking to my gums. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have… et cetera. Hey, for a second there, I found a reason, to post something. Reason is reality. That’s the only hope for me. That it’s hopelessly real. Purpose in honest and accurate transcription. Let God sort it out. Yeah? I’d be Anon, I wish I could be Anon. But I’m so tied up. I don’t even know what freedom is, can’t imagine what it would be. Who should I call? Who would want to talk to me? I didn’t freak out. But I hollowed out, somehow. I think I’m just hollow, and I realized that. I’m a chemical agenda wrapped in some arbitrary artistry. A collection of mp3s, a pastiche of musical taste. I wash dishes for a living. Holy living fuck is that weird. I’ve been brought to existential absurdity, and it makes it all the worse to call it that.

I’m so angry at these words, now, for meaning nothing, now. I don’t know how to live, now. I need to be someone else, I guess. Now.

One thing remains true. Aphex Twin’s ambient music is absolutely perfect, for a good trip, or a bad trip. I’m getting to love volume two. Getting to live volume two. It’s voluminous and ruinous. Ruined city reverb. You don’t second guess detritus.

Wait, you motherfucker!

We challenge you to a rock-off! Appalled Caroline Eschews Gravy. Wrist deep in poon. The grahss was greener. Trimatized to the groun. I've got a bike, you can ride it if you like. I hope you have room in a thicket of vines. The famous "rockin" stance. Trepidation. The two tequila breakfast. The four cappuccino experiment. The re-birth of notation. To howeth castle and environs. Chooglin.