28 May 2008

holy calamity

almost sleep, kangover visions
glowing interlaced orange rings
fractalized olympic bubble nets foaming into
each other's peripherals, jumping jump ing in and out
in staggered hyperchoreographed patterns over streams of neurons
lulling me to hypnogogia which becomes
the subswamp of sleep, that place i live for
that place i'm almost

that handsome-boy-modeling-school track, the MP3 alarm for 7:45
when luc said he needed to get up
to work for the depot, the rehash industry
he's a hard worker, i'm glad he doesn't mind
that i blog about him, i think we're getting cooler about that
us internet age people, angsty drivel? yeah, there's a pebble
in my shoe, and there's dirt under my feet, and there's dust
in the corners, and i sweep it up during my kangover
when godliness is next to cleanliness, when the gleam
of the tiles is my only hope of holding myself to gether
the days blur together

one hour of sleep, if you can call it
primo hypnogogia, kung phosphene

the days blur together
don't remember which drugs i did last night
but i remember
who's not in my bed
who i'm still not over
yeah, i remember that, yeah

i will be thankful for the million little pieces
of james frey, they're all i have

24 May 2008



i stopped eating hotdogs years ago, but i still read noverili on occasion, i guess i like her zesty flavour - and i guess that i just don't know how it's made, but that's clipper ship talk, yo - i digest somehow, my system is a mess but it's so fascinating - why did i get so bent out of shape? well everything bends me out of shape, i'm malleable - i thought i would compare her posts to sausage factories in retaliation for her comparing mine to angsty drivel youth bloggers, but that's really not where i'm flowing right now - there will be time for petty vengeance later - i suppose there's a lot of time for petty vengeance in retirement when you've run out of useful things you can be bothered to say and do - the only pleasure, i would imagine, is in castigating this dopey generation i'm genetically parallel with for its addiction to multifaceted webhanced masturbation - i suppose i will take my turn if i ever reach that spoke in the wheel - i will be thrice bitten crone-wise and not shy

i don't think i'll ever find another - it seems silly to think of starting over - there was only one right person for me and she was wrong - it was perfectly perverse - nice while it lasted - i sort of knew what i had, i was happy to chafe, i grumbled about infidelity, amassed pornography, i was happy to chafe - i've gotten this far - i guess i've got some miles to go

21 May 2008

Starmeander 2077

The worst winter storm in three decades knocks politely on the windows. Crack Paul turns away from his video ipod to acknowledge the pathetic electricity outside. He has a pact with the weather. He pays homage, as per the red ink instructions on his pilot's license. The storm began somewhere near the Los Angeles Heloplex. By 2 AM, she'd reached the Denver Interstellar Spaceport, bringing high-altitude ice crystals along for the ride. Denver replaced its insulation last year, the storm doesn't stand a chance. But Crack Paul admires her spirit. Storms are good company, especially in Denver at 2 AM. There's nothing good on TV. And his lottery ticket lost again. 

Captain Kidd is playing some gambling game with One-Eyed Jack in the poorly-lit corner of a TGI Friday’s. Paul smiles at the scene. Marvels at One-Eyed Jack. Jack is blatantly submissive, Punky only knows how he even got into the crew, but somehow he's always able to leverage his healing power into material advantage. No one dares make light of his half-sight, not even the captain. But if Jack ever fails to heal... well Paul doesn't want to be around for that. He doesn't even want to think about it. But there's nothing good on TV. Maybe he can justify a drink. There's still three hours until the next flight. Why not? No one has to know.

"Hey Jack, tell me how you do that thing," Kidd says. Oh boy, here we go, thinks Paul. But if Kidd wants to start shit, it might create an opportunity for covertly ordering a black russian.

"Captain, we've been through this," Jack says. "I can't go into that stuff alright? I just can't. Now you gonna ante up?"

Kidd tosses two packets of peanuts and a wad of deutsche-marks in a rubber band onto the plastic TGI Friday’s table. Jack seems satisfied, studies his hand, and rids himself of three cards. Kidd chuckles. Crack Paul tips the waitress 50% because she's the first non-blond he's seen in this whole lame-ass spaceport.

"Just tell me this," says Kidd, "Does it have something to do with non-linear quantum causality streams?"

Jack chokes on his coke. It dribbles out his nostrils. He fails to suppress laughter for a good twenty seconds after that. He apologizes and silently commands himself to lose this round. Kidd maintains a poker face. If only he could fly a ship like he played cards, Jack muses.

The black russian arrives, ahead of schedule. Crack Paul picks it up and stares at it. Looks to the server with the jet black hair and porcelain skin.

"Actually, uh... I'm not gonna drink this," Paul says.

"Then why'd you order it?" asks the baggy-eyed server. Paul is beginning to notice her minor physical flaws. She’s rapidly becoming attainable. Too bad he can't blow off work. That hair. Goddamn, that hair. Maybe he can take a lock. How do you ask for a lock of hair at a Denver spaceport at oh two hundred?

"Oh, well... I dunno. It was a stupid idea. You know."

"Oh." The server nods. "I see."

"Yeah. My higher power wouldn't approve."

"And who's that? The captain over there?"

Paul snickers. "Well yeah. But actually, Satan is my higher power."

The server smiles and flashes Paul the evil eye. Paul returns the gesture. Both are startled by Captain Kidd's loud victory. Jack feigns disappointment and fumbles for his video ipod.

"C'mon, let's play another," says the captain.

"Nah, I want to watch TV or something, I'm sick of cards," Jack says.

"Sick of cards? The fuck you talking about? One more game, c'mon."

"Captain, I'm out of deutsche-marks and I want to save some francs for later, so I'm just gonna watch TV if it's all the same to you."

"There's nothing on, you asshole."

"Well, that's your opinion." Jack switches on his ipod. The blue glow is more intense than the overhead light, but that's not saying much.

"I can't believe you laughed off my question about quantum causality," Kidd says. "I'm not a retard you know."

"Jesus, I never said you were."

"Not that I believe that shit, I was just testing you. You know how Crack Paul goes on about that bullshit, haha. I take it with a shaker fulla salt... and a spoonful of garlic."

Jack smiles and scans the program listings.


Anna Besque sits behind an easel in the middle of the foodcourt. She's oil painting and munching on muncheros. She has to get the right movements across. It's almost too much kinetics for the senses but not quite. An automobile takes shape amidst the tracers of spaceport patrons.

Anna has an hour long commute. It's a bitch, especially in a blizzard. She's supposed to paint a mural in Concourse B. Jane got Concourse A, the skank - and they let her choose her own theme. Anna is stuck with a painfully kitschy commission - a beach scene, innocent palms, and no people. People freak people out, it's not good for business. Especially Anna's people. But she can't bring herself to do that errand, not today, especially not with such a friendly storm rattling the windows. Yes, they're paying her good money. Oh, the guilt. That pressure building up from the third vertebra. The physical consequence of her negligence. Body consciousness sucks. During her commute, she'd seen an advert on her video ipod introducing a nasal spray designed to repress that specific stress subset. But really, there's no cure-all like barbiturates. It's late for barbiturates. And she can't paint on barbiturates. And she doesn't want to feel her ancestral connection to Abbie Hoffman right now. She wants to paint patrons. There's no time like the present.

If you call it art therapy, she'll attack you with a withering critique of your character, what little she can glean from your body language, choice of words, and physical appearance. You won't be sure what's happening because she always leaves a wide margin for interpretation, like open fifths on a slightly detuned bosendorfer.

Anna Besque looks good for her age, probably because she abstains from sex and drugs, not counting that one thing. She's schooled in the ancient Chinese art of masturbation. She's an evil cock-tease online, but only for self-proclaimed sophisticates - vocabulary is the achilles' heel she exploits.

Anna casts a glance at One-eyed Jack and digs a sharp curve into her canvas with a ring fingernail. There's no ambiguity in her interpretation of the gambling cyclops. She saw through the eyepatch and into the socket. She just about has the perfect contour, a def crescent perpendicular to the patron smears, when Crack Paul breaks her balletic fingerflick with a spit-take.


Captain Kidd laughs loudly. "What the hell is wrong with you ensign? You should probably stop drinking that coke, it doesn't want to be drunk."

"Wait wait wait," Jack says, "Are you serious?"

"Of course," says Kidd. "This TGI Friday’s is one hundred years old, TODAY. As of two hours ago. Of course I'm the only one other than you who gives a damn. I talked to the server chick, she talked to the manager, and they wouldn't even arrange a drink special. It's almost as if they want to keep the anniversary under wraps."

"But what would they stand to gain from that?"

"You don't even wanna know. Well I dunno. But you know me."

"Yeah I know you. You're the captain. You appreciate the finer things. You're a lover of-"

"If you say antiques I will cut you," warns Kidd.

"I wasn't gonna say that," says Jack.

The server shows up with a platter of delicately arranged melon slices and berries.

"Um, is that yours?" asks Jack.

"No," says Kidd. "Well, yeah. So what?"

"So nothing," Jack says.

"Fuck you,” says Kidd. “Just cause I'm eating a fruit salad doesn't mean I'm a queer."


"Who was that?" asks Jack.

"Hey!" Anna calls again from the food court.

" Are you shouting at us?" calls Kidd.

"Yes! Captain! Can you hold that pose please?"


"Oh, I know that woman," says Jack. "She's painting you. Do what she says."

"Huh? Um, okay. Wait, THIS pose?"

"Yes!" Anna yells. "Exactly like that. With the spoon in your hand. Just for a minute." 

19 May 2008


Well, yet another crazy night. Apologies to all for being a dirty man beast, yet again. I can unfold your lips, your excitement excites me, I dream about it sometimes. I can put virtuoso talents to better use than I do, I love love love it, if only you knew. I'm dabbling in the black arts, yet again, to what aim, on what alter, which scent of transcendence?

There was no funny business last night. Our worst sin was getting black out drunk. We may have sinned against God but we didn't sin against nature. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

rhi's house in the morning

rhiannon, fidel, claire, luc, jonathan, strewn about an old nelson house - lilacs blooming on the fresh side of the glass - the first of the summer flies buzzing inside, trapped in the smell of wood panels - brandy the kool gray cat sleeping on the chair 

me 'n luc, we don't remember much of last night - somehow we made it down here from the lookout - my arm is scraped, fresh wounds, not yet scabbed - we are quite the pair - we never learn, do we? chalk it up to male stupidity - hard hats in coal mines, chatting up a sick canary, kerry still on my mind, that torn up beauty, maybe she just needs a buddy

rhi works at the co-op - i've heard about that place - everybody has an opinion on it but really, i do have a certain respect for the whole organic produce fair trade scene, they're trying to do a certain thing there and they're sticking to their guns, and they're upfront about their convictions and if that's political, so be it - i'm glad i live in a place that offers alternatives and though i'm not an organic shopper, it’s nice to have the option

an old house still maintaining somehow reminds me of the capitol barber shop - panties and socks on a clothesline, toy trucks on shelves, a record player with a plastic cover, home plate shaped cloth dangling from the ceiling, an ochre scheme, a fat happy buddha deep in his fried food fix

forget is sleeping and more power to the poor tormented boy, i told him, he can't function on three hours a night, and i'm no help, egging him on in our parodies of the rock 'n roll lifestyle - if he couldn't provide, well, it's not cause he doesn't work hard - but he does succumb to vice, let's not pretend otherwise, and let's also admit that our man forget has been so deep in vice he's gone beyond zen - hardcore marriage-wrecking demolition - could the 3k coke bender have been the culprit?

i've been there, except i haven't had a wife and kid in the mix, not as far to fall - oh i had a girlfriend in ancient times but you know what? she was deeper in vice than me - well, depends how you define vice - i did a broad spectrum of nasty things, but she did booze and smokes like a champion - reduced to absurdity - if there's a point to booze, it's that

it was good to meet fidel today, luc's boy, here comes the son, he really is a nice kid, far more personable than i would have thought for such a young 'un, burbling out joycean jewels from the well of sprung verse - reminds me of my ex's niece zoe - we have an odd bond me 'n him - uncle jonathan, yeah, that's cool with me - we saved a caterpillar from an ant attack on red sands beach - i told fidel: he'll turn into a butterfly one day

fidel is a bundle of fun, a delightful burden - i remember tony talking about how luc went off all drugs in the blissful days of his new family and loving relationship... relationship, sounds like algebra - when money is involved, it certainly is - but in those early days, nature was enough, human nature, the nature of endorphins - whatever toxins got in the mix, luc and rhi are admirable parents

tony was bummed about the breakup, luc and rhi split - but sometimes one must fuck shit up - sometimes you gotta lose to know what you lost - you do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around - me, all i want is a warm plate and a big thick slab of buttered french toast - baby, you must be cholesterol cause you stopped my heart - make no mistake, ahahahaaah - i try not to laugh because when it peters out it hurts my throat and not even menthol cigarettes will sooth the burn

i'm starting to feel embarrassed telling people in nelson that i’m from nelson, like i'm silver platter dude, seasoned with nutmeg, not quite blasé but going thru these serious-looking motions, starring once again in this long running annual series, the hometown pantomime with hilarious local references, trapped in the invisible box, appearing very convincing, very very convincing, tres bien

it's a strange time to be alive, we do the best we can be bothered to do - i must have taken a tumble last night and hit some rocks but i don't remember - there are surges of flowers and plants outside - an art-deco lamp - people i haven't scratched the surface of - but you know what the craziest thing is? i became such an uglee drugee that i even ruined love for myself - i can't imagine much satisfaction in connecting with the opposite sex cause it's just another shallow cyclical high for me - no matter how much i love women - i guess i'm just eternally frustrated platonic man - i thought the next girl would cure me of my sexual hangups and hell, i'm not complaining about that hookup, but there is no magic in love for me, only chemical reaction

but i 'spose that's better than nothing, isn't it?

18 May 2008

got to her first

and who am i to say
it should be any other way?
i'd have to be the devil
and i'm not cut out to be the devil
i deal with the devil every day
in every way
because i just can't be the devil

i can't steal what isn't mine
but i could steal what isn't mine

maybe i’ll buy a car, i said
how hideous, she replied
how true, i love her honesty
and its clash with the crackpipe
of unsustainable reality

yes, it's yes
the national institute of mental health
is working on the problem
we can't go digging through refuse
for beauty all the time
the tarot of hazy neuroscience

my friend is sucking the black nipple of depression
my other friend worries he's going to worry himself into cancer
my other friend worries her growth is malignant
i'm listening to yes and trying not to worry
remembering the day

i have too many friends
the void beckons me toward friends
beckons my friend flock toward the edge
the void loves friends

yes is audacious, you gotta give them that

16 May 2008

cleaning the void

At least I don't have to work tomorrow. I can slack off, jack off, slag off the rulers of the world from my peasant throne. Yeah. Cause I'm not cooperative. I’m not Kootenay Co-op material. I didn't get hired. I don't think I'm their type. I think I'm paranoid. Are paranoid people their type? I don't think so. I wasn't wearing enough beads and bracelets. They gave my job to Trotsky’s portrait artist. But it wasn’t for Haesel’s lack of trying, and maybe it’ll pay off in 2012.

Delirious, close to the knockout punch, I still feel sentiment toward the Kooteney Collective just by having gone through those aerobics of trying to fit - like I'm in the hive mind, braincells built on beeswax, only pure chemicals crossing the synaptic gap. No synthetics, just supplements, cleanliness, next to goddess, the handbook-following boytoy, boogeying toward the punchbowl for a sniff of Shaquille's cologne. I won the bronze metal in the employment olympics. I shamed my nation, but they’ll still claim me as their hero.

At least I don't have to work tomorrow. I will buy a new toothbrush. I will clean the tiles, one by one by one by one. By two. By one. I will graph the results. I will name each tile. Each tile will have a disparate personality. I will get to know these personalities. And brush their disparate hairstyles, each day, one by one by one. My tiles. My scales. They're a part of me. You can't understand. They're my tiles. That's my style. I'm tied to my tiles. They come in many styles. They always have a smile for me, my tiles.

At least I don't have to work tomorrow. I will clean my house. I will be a really casual clean freak. I will clean the house in style. It will take me a while. But it will be worth it, to see those tiles smile.

sometimes it hurts
delirium helps
cleaning the void
sometimes it hurts
delirium helps
cleaning the void
sometimes it works
delirium helps
cleaning the void
sometimes it works
delirium helps

sometimes i come back as a bunny
sometimes it works
cleaning the void
delirium helps
it helped in the past
it will help again
god helps those who help themselves

i see god
on battlestar galactica
god has a cheesy soundtrack
i would meet my maker
in a red clawfoot tub
the decomposing composer
one, three, five, minor six
one, three, five, minor six
the sci-fi arpeggio, the science fiction sound
ex-mormon prophecy
au courant appearance on prime time TV
mininova rivulet
for all your timely downloads

i saw god
on medication
i have a memory
of a medicated god
i think it's a premonition
of an opiated deathbed
i have a memory
of a medicated god

god had a rockin soundtrack
when i was anesthetized
god had beautiful contours
when i was blocking inhibitors

but even a gong is wrong
even a GONG is wrong
even a gong is WRONG
yes, even a gong is wrong
YES, even a gong is wrong
wrong, wrong, wrong

sometimes the void is dirty, junked, jinxed
sometimes cleaning the void takes work
sometimes it takes slack, more slack than i have, non-renewable rope
only so much relax left
only so much relax left before the hourglass fills

there's a crack between those halves
a dirty void, hard to clean, hard to clean
grimy spackled delirium
delirium is a dish best served unconscious
delirium has no references
delirium is a dirtbag
delirium is a faghag
delirium is best served cold

there's a crack i hide in
run from, hide inside
run from inside

the crack is warm

15 May 2008

subterranean soul transit

there is no heaven
only dream geography
there are no political boundaries
only tunnels
there is no god
only satan when she’s sober

when you take the festiva to the grocery store
every day’s a holiday, walmart relay, domestic tantric wank
food prices are high, satan says
half swooned on heineken
half chillaxxed on camels
no, i tell her, food is cheap here
enjoy it while you can

12 May 2008

hula hoop

he'll see your break
and raise you an indefinite hiatus
he's choking on your choked up
he has no patience anymore
not this hour

neophyte desperation?
because he did that thing
not used to such tight loops
but he's not in the noose, not yet
he wants to be healthy, but
vice tempts him

nevermind the issues
the world is just fine
jokes about knives and forks sticking out of his leg
he's been deputized to be in a loop
that feeds north carolina
that slimmed down the settlers
that exiled the cherokees
that slow squeeze

8 May 2008

bender blogging IV

have i slipped out of my stream? is it hectrizm time? i dunno man, it might be charlemain - their veins don't contain that junk - fairy dust don't pay the bills - my cover letter is pure gold - i'm gonna go work at the co-op - park myself in health food central - benderblog on the side, well this'll be the last hurrah - or maybe not - maybe i'll be more holistic about it next time

it's like, i dunno, man, can we talk about clothes and hair?

can we talk about leather-bound donahu transcripts
good as jesus words

i'll do anything in this godalmighty world, if you'll just let me follow you down

that's how we do it on creek st.

i think our minds are crumbling
i think it's ketamine
i think it's all the mercury in the fish...

you know what?
i think we are perfectly healthy
the balanced duo - -
we'll lead as two kings... . . ]

sandbar slog -


writhing in the gutter...

i'm such a shitty human being
i don't even have a candle...

we gotta light our fixes off the gas stove

creek street clusterfuck -----

oh goodey

blows me wide open
recreational experience



re create


thc is good drugs, hey? dancing in the doubtful wanna write
he wants to say something

it's an emergent artform...


he had the most vivid dream of his life... he was lying in his bed in a half-built house listening to the first calls of the seasonal birds when he awoke finding - me too man, it's all good - too many layers - no, salvia is real right? haha, fuck you, um, well - uh lala zuh buh - kitsch, yeah, i get it now... but i'm not supposed to say it, but i'm supposed to write it i guess to be a texture conduit.

6 May 2008

what the devil?

i’ve been on too long
i’m starting to overheat
i need to be shut down
i want to be shut down
i want to shut my mind off

crazy nights, fuckin’ rights
one for the history books
it didn’t magically change everything but it was good to touch and taste and be intimate again – a good combination of eros and sleaze – less reasons to feel like a loser – i’m not a cold heartbreaker, i’m not fit to burn, and i won’t leave you lying on the bed – you could be mine – i don’t know where the line is – i need light gauge if i’m gonna thrash

she is sweet and smart but she’s got a broken way of communicating - i can’t figure out her accent, she says she’s from vancouver but it sounds vaguely eastern-european with a lot of canadian hick/reserve indian inflection – wtf? i think she comes off more “messed up” than she actually is – her mind works quite well but her speech is cracked – she’s more obviously damaged than most – recovering addict - living with an abusive psychotic mother she took in to her apartment because she can’t say no to family – poor bruised girl – it would be folly to try and be a savior – but i almost cried when she showed me her wounds from the various kitchen implements she’d been beaten with in the last few weeks – there’s something sweet about fucked up – but i don’t think we need this much pain… and shame… she says she can take care of herself but i dunno – it bugs me that she seems to have no one looking out for her – and i’m no goddamn saint

my two best friends are giving me the cold shoulder – used to be i could count on at least one of them to answer my emails when i needed a female friend to calm my anxieties and guilt and general fucked-up-ness – i know, i should suck it up – if i can’t handle the absence of my two best friends, what kind of sissyboy am i? might as well face it, i’m addicted to love – i want to shut off, be solitary, and be happy with that – cause apparently it’s “jonathan is a contemptible asshole” season, dress appropriately and have fun! i guess i should rearrange the hierarchy and delegate my two best friends to lesser roles – maybe move lynze up to the number one or number two slot – take that, former best friends! apologies to those who want to be my best friend so badly it’s killing them – hey, when did i timewarp back to grade school?

familiarity breeds contempt – well truth be told, there’s things about them i find contemptible, but i don’t feel the need to be stone cold angry about it – i guess that’s what makes me the mensch that i am – i am that i am - at a certain point, anger stops being a reaction and starts being a choice

i would go back to my fairly well-maintained home – my bid to assuage the guilt of being a malformed proto-human – my home that is mostly clean, but has closets cluttered with recyclables, wafts of dry residue drinking vessels – i would go back there, but i don’t want to kill ants right now – when i go home i have to kill ants and it’s taking a psychological toll – can’t shut my mind off – it’s a hands-on reminder of the horror that is life – i crush them under my finger – their brown guts splew onto the wall and stick there – i think, what right do i have? just because i can? i know they’re most likely unthinking creatures who would do the same to me if they felt their nest infested with humans – unthinking i can believe, but unfeeling? that i can’t – can’t deny they’re alive – is this catholic guilt? cause i love a good ham sandwich

i thought i met a white god, the last time i took DXM – a bright white light god – it was an epic journey through veils – the destination was death, but it felt alright, trans-personal, beautiful – but it was my transition, six hours in a hypnogogic googley-eyed D-hole – i watched a solitary ant crawl from one side of the ceiling to the other – i felt at one with the ant, i felt its soul – and i’m the ant-crusher in this house, the hand of god, creek street local, i take it as my right and my duty – is this your dex trip or your death? The ungentleman lee

i’m kind of glad i no longer have to deal with the very cool but very fucked up people i’ve been hanging with for the last week – but i’m kind of sad too

i get fucked up
so i can feel well again
another pretty mandelbrot composite
of crumpled braintissue
i have to write this – otherwise
i’ll collapse

m freaked out tonight
but we managed to talk him down from his panic attack
panic attack, i shouldn’t say that, it’s dirty underwear
but i empathized, i get panic attacks, i just want everyone
to be calm, it’s sick how goody goody i am
m was doing well until he got the shakes and
violent thoughts, but he got through the moment
momentous implications
i told r he should read “the sound and the fury”
then i said i should probably read it too

the breakroom is the perfect temperature
wish i could sleep
but i do prefer depression to mania

2 May 2008

my common sense is better than your common sense

you stink of sobriety
but i love you anyway
i’ll be fucked up
and you’ll be my angry angel
apologies for the belly lint

eunuch provocateur:
i’m not paranoid
i’ve just been to the dali museum
and for all those sick of hector hurtbag
here’s your opportunity
to say why he’s a cunt

there are two kinds of people in the world
real people and fake people
i’m a fake person, however
i’m real about being fake
so you gotta give me credit for that, at least

i’m a reasonable man
get off my case
i’m satan’s daughter
get off my case
i’m casing the joint

i guess i’m just a little bastard
aka, the way god made me
in His image, music snobbery
faithfully reproduced
and at least as much a hurtbag as my buddy
who grieves for his dead uncle
but i’m able to offer comfort
when deputized by the cruel universe
aka, the way i made god
and there are no refunds on me

i’m not particularly interested
in having a moment, but
i’ll probably have a lot to say anyway
playing with red balloons and jugbands
it’s good to have friends
better to have lovers
i do have a collection
of fairy tales

once upon a time there was a paisley prince and a parsons princess
they lived happily ever after

1 May 2008

hi mason

hi mason
stone mason
where aren’t you going?
why’re you just standing there
outside your baker street temple
like you’ve nothing better to do
top o’ the mason to you

hi mason
in your union jacket
where aren’t you going?
have you been smoking secret mason herbs?
are you a stoned mason?
are you high, mason?

hi mason
are you free, or just a chained mason?
are you working for the columbia basin?
would you give our hydro electric power to the americans?
the only power we have, i hasten to add
or are you just bullshitting
is your life that boring?

can you make us disappear
with your hydro electric power?
could you cut us down to size
with your cocaine connections?
would you do it if you could
like a good mason should?

partners in ecstasy

the world wasn't built in a day

and it wasn't destroyed in one either

one of my best friends died today

fuck you, I'm taking the day off

as your attorney, i advise you in your current course of action
listen to how reasonable my discourse sounds
i am infallible

holy shit, are those bats?

fear and loathing on creek street
like one of those things they would say
trashing hotel rooms
picking up the pieces on a plateau
baroque escallators staircase to shelbiville

anthony is a strange cat, but one that purrs

anthony is a secret agent, saved prophet from a heart attack in 2012

no fault because golden brown is a fine temptrest

finery in fractal foam concrete stucco plastered bullshit

it gives us cancer and jobs

the los angeles melanoma

advanced circa 1987

prostitutes on the sunset strip

striping our skin in cause of lust and desire

what the fuck, eh?

I used to be talented,
Now i move furniture

i used to have skillz man
now i'm divorced, single, whatever you wanna call it

I can sadly no longer sleep beside
My child and the woman I loved

she's a bitch

what the fuck, eh?

my baby left me
she's with some dude named steve now
i guess, i think he knocked her up
that's why she won't talk to me
she knows it would devastate me, if i knew

That's Me

but it's okay
cause i wash dishes by day
and by night
i do the Hectrizm


it's a chizm in yo chasm

you twist until you froth!

he's gettin some shit
oh yeah
this is how we do it on creek street
it's sorta like how they do it in tampa
but not quite
it's almost like how they do it in north carolina
jack digs that shit

i'll turn it down completely
just for you
but under my breath
i do ride the greyhound bus

inuit style

guest blog

do the hectrizm - brought to you by doritos and the arcade fire:

Guest blot on J's blog? Holly S***... what an honour.

shakzula tha micrula
tha oldskula, ya wanna trip? i'll bring it to ya

At this moment, Tom Waits is rolling in his grave (even though he is not dead... yet), because John Malkovich has been replaced by "The River Dance". Are these Jon Voigt's teeth marks on my car? Cabalistic cannibalism. The sequence of words that is the "YOU ARE" object on Forgeche's bumper... "De 'la Leon". D'aeon.

Sweet, innocent, and blessed Adolescent at play with monochrome chromaticism.

jack would approve, even in his lantern - "forgetaboutit".

but don't lose, nothing lasts, nothing is lost
holy coughing christmas, the absurdity continues

i am a good battery
i am rechargable

fight the power that be
or perhaps fight yourself...

Me eat sandwich now!

now i'm at a loss for words
one two three, the mirror's black
not the smoothest segue in the world, but fuck it
and peel the noir scales of the eastern seaboard serpentine
the most awful circumstances of justice and karma have been tipped by the loss of a nephew's hero