rendered rose tonight - her old new song in piano roll – i plan to notate her notes, put them on a postcard – you wrote this, did you know? plucking strings - reminds me of times when i required profundity, to feel anything - now anything feelingful grows like fungi, in the dark, cracks missed of cleanliness, next to godly mystink - not to mention tetragrammaton, sanctity strategically segregated - i'd put it on the do not deliver list, myself
godly don't work for me nomore - but why torch an effigy of a past self, as if the poor guy could help being naive, or whatever that is to me now, as if my curent ken was available to him, as if he was being stubborn for suffering, as if i'm “developed” by virtue of living in the future - what am i doing? just the same old deconstruction, with nothing to offer, another day's free labour in the one man demolition crew – they sent a boy to do a man's job, again -- maybe some future self will rescue my reputation by saying it's hardly my fault, being born hooked up to a battery, living snug in the soft slot by default, and if my brain’s low-wattage and my pain’s mezzopiano, that’s not to be discounted, it could sound poignant with the right counterpoint, and it's been rendered in a stucco aesthetic of the time - and managed to avoid the fashions besides - it's of the time, like ooglebooglebaka is of the retinal scan
synthetic meaning used to be the name of the game, and not just that, but synthetic profundity - reminds me of the piano roll i just created of rose's guitar playing – the memory spurred me to write something, but i still feel dry as a desert, cloistered, controlled – still, i guess i need a vacation from the dreary thrills, maybe a long one, to shroud myself from what i suspect, with spurious guilt, i ought to experience - black sabbatical, but never say never, i guess - i can say that -- is this sanity? not bloody likely, but the mirages are more steady - the waves of reality don't break too harshly, it's a wide tidal pool, it ebbs and flows in forgiving rhythms of tepid mediocrity - won't be my theocracy, but it’ll serviam
guess i'll go in search of sick sleep, like - i always dream of drugs, lately ketamine, and ALCOHOL, imagine that? booze became a novelty, guess that means i've crossed the rubicon - and shambles in a woodsy dream geometry where the locin ghost haunts my cell phone, trying to remember a dealer's number, so frustrating, melding, vials in the soil, crawling back to the needle exchange
ghosts - still sober, that's the "main thing" isn't it? but i don't want no medal, and in the meantime... cleaning binges, smiling shiny tiles, skimming mental inventory, so what? got to kick the coffee i think, and the zoloft, eventually, fuck - trying to kick cigs, again, haha, today, cold turkey this time - so it's still an issue when i write, oh well - it's time for ecocide, ALT-D, abort writing, i'll bail
