i hate music

i used to love it, now i hate it

useless, self-indulgent bullshit

sandalwood dreams, troll the zen bridge

i'm sick of not measuring up - when i think i did something great, outside opinion is that it's crap - when other people say i did something great, my opinion is that they're full of shit - never the twain shall meet

i'm sick of trying to be a producer - nobody asked or suggested that i do it, i took on this great task myself, thinking it would not feel like a task, but a labour of love - it was for a while, but now it's become a labour of raping myself in the ass

no, you didn't ask me to take this on, i can't cast blame outside my fevered ego, but all i can say at this point is, go hire rick rubin if you want it done right - i don't know what i'm doing, i'm not up to the task, i'm sick of treating it like it's important and worthwhile, and worth pulling all nighters for - it's devastating to get that creative rush, and work all night on something, and find that i'm no further ahead when i land back on the ground - having to re-do, re-do, it's never good enough - and why would it be? what can i expect, it's pathetic, this fragility of mine, my inability to deal with reality - this RPM thing, maybe i'll release it later, when i've got some drive back, if that ever happens - i don't want to work with other people anymore, and try to read their minds - i'm totally burned out, i don't even want to work on music anymore, fuck music

the worst part is how people try to be nice, but i see the effort involved, the strain... i got no one to be angry at except myself, and i'm not meaning to separate my self from people - we do this for our own benefit, avoid drama at any cost - i know this, i hate drama - i know when people are bullshitting me, you can't bullshit a bullshitter - and jesus, what do i want, a fucking ticker tape parade? i guess that when i devote myself to a project like this with religious intensity, there develops a craving for an appropriate level of validation - i try not to make assumptions, but it's also hard not to assume that if there was anything like a shared appreciation for my work, i would know - and i know how moronic i'm being letting this letdown feeling run rampant - at times like these i WISH i was a cold autistic calculator bound to my own self-generated holodeck program like people think i am, then i wouldn't have to feel like such an idiot spinning around in this loop

i'm on the verge of hitting the "burning desire" button, but, nah, i don't think so - i don't want to - i dread what would happen - stranger danger - i don't want a bunch of anonymous life-coaches showing up on my digital doorstep - maybe i just won't use, i don't have to use over this, and i don't want to - i'll just be miserable... so i didn't get my validation from the universe like i said i needed "or else" - i got confirmation of my mediocrity instead - of course that would happen - it's supposed to be a lesson i guess - fucking lessons, fuck you and your opportunities, i'm going to exercise free won't-power and opt out, my hand is not out, i'm too lethargic to learn - i feel like leaning on fatalism and growling FUCK IT! but i don't feel like running out for drugs, the idea is horrific, the way it would compound this negativity... i'm thinking about it constantly, but i can't imagine getting any relief from it, even in the early stages, i wouldn't enjoy it, at most i would reach a delirium with a heavy solvent stink before the grinding comedown

pit boss

one is in the fate groove, one is in the sawtooth, one is in a wagon rut, applying leverage to send selective bloggers flying, as a scheme to hedge bets, but the application was filed in triplicate centuries before it was a gleam in one's eye - throwing your hands in the air doesn't mean you don't care, just that it's impossible to know what to do, and even if you did, it would require re-aligning the poles, and mackin hos, and finding good cheer in hardy barley which ain't in the cards as far as i can see

between the serts and the trazzies and the whatnots, i think something may be wrong with me, physically for sure, and therefore by extension, mentally - these symptoms keep adding up, to what i don't know, i'll call it a slagheap, a droolslathered muckscape, if this is health then the ideal isn't worth a dime - i hope it's a disease of some kind and not my right mind, the kind that tricks me into thinking there was never any healthy living, a new-age devil to play the villain in that fairy story - well smurf villages are becoming real, briar showed me, maybe i can pin my problems on gargamel, an easy target

either way i'm against myself - the cycle of self-flagellation - the bio-feedback makes everything worse, useless information, enough gnosis for a bird's eye view of the nursery, ages since demolition, nothing to see here but a union stymied mob connected crew on another no-show job, no evidence or even inkling of anything other than the loop - it's enough for a life-time, i guess, i didn't ask to not be born, so, forty years of this and it'll be a fait acompli, the self-contained cycle, from here it has a horizon underground, but it's been a while since any sort of purge, what doesn't kill it, me, one, you, her, them, makes the strength weaker, the dark and drowny logic of its spiral, so hypnotic that i'm still in the trance: it all becomes clear when i say that i'm a machine for producing phlegm - and it doesn't explain the allure of those magic faders on my fingers, the worst drug in the world that's more immediately addictive than anything ever, the amen corner chorus for acapela floor splatter

some people think it's a robot - maybe a turing machine, so they'll call it an honorary soul - but if it acts like a robot, those analog folk can't be blamed for thinking along those lines, can they? if it don't throw no big flashy empathy party, how can it be thought to be empathic? they'd need an almost saintly level of empathy to extrapolate that ability to the calculator

i think if i just plunge that cast-metal shovelhead down into the coalpile again the delightful kaJUNK of that crunchy gravelly black stuff aflyin into the furnace will make everything burn bright for another interval, or at the very least, the experience will allow me to get away with that assumption for a temporal period to be determined at a later date... this train ain't headin that way, no, intelligence isn't even on the line, but that's what you get for hoppin on, boy... shoulda read the tag, didn't it say something about, something? boxcar young adult told me that, you know? yeah, you know him, he's got that cheek-length head of hair you thought was the gold standard of cool when you were ten - yeah, you know what i'm referencing, don't be denyin

what's all up with you anyway? you just angry cause you don't got a hobo name? okay, i give you one - ima gonna call you: "MC disc jockey" - yeah, hehe, that's the one - you MCDJ - no, i like MC disc jockey better - whadayou think boxcar douchebag beard? yeah, suit him, don't it? no, you can't be "boxcar transient", we got too many boxcars in this boxcar - i get confused m'self sometime - i get confused bout a lotta things - like am i black, or white, or pirate? whada you think boxcar douchebag beard? nah, i ain't no puerto rican, that's fo sho, you be trippin again - i remember my first twistareefer

Retinal Grain

yes, i've finished a new song tonight...
Mike Hodsall on guitar
Janet Smith on violin


listen

desperate cause i have no inner strength
deprivation, in a hibernation
bed bugs help me to hallucinate
same old nothing, dead weight

you ask me why i'm so quiet
you ask me why i'm so quiet
it's not my place to speak to you
i speak only when spoken to
i speak only when spoken to

i don't hate them, i just look that way
i love them too much, i was made that way
it's not the grimace of misanthropy
it's precognition, it's my destiny
don't wanna be who i'm supposed to be

i'm sorry i'm so sick
i'm sorry i'm apologizing unneccessarily
i'm getting used to vomiting
it doesn't purge anything
except the day's overdose

desperate cause i have no inner strength
mercy fuck granted 2028
it's a date, it's fate
made a good enough impression for a second to cash in
post apocalypse

no reason to stay awake
no reason to stay awake
bedbugs bedbugs

i'm sorry i'm so ill
a desperate invalid
you wear designer clothes
i take designer drugs

i'm sorry i'm so ill
a desperate invalid
i can't take care of you
you won't take care of me

i wish i could take care of you
i would i could be the one
i wish i could take care of you
what do you do with the drunken sailor?
too bad for me you got someone

reptilian riddle
in a limousine tryptamine
reptilian riddle
in a limousine tryptamine
don't ask me what it means