11 Jul 2014

Date Cake

I should be grateful, stop resampling sour grapes, it's tasteless picturing maggots. Starland vocal band tattoo associations, idea balls... baked into the cake, certain words sting me, sweet is so edgy, cuts me, honeycunt, fuck it, the fucking moon, over. Bitterness, because hunger, big belly, small mouth. Frustation in hyper-sexualized society, personal politics, power plays - practice chatting with checkout girls cause they got no choice.

Wouldn't the most telling change be to change what I express here, of all places? Or does this have to remain the sick room? Yeah, cause that's the maison d'etre. Maybe it says something that I'm - cut up - waiting to die. I didn't think how it sounded when I said morbid things and freaked out facebook kinfolk. Didn't think. Blink, hazy blank interval that won't clear. Blinking back to bed an hour ago when I meditated, cogitated, in love with loving the abstract. In bed - isn't interesting in my case, adds nothing to the context, no euphemism. Quite a lot of sleeping going on, as well as lying down and pseudo sleep, and rest, and restlessness, and recharging a full battery, and failing to affect a dead one.

I could get on the broad highway, and be more outwardly grateful, even in writing, share spirituality. But I wouldn't be here, writing, if I was into doing that. Global hotkeys, miserly spirit, swipe, fuck, cockgoblin, douchecanoe.

Promises, they said. Code words. Sometimes the symbols pile so high they fall and I suffocate under them, the only death a clinically demented hoarder deserves.

I want a reaction. Ought to pick a fight. Start some drama. Now that things have settled down, sickness regroups, attacks me from angles of quasi at the quackadero. All I really want to do is lie back down and listen to more math lectures, and understand a repeating fraction, and barely let on that it's mostly about a voice that makes me drowsy. Addiction to the drowse-inducing voice. The best I can hope is that it's a quirky vice, or at least a silly detail that I alone (in a sample size of ten thousand individuals) put into words, to give voice to a rarely-mentioned grain of reality. So the drowse addiction may be as common as the common assclown, but I staked a claim on a description and mined it for material, like the observational humour that hasn't been tapped yet, between Jerry Seinfeld and George Carlin and their thousands of imitators. That's gotta be 44% of the sum, roughly on par with petroleum reserves, or if we're not at peak awareness of human foibles, maybe closer to peak phosphorus. Peak apocalyptic gloom seems to be far away, perhaps perpetually in the future if we're lucky.

So, or and, or therefore, ie, fuck meaning, let it forever remain elusive, give me the wisdom to avoid it, even if I can't be granted the satisfaction of knowing I'm dodging it, so artfully. There may be enough iterations of wallflower patterns to string out what life I've got left.

21st Century Pythagorian Prototype mourning for a partner in rhyme, 1/17th of a multitrack wavefile. I don't want to know if it's the future of listening to music or not. Oh, no, stop, don't tell me. The information age is my poison. It's allowed this string, this mutation of viral code, in which I describe using digital audio mixing technology as metaphors for ugly aspects of life. Sometimes they can be pretty too, like a spectrum of frequencies, like a peacock's tail, but isn't that gaudy, really? Who does that display work on? Oh right, the superior people, with chiselled features and social skills. Who partied harder, the gays or the ravers? Or are they still at it, do people still do that, if I'm not around to see it as being frightfully new and frightfully cute?

There's no meadow to go to, to get all spiritual, nature does nothing for me anymore. I'm pickled synthetic, I'll say, just to indulge in comforting cynicism for a slur and feel there's no way out of it, this is my cushy vampire coffin.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

hi again. u have mail at yuku.