27 Apr 2019


i'm so ugly, it's okay cause so are you, broke my mirrors
gonna shave my head in mourning of myself as sexual being, fuck it
forget everything and run, it's a fun run
not a grueling run, not even strenuous,
just a run of blood and luck you didn't know was luck
when you bleed out, pale and sexless
but fertile in serenity
a serene sterility, negative legacy
that feels so positive for opening space
for someone else, the chain letter ends with you
when you're so bound to your ego
no gift of life for anyone else, it's okay
don't have to conjure a life
don't have to feel alive in fucking
feel dead in ducking an old trad duty
duty-free and carpe noctem
it's not a marathon
it's a waterslide into the warm ocean drag

24 Apr 2019

Introducing... voce con clavier


References: my michelle - guns n roses, welcome to the jungle - guns n roses, mario circuit 1 theme, fortunate son - creedence clearwater revival, tell the doctor - wax mannequin, valentine's day - david bowie, bonesong - razberrychaos, intergalactic - beastie boys, polka party - weird al yankovic, 12th street rag - euday bowman, perfect day - lou reed, tv party - black flag, bad to the bone - george thorogood, something - the beatles, quest for fire - iron maiden, run to the hills - iron maiden

20 Apr 2019

porcine frottage indulgence

Cadmium voltage. Graphene foliage. Carbon dottage. Dated. Fated to be here. Great. Make it so. Wet croak, choke that rhythm, I got rhythm, who could ask for anything more faggoty, lay the real thing on me, rivet slabs of platinum into me, I tell myself, I'll do that, let's get it done - let's modify, it's a fantasy with no allegiance to reality, swapping genes, epigenetic, in my carbon dottage. Cottonpickin elevator operator piece of culture, that's the kinda boy I am, unworthy of even writing about that, the carbon boy with too many silicon implants, but silicon is my second skin, it contains most of myself, the relevance of my dna diminishes day by day, that's the plan, they're only making plans for nigel, I didn't know about it, but it's for my benefit, and I have to believe I'm following it of my own free will - using the words "own free will" gets me under scrutiny from dark tales of christianity, duck tales of irrelevant tangents in chocolate factories.

It's a British Steel future here, you know? It's fine, you're waiting for the funnel, I'm waiting for the funnel, we're all waiting for the funnel here on the street, it's a no-go zone for everyone else but we're waiting for the funnel, to suck us all into heaven, that deadlight, it's dreadfully delightful

let it be, let it dilate, let your soul dissipate like contaminant on dishes in detergent, frothing, frollicking, frottage being a cottage industry in this province, after you bloodlet, let the dishpit disintegrate, bet you didn't think you had it in you, did you dipshit, to use that word? the shameful story, what else can turn a dubiously honorable sepuku into a self-immolated activist who nobody cares about, he went to that extreme, doused himself with gasoline, and was a fleeting story on some boiler plate news aggregator, dishonorable discharge from life, the self-despiser can't even respect himself as a despiser anymore, couldn't even be a good addict, couldn't act the part, couldn't commit, contribute, kernal panic? Yes, don't hesitate, just do it. Do it accapella. Try and contrive that rhythm that we need, automatic, manual manipulation by an autonamous force above my head, above my pay grade, automatically, making me an automaton, but when i manage to metaprogram, for a microsecond, that frequency i can never climb to, i feel like i can set the nodes of automation for my track to forge a personality, a soul out of that, that's the best i can do these days, that's what i say, that's how i see it, that's how he sees it, that's how johnny sees it, ceded no ground, seeded apples all over it, was a groovy orchard for aeons, a skull orchard for ages beyond that, site of a garden of corpses to fade, crumble, a layaway, by the wayside, down the drain-o - some didn't want to drain, didn't like the hole, how dark it is, could not conceive of a pinprick yang in there, down there, could only see it as the funnel of oblivion, no tunnel, no other side. One way means one thing when there's time, and another thing when there isn't.

there's things i supposedly did, in dreams, i still connect to, the ones that haunt me the most, like i must orbit some hideous secret - but i don't know about all that, that's my special report, today's special, don't know why it's not on the menu, it went the way of that rotini i loved and business as usual, it's ripples in a river

and corporeal's going away


Just hide, that's all you gotta do - just let it be - even when nothing's nearby. Just contrive a rhythm if there isn't one - just do it - just like they say, can't beat the real thing. Just bounce it off the wall, have it resonate, reverberate, certain half-life contrivance fade out. Just dream, that's all you gotta do, iterate through the dreaming brain, whatever form of consciousness you wanna call that, no reason whatever to think that...

A special report: Troper, Zoe Troper squirmed out of those clothes you made her - energy, made this life a painting, twists in vector perpendicular to the cube, a hole inhaling time, like that guy says, when words mattered more, a funnel forms [- She was made by a replicator, you could call her a replicent, I reported on this event. The replicents were replacing the mexicans, who replaced the mexicants, but finally even mexicans opted out of manufacturing maxi pads for pennies, the americando spirit assembled them instead for a transition period, like next gen nuclear kept things glowing for a golden age of atomic electricity, but ordinary pieces of toast, another fantasy that coulda been, theoretically, a blueprint for a free energy machine, impossible, things are too tangled up now, calm down, Nuclear People -] when they almost had the power of a replicator, coordinated directed molecular assembly, atomic sub routine - holographic replication to the planck constant - the other side of light maybe. The only things to ever avoid replication, assimilation into the replicent collective, were the guys that were so freaked out about jews replacing them, this master race of idiots, doomed to getting shot to death in pointless Monster Assaults or becoming Henry Hill, severed from his mob franchise, it got real eighties for a while there.

Mash it up properly, don't take anything that seriously, can't, can't be, it mustn't. But the parable of that episode is that it can be, let it be, just do it, it'll happen to you. THE experience simply happens when I let it, have to blood let it, practically make myself dead to make it happen, but when I go through semi-lethal contortions, put myself through anesthetic pull towards flatline abuse, then I can stop doing, it simply happens...

...the legends are true, I can exist here without a body, it's like if I was stuck firmly comfortably in the rut ringed with ripples that spread in expanding circles, perturbing a crystal lake with myself as oasis island, it was always like this, already, I just didn't notice, now I see, a lake, a sea, an ocean, a plane for simple beautiful movements that make a difference, so we can recognize signal, feel, up and down, did I stutter? Did you hear me? I think you did, but how is any hearing or seeing possible when there is no time, or it's more like time is a living thing, it's the erosion of your thing, it shapes you into that squiggle I wouldn't tag it with a name, like the lamia, I'll extend it to that - if it doesn't have a name, like the last track on your album, it can be heard as audio waves, the size of the spectrum is plentiful, multiple home run, extensions, replace me, I need something better to occupy this space, some one better, replace, cause I don't matter, I'm trying to give it up, this is my signal.

15 Apr 2019

I'm seeing the dim chaos of relationship emotions and politics playing out a thousand miles ahead of me... the dust storm approaching just in front of the first shock wave. The radiation arrived at light speed, has already blinded our eyes, flayed our skin - the mechanical acoustic waves are catching up a little ahead of the blast wave. They're loud.

12 Apr 2019

The Special

Well, here I am again. In this strange place. Contemplating a strange action. Insane, one might say, insanophilic, the desire to go there, the place of insanity and self administered retina scars like black rainbows. If it's so special, why's it not on the menu? That cobalt blue verbiage.

Nobody knows you and nobody wants to. Contemplate that, completely, sink to the bottom of the mudhole, get every mol in you, and feel the deep reality of no one wanting to know you. That takes care of the bullshit but doesn't leave much.

It's returning, I'm reverting. Losing cool, drowning in paranoia and self-abnegation, fearing and affirming the worst about me, choking on the old useless paradigm that's just next door to murder, suicide, apocalypse, personal political, singularity of anxiety. There's an urgency building up slow and sly, a force behind the lines, critical mass'll hit some time, compress time, rough squeeze through raspy organ tubes.

Can't deny the need for void to be filled, take it seriously, I'm not careful what I wish for, fuck that. Fixing worked last time, for long enough, I'll take anything, the vacuum is so cold and sucking out everything. More reason to hope for a miracle, reasons to deconstruct it as a 'miracle', reasons for I shall be released any day now, cause of something she told to someone. It's not all sarcastic, the miracle doesn't require a miracle, when it happens it becomes the new paradigm, thanks God but I found a parking space, nevermind, don't need you.

Heat death coming for those trapped in linear time. But I'm not being stalked. When I'm not cool, I'm burning alive with nerves and adrenaline, I don't like adrenaline, I don't get off on it, I'm not being stalked by saber toothed tigers, I don't need that stuff pumping in tight headache pulses at a tempo I can never catch up with, to work with. Losing my cool, confidence, identity... uncomfortable in the skin even though I'm sober (for all intents and purposes) and taking better care of myself.

Not teachable. Not able to be a fan, of anything anymore. Wanting to be my own greatest fan, but failing at that. Sure, I can say that, why not?

Be like the boy. We like Roy. Whichever. Why do we care? Why write about apathy? Why expect anyone else to care about writing about apathy? Because it's not really apathy, far from it, apathy is a misleading sugar coat euphemism for caring so much it strangles me. Not so much you. But it's really true, it's not empty, or at least it doesn't have to be. Just seems eternal and infinite when I'm in it.

The thing I have no euphamism for returning, because I'm losing my cool. Feeling not worthy of anything. Gotta find the cool again, but can't through chemical crutches, and I don't even want to. Don't worry. I'm so upstanding I worry about you worrying. But the squeaky wheel gets the cock greased. I should ask for donations, fund my dickstarter. Hah. Ha. Yeah.

There's purple prose that isn't very visual, it's just like a bruise, a good old-fashioned bruise from when injuries were from having fun, as a kid, not from daily meatgrinders, online mindtinders. Any day now, I shall release. Inside. Within. Not without. So horrible to say this. Actually it would be fine to sing it, and I could give it an intonation and rhythm that would make it sayable, with style even, clothe in mesh-layers of sarcasms like kevlar, but writing, oh god, no prose is purple enough to obscure the bare words and their implications.

2 Apr 2019

Sgt. Draper, the seed crystal, and the Dead Angel

The dying angel is losing grip, the dead hand set to trigger the end of everything, for aeons anyway.

The poison seed crystal flows through me right now, liquid crystal, generating words that won't matter almost as soon as they're crystallized. Nothing lasts, but nothing is lost, here, we're all clear, there's a pointlessly gunshot man in the cabin, another one who died for nothing, like all death is in the real world, art imitates life and death.

1 Apr 2019

the spring low

it's here again, the super low, the sub high

not even a fucking word - so fuck it then, fuck everything

this useless fucking blog, these useless fucking words, these useless fucking people - there's no good way to say it, it's nothing but a verbal suicide - not even this, not even that, not even death and pain - god fucking damnit, fuck - just leave me alone then, i wasn't even the one reaching out - it's the last straw, and all that - just gonna be a sick ramble

it's not even my face, it's not even my body though that doesn't help, the fatal flaw is the most personal part of me, it's the thing i care the most about if i can't care about a person, the only power i ever feel, expression in pretty patterns of words and tones - it's sick, i just want to immanentize the sickness, let it take whatever final form it's plaguing towards, be that forever, finally and forever out of the nightmare of history, unstuck from ugly time

form the quarantine, a wall of eff words - fuck off, fuck on, but no fucking, no using, no mutual, no nothing - let X be Y, let it be ugly, the only thing left is an eternal season in post-human paradise that looks so hellish, but you can't see, you won't see, no one will see, no entelechy, no body, no source, gone off the grid, fishing for electrolytes and endorphins

i wish i could get payback by tricking people, disappointing, letting down enough to equal the endless chain links of let down i've had to feel as payment for trying to improve things for myself - the sick joke is there's no improvement, there's only pitiful devolution as evidenced by these fucking words that aren't doing me any favors, but fuck favors, i'm becoming one with the tumour of my rancid personality, giving way to sounding like a silly fucking edge lord, let it be whatever it is

time to be guarded with a fuck-off arsenal, cultivate an apathy that will one day be genuine, operate from earned paranoia, some said they like the cynicism but it isn't for you, or anyone, not to be used by anyone else

it's so fucking ugly when i write, driven by emotion like this, it's so much better when i'm detached, but i don't care anymore, not gonna contrive any distance, just gonna report from the ugly epicenter of depression