Sever the Saccharine

Or maybe not. Maybe douse it in alcohol, make a tincture. Overripe, overwrought. But having purpose in some secret chasm. If I can milk the moment, I will.

I've crawled through the mud of jaded glades before. So many times. Is it a random walk? Is it what McKenna called "history?" Just watched a two-hour speedrun of Mario 64. One hundred and twenty stars. Dreamed of crack, like I usually do. The usual metaphors.

Not severed, not cynical enough. I want to pick the vines clean, but I can't find them all. Secrets. Information isn't objectively overloaded, I just haven't grown my new lobes. Atrophy. But I know there's more. Can't be patient. Gentleman caller, flopped the riff, sinkhole, enamel stripped teeth - but not totally ruined. The scrapyard, the starpower in the scrapyard. Run, run, run! Haha. Leave my friends behind, abandon family, bounce to the virtues of the virtual, run the code, run.

Did the tryptamine intercolate correctly? What does that mean for my future? Our future? They said the philosopher's stone is at the top of the tallest mountain. Poetry won't get me out of this mess. I'll pick the vine clean. See if I can see what it means.

When are they going to build the autobahn for the collective consciousness? The internet is supposed to be that, maybe it is. Except it's twisted. Like it's supposed to be, perhaps. Like in my devil gnosis, the necessary evil, the misery I must spread before I shuffle off this mortal coil, plagued kiss-off before the fentanyl vault - the welfare cosmos. Not that I don't see stars on the horizon. Distorted through the jitters, ocular oscillation. But I see them.

re: invest your money wisely

if you want to spend your old age in something

a step above a coldwater flat in st. pete

the most important thing about being a step up

is your view on the people below because

without that, where have you arrived?

no, none of those suits make you look

dynamic and resourceful, and the green cotton

might make a great haiku but, you know

kung fu, you know where your opposing drone

is going to move the bishop, you know

there's no point wasting time

step to me punk 

and you're gonna get a beating

generic crunk rap

is the classical music of the future

i don't know quite how to feel about that

so i laugh, imagining the novelty of

geezers in coldwater flats harvesting

carbon-based energy, downloading television

(crichton was a pessimist

he never saw the use for a greenhouse)

tundra will be an ancient relic

like andy warhol

and i didn't build the orange bridge

but i drove a car over the orange bridge

so many times, sinful times, good times

and my consumption motivated those

people to build the orange bridge

so you can thank me for that

and my contribution to evolution

is to slough off survival

yes, i'm the omniscient plant

the lotus eaten, i don't care

i don't even rock, i'm pawn scum

punk scuzz with an overgrown hawk

and nothing to sell

i won't fight for higher ground

i’ll kill myself before i kill you

that's the hippie craque guarantee

when the melting glaciers drown the orange bridge

i give up

i give up on humanity, the orange bridge

necessary evil

last autumn

i somehow wound up with a zastrozzi complex
things converged:
psyche, diet, configuration, social situation
in such a way as to make me relate
to the guilt-stricken zastrozzi
tortured with the obligation of balancing the scales
with vengeance
righteous vengeance naturally
if you’re going to do something
do it right, cut that loser Victor into
32 pieces of equal size
but even evil for the sake of evil
yes real red-blooded, full-bodied evil
to avoid the saccharine hell of the
imbalanced, sick, pleasantly vague facsimile of reality

somehow i could relate to that imperative perfectly
when happiness was mania, everything ill-gotten, unearned
and there was a fundamental flaw in the function of feeling
life being fractally wrong
and getting wronger with every moment
and every thought

i wrote music for zastrozzi
the character theme wasn't near agitated enough
mere melancholy, though i guess it sounds like i feel
when i'm resigned to the toxicity of this
strip-mined wasteland of
gurgling information, tapwater, power lines, tumour vibes
fiber optic nursery rhymes, lenticular curriculums for
flying saucer apprenticeships and gaktastic nasal drips
post hocking knowledge for triumph of the willful delirium

today i still feel that evil is necessary
but i’ve managed to shrug off the burden
of being the necessary agent for carrying out this evil, me
the humble purple prosist from munchkin land
a kaleidoscopesmith
who would rather chill on the boards than start shit
and who would like to read poetry, and say what i like
about the poems i read
and not talk about what i don't like
cause that never motivates me anyway
when criticism is contrived and my natural
healthy flow of information is my dolce dynamics
mezzoforte, meandering, non-malicious
whatever decadence and complacency that contributes to
because someone else can be the asshole
the target for a divided puppet army
vintage allusion in ten years
golden oldey

I was absolutely crackers last night

If I said anything inappropriate, sorry. I wrote a lot of email. A lot of E mail... get it? Of course, this is one of those second guessing mornings. I love people - sometimes a little too much. Sometimes I go too far with the expression. Oh well, I suppose it's better than depression. Really, no one could possibly care how cool I am as much as I do myself. My self-imposed standards. Hey, if it's cool with you, it's cool with me.

Counting tree rings in the silicon forest. I guess I'm not totally hollowed out. I still have poetry. I have good friends, and good family. I cracked myself wide open last night. So things are messy. Don't know how to feel about it. Can't get a hold on the overcast aesthetic this morning. The crystal ship is being filled. But I'd rather chill at the harbor.

I definitely need to write something, a bulletin, navigate the 2nd through 7th guesses. Towers of glass and steel.

I might feel like hiding from the world for a while. The experiment went awry. I don't want to stick around and be blamed for the results. By that, I mean the experiment of being cracked. There's a Sonic on a space colony, solar fuel.

end program

Bury discipline. I can't stand my profile. Ground zero is black glass spray painted to look like a human life. Tendons and shards. Dirty lensgrinder. Quaint backwards password. Fragments, memories, ideas with fleeting meaning. No essay tonight. No composition. No composure. Can't be bothered to do anything. Even the song I still feel. Drowning in phlegm. Comp is being hacked to pieces at the chop shop. I'm being sold new parts by the mafia. They're going to install the bare minimum software, the rest is up to me.

How do they do it? The mafioso? It must be life force. Capitalist incentive. The kind that motivates me to quit the game. Like Cziffra motivated pianists to quit playing.

Again, I'm tempted to buy stock in the fentanyl vault. Again, a vacation, another tight circle, another tight headache. Can't break the cycle. Why does the tip keep me coming back? Crypto-zoology. Been sick so long it seems like health to me. What order can I arrange these sentences in so that they carry maximum weight? Can I create isotopes? Irradiate the forest?

Swept across the floor, snug as a bug on drugs. I can ignore the sweep of history if I have the will. The powder didn't kill me. Its function was dubious. Chemicals don't help. Religion is a joke. It's all a swoon now. A solvent swoon, solving nothing. I ran out of luck. Luck is a fortunate order of information. You can hop along the top of its sawtooth peaks until you fall off.

Now someone wants in. Habitual novelty. Nasal fixation. I want to sleep but I can't. I've slept too much already. More would be fine. Atrophy the lungs, accelerate the end.

Can't study music. I don't have the drive. I should accept that. And I should have known. It's moronic that I keep deluding myself - THIS time it'll be different. THIS time I'm motivated. THIS time is always a 13-hour Reich at best. Razed regime. For the best maybe. Who cares if my fingers can do this or that? What does it matter anyway?

I'm not used or abused. Cause I have no function. Wish I could hallucinate but I can't.

F lock. Steak and potatoes. Finger shuffle. When you threw us to the wolves we could see nowhere else for you to end up but hell. It was involuntary perception. It was mandatory. Material to work with. Fish flap in the oceanic abyss. I want to see the rubble above my head. But being epic would necessitate a fundamental flaw in the fabric of whatever the fuck the fabric is. Form, function, scroll lock. Redundant pyramid cap, sarcophagus of refuge. How many dead lands have I travelled? It will be different when it's different. Always compound. As long as it's compound. Grammar will dictate. Holodeck, end program. End program. END PROGRAM!

Myth

Grass, herbs and fruit-bearing trees are created.

Atlantis had nothing on Eden.

I'm a quivering High Strung carnivorous dichotomy. Narrow band of jittery frequencies. Munching on a pastry. We bring the myth back occasionally. Drinking coffee. Trying to reset the circadian rhythm. In the absense of the Pharoah. He was put out to pasture before he could put me to work.

Clear formatting. Clear formatting. If only it were that easy. The plywood village still stands, mocking me - children in their new playground - my old playground. Play things.

Genetic method

Awkward, forced, sincerely moronic persuasion. If it fell upon me to prevent the black sheep in the family from self-destruction – I would give a speech. It would be lame. But the emotion might show through anyway. The genuine desire to keep a parent, sibling, whatever. If I was hanging from the rock, I’d probably want to survive. But at some point, I might just give in to gravity, let go. In the chasm, nothing is off limits.

I’ll settle for your crumbs at this point. They’re all I deserve. Your crumbs and my thumb. Momentary addiction that doesn’t touch the general deficiency. Of mental sustenance. Too many filthy words here. I thought of smiling, as a strategy. Smiling until the wavelength is mutual. I thought of applying. Applying at a theatre, a laundromat. As a strategy. But the game is rigged.

Never got to the high horse of meditation. I’m on a rocking horse. Beating a dead horse. Wearing a rut in the floorboards. Bored. Listening to pink noise on headphones. And my own words. This is where the genes diverge. But it’s a different world than in my parents’ day. It’s Hitler’s bunker. Decadent and dying. Information distraction. Now the broad view brings with it all the glares and glints of celestial reflection. 0.11 divergent. Rut run with a sidesplit bulldozer path. Closed to thru traffic.

Class war was supposed to motivate me. But I ran out of red flags. I ran out of people. I don’t want to annoy the public anymore. I gave up the smiling strategy, although I torture myself by looking when I can, for as long as nerve will hold. Then I resume the scowl, the pre-emptive “fuck you”, because you don’t like me. You’re all against me.

Wow, my mood is fucking horrible today. I don’t really know why. My life isn’t any better or worse than last week, by any metric I can devise. And yet, mood is black and bottomless. Has been for a few days now. I don’t even want to bring chemicals into it. Maybe I’m just revealing the surface of darkness. Circumference of sickness. Don’t even have any sarcasm.

Morning Depression

I'm always most depressed when I get up - which is usually the morning these days. Absolute void of enthusiasm for anything today. But finally I decided I have enough song ideas that my life shouldn't be totally meaningless. I need to take a walk first. I'm going to save 5HTP for just before bed, cause that tryptophan probably makes me even more lethargic than I naturally am, and that's pretty damn lethargic. These purposeless tubes of metabolism. They tired me out.

Cotton Mill (at least I'm not trying too hard)

Improvising on Aaron's piano

Pulpit Rock thots

It's been a while. Chattering people to my left. Mother and kids. I'm not annoyed. I can see the cuteness in their sustenance. The afternoon absorption of a luxurious vantage. But vicarious doesn't do it for me. Won't distract me from the void. This yearning for someone to talk with, a stranger, a female with whom to savor sexual tension. Maybe I should invite globber to mail me, but I can't think of a smooth way to do that. Maybe I should do it rough then. What rough beast?

I can't have people knowing the true extent of my desperation. Thus, I never know how to get what I want - penetrate the neuroses, the hangups, the social disease, the scars of having my place in the hierarchy of humanity firmly and blatantly established as a confused and slow-learning adolescent, escaping through games, films, and revenge fantasies.

I'm sitting on the mountaintop, writing in my sacred denver notebook, the one Dez got me. We had a good time in denver. We always have a good time. We're so right for each other that the righteousness overwhelms the wrong. Most of the time.

I told her of the need for novelty. Figured it was time to just be blatant about it, it was in the subtext of everything said anyway.

It's been about four years since I was here on Pulpit Rock, in total despair, thinking Dez had ditched me to live in Vancouver. But she didn't. She made it to Nelson. She gave me the gift of her love. Gave me someone to love.

Emotions continue to dictate a grotesque portion of my thoughts and behavior, but I know that although soul-mates are rare and precious, sex and flesh are terribly tantalizingly omnipresent, and I'm going insane in my complacency.

Omar Khayam's mountains grin smug crinkles of continental drift. The sacredity used to be enough to sustain me. The sanctity, accredited by me, of my home, my town, my valley - it was all I needed. Now I need more. It's not that I'm so burned out I can no longer appreciate the mountains and the woods, and the big pink government building I'll be entering to try and acquire EI money on Monday if I can get off my ass to make my weary pragmatic way down there. But another void has opened up in expanding human experience. The goddamned glory hole. Do the schizo-affective asperger-tourette's twist! It goes like this! You got it!

Ah, don't mind me, I'm just a hungover crybaby this afternoon, paying dearly for my reckless and futile pursuit of pleasure. I should take up meditation, if I can ever manage to stop feeling breath as freaky. Maybe I could reconcile with consciousness.

Insincere obeisance to the secular divinity

I let the eyepowder steep for five minutes. An angel told me I had to chat with the devil. Who am I to argue? I know nothing. I think a lot, what else can this stubby lil entelechy do on the fringe of the vermin vines? A biological pattern, locked in slides. The warm bath of the capitalist west.

Obligation by obligatory tendons drive the dagger-wielding arms of shaking, duty-bound delinquents, delirious, agents of the ultimate frill, the necessary thrill, what you can squeeze out of this frilly biofroth, this mass of conspirators, use and abuse, kill because you're alive.

It's been a long time since school. Back when I read books. Nature doesn't need another book reader apparently, I wasn't cut out for higher mental functioning. I should be running with the wolves, howling at the moongod. An offering.

Ah yes, it's amazing what you recall in certain states. State dependent learning. Hopeless deja-tower, escherian, non-linear. Let Ms. Mensa figure it out. I give up. I fucking give up.

Pedophile memories echo throughout the solipsist's apocalypse afterlife. At some point, they should become a cartoon genocide. A lesson on a Grade 10 history teacher's chalkboard. Is it "holocast" or "holocaust"? He's not sure. At least two of his students think that corruption is what you can boil all the worlds problems down to. Killed a million Irish, blighted potatoes.

The sacred denver notebook

there are some things they can't take away from me - vintage investments, emotions built to weather the storms, dissolved in hydrochloric acid, the nostalgia needle

State Bounded

I'm still shaking. Somehow. Externally? Internally? I can't tell which is which. I wish gravity was less oppressive than it was. But aphex lightened the load a little. A lot sometimes. In those xtal peaks. Really. It should pique everyone's interest. A sparkly cavern into the pulsating power of the mind. Or olde golde words, powdered off into the night. See, this is a perfect illustration of "state-bounded" learning, encoded into my opening statement. You have to be in the mental and physiological combo you were in when you learned the thoughts, the feelings, the behavior, the, whatever... sometimes, the imprints don't imprint, unless you're in a finely-tuned state of mind. Thus it becomes a deja-thread.

Revelation was right behind the corner. But it was shaking. A seizure. Ego-bounded, state-bounded. It's all quite relevent, even if poorly expressed. In mishapen order. It's been a while since sucrets. I regret getting rid of my last batch. It's calling me.

Escape mechanisms. How can you escape if you don't know what you're escaping from? Maybe that's an escapist thought. And state bounded. Muddy the waters, intentionally, consciously, till nothing can possibly resemble truth. Reveal the rusty anchorage biases of those past plastered futilities of thought. Fuzz. If the abyss is near. Need it be?

Moodlights

and resolutions to ride out whatever reality throws at me
whatever perturbations create sublime spline curves in the sickening nature of perception
if it doesn't sound profound, you aren't here right now.

I need a new paradigm. A new place. That will change everything. I can tell.

Ah ah. Soulseek seeks on. Digital music. Infected with sublimity. Brain patterns never tasted this good. Is this hedonism? It's fantastic at this moment. Beautiful. Is beauty chemical? Haven't I exhausted this theme? Can I milk another song out of the fucker? Would anyone want to? What to do, when pink has turned to blue?

Maybe it's time for me to get wrecked again. I lost the algorithm. The key to society. Maybe I should freak out and be a freak. Fuck it.

The stoic freakdom of fuckedered up fringe flange functioning. Haha. I like the sound of that. Is it pro or anti hedonsim? Pro, I'd say, if that means anything.

Silverfish, on the top of the toilet

I'm gregarious tonight - so you get to live.

divine hand

I think that the current administration also believes that leaving now would provide unassailable proof that the invasion was a bad idea in the first place, and that consqeuently, the Presiden't actions are not, in fact, the works of a man who is guided by the supernatural hand of Divine providence. - David Flores

Waiting in the last entrail

I know you'll think less of me in the morning light - syncoptions, perpetually trailor tracing with paths of here we go. It's so easy - to liberate - the instability. Who mistook this steak for chicken?

Beautiful Hell

This Robot Gives Good Banjobs

or

Beautiful Hell

a song by Hippie Craque and Midlope.

***********************************************

We've been doing online messenger jams and accumulating material in a way that's totally novel for me. Chaos and creativity are making life very interesting. The majority of the voice is his - the remaining, thin-sounding vocals are mine.

This is to be the mid-section of a larger song, inspired by my last Shambhala and its corresponding impersonal network of cosmic cause - synthetic chemicals, emotional extremes, hedonism, sexual neuroses, all that jazz.

[ Meth, I need help transcribing some of your words :]

***********************************************

open wide
open up my magic window

it's a beautiful hell

open wide

it's a beautiful hell
to be locked inslides

gnashing teeth and mashing eyes

it's a beautiful hell
to be locked inside

rooftop rumdrops

the magic window of one johnny speedwalker
gnashing teeth and mashing eyes

it's a beautiful hell
to be locked inslides

serotonin’s still flowing
and everything's alright
the night's still glowing
everything's out of sight

emotion is chemical
this is my ex-memory

dendrite snow, pale confusion
red sky
red sky

if you're happy and you know it, grind your jaw
the iron fortress of your jaw
the iron fortress of your jaw

architrave, arc-en-ciel, argus smiles at you

the robot gives good banjobs
everybody needs a banjob now and then
don't remember the first time i smoked crack
but i sure do remember my first banjob

banjobs for everybody
everyone should feel this good
dopamine is foodstamped today

try your luck with me today
my good news gospel - MDMA
is on full display

keep the buzz going
keep the buzz going
the buzz keeps going
the buzz keeps going

serotonin's still flowing
and everything's alright
the night's still glowing
everything's out of sight

emotion is chemical
it's the guilty reality
there's no point denying
what the window has allowed me to see
cause it feels alright
it feels alright

it's only been three and a half hours
surely this is just an ebb, not the end
just an ebb, not the end
just an ebb, not the end
just an ebb, not the end
it's just an ebb, not the end

please don't take away my magic window
now i have no god to pray to
please don't take away my magic window
the iron fortress of your jaw
please don't take away my magic window
now i have no god to pray to
please don't take away my magic window
it's a beautiful hell

the skills to pay the bills

How would I say it, close enough to the point, and garbled in an unfriendly idiom? I’m straining to regain access to states of inspiration, when words had meaning. But those are old paradigm things. I just don’t have the energy. What is this? Inability to adjust to dayshift? Chemicals? It’s lame, but it’s better than mania. I’m self absorbed and moody. But not feeling guilt or fear. I just feel empty, blank, dead.

I don’t have the skills or will to change things for me. Made coffee, and now I’m just staring at it. All my projects seem so full of shit. Just this ridiculous person I am, of no consequence, why should I continue any of his activities? I’d rather just be someone else, anyone else. But how I would do that, I don’t know.

Could write about my life in larger context, but I’m too lazy to change focus from this microscopic slide. That last line was almost poetic, for a second it perked me up, actually got me interested in something, felt like a writer again, had some purpose. But it was a blip. I’m writing this in microsoft word, with the assumption that I will copy this into blogger, and post, for others to read. Without that connection to a potential audience of 3 or 4 people, I can rarely motivate myself to write anything.

I can’t analyze the economy, or the empire game, or the question of how necessary is corruption, and is there a better way… so I analyze my moods, and my writing. Just what the world needs. A self-absorbed moody writer, writing about his self-absorbed moods. Yes, the grand purpose. Hey, this sarcasm actually tastes good to me, feels purposeful, in a narrow, first-person way. Even as I’m aware how pointless it is beyond the microscope slide (wow, actual continuation of the metaphorical thread) and how lacking in taste and decency this is, and how it rambles, and how the word “ramble” is the height of amateur self-deprecation, and how this is not good enough to justify editing, and how… okay, this device is dumb.

Dinosaur Dumb. Sino-Persian crumbs on the rum-sticky floor, vapours pouring from under the crackhouse door. Ramen noodle hallucinations, randomly placed in a Nielson Family’s living room. Scored for Banjo and three warbled french horns, time for my bug-powder snuff. I guess I had faith all along that this session of tired writing would yield something of worth. Not that I can DO anything with it. It’s a troll under a bridge.

Johnny Speedwalker's Magic Window

A drawing I finished today, inspired by the last Shambhala. Just a quick and dirty digi-cam shot for now, hopefully I will get a good scan later.