weapons - look at us now - finefine - +

Whatever - bring it on - in this weird hypercontext - FUCK FUCK YTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA - YES = yes - nyx if you want - look, it's just for entertainment purposes right? everyone loves to be entertained with hot tasty licks

I did it again and again - isn't life so fucking beautifully sick?
those poor women , new in town, who wanted to score some coke?
i'm listening to a harp sonata donizetti luci di someting

lllllll fuck
nevermind
dayum
anyway....


brite litesss...

holy grail

It's been hard to be willing to get lost, but it's possible... oh deerie we're subverting the normal chanells that waste sluicies and slices down these granulated.... heh, they've got an explanation for everything, frikkin window craques... catching your gold and silver tears... Mock rock isn't gonna happen here in this self flagellating cage of untercutonous mind expandind psychedelic blisters - oh wee woo we ooo we beyautiful.... cagellating sweet string pad - that's how it's suppposed to sound... the producer got you. What am I doing? Meaning is screaming in areas it shouldn't for fruck sake, slick back into the puddle, dogboy, dover, there's a whole chapter for you.

pranfully aware of a bunt cake cracked and wrestled with wear and tear - where have i come in this new paradigm of cosmic cause? yeah? you there? what are you doing here? do you make me smile? i think so. It's sort of soronary, subject to subdivilations. Harping on accidents. Okay, Iz gonna randomazer.... rawor. Zbeen a while. Nothing's the same. In this contex. Is this what a life is supposed to be. Obviously not. Dabble. But Affirm. Somewhere out there an appendage completes your strut. Illustion, delusion.... or confusion prelude to --- lost chord. We don't have the word. Damned divinity. I'm trying to love for fockery's sake. Artistic mambles. There's tens of pens. Where were they when I was lonelhy without words and skills. Isralis fart around me. A gaggle of bubrling desert farty synthy candy i will giggle gurgle with some day - hey - it's lightly time fine, fine with me - mayne, mainvein, muddy prude in the pud, goddamn, i should be here all tghe time i guess that means i'm....

here, heh

gelicle straight shot from the room of a hed bot... caught in the art scrape - ah, the nape of the dead neck - no - apocalypse is not here, try another synapse - yes - that's what we're looking for - care of the dead and the living - what is this all for? come with me - i love you - phi - ratio - it dries in the sun - i know, i know, for frigging fuck's sake.... what's it all come to?

I love how I'm so aware of how it's all tilted now and I don't care that I am sublimely listened to tilted tunes on outlawed sawteeth of wavelengths, agreeying with frickin frackintasticallashins... oh symptomatic is a symptom of your automatic swayback, it sways into the sense pool in which we all understand and partake, nutricious nutrients rootbulb rootbark hallucination, how am i doing this?

shit meet fan

it's getting scattered
this happened fast
not sure which window i am typing in anymore...

it's been a while, but it's fueled by infected crystal distortion samples, ah, bliss

i remember this type of stuff...

eventually we opened the door, found ourselves locked in a room, eternity,
the poppy pop coldmilk bath of eletric bubble warm narcosis

sorry that wasn't precise enough, the truth is in a critical appraisal

feels comfriggidy though, like my place, the place i've been waiting for...

axle

we pass in movements of felt presences - feels like good ideas at the time, as long as you're not going for that ridiculous shot on the ninth hole of a talamadulous tour

shorn foot with belticles trailing behind...

gotten it all under crentackular crebbles of control. Alt-delete
and smelt the schalter
and you know what?
who cares if you're smoking coke? hah!

alstor pastore

I AIN'T FALLIN INTO ANY OF YOUR DASTARDly traps

Heh. When's the last time you heard something like this? When's the last time the music video made you twist that way? Heh. The boys are back in town with their cantering ways. Canter trucks. Canter berries. Cranfluences. It'll shovel it's way down the respectabably buzzled bluster of a person who finds one node of his life in this dodgy smear castled -- hey, I went further out then you thought I would didn't you YOU YOU, hey ME, I'm on the cover of TIME, to my shagrin... I wasn't going to tell the plebs but mussulini pushed me on to the balcony, but I wasn't quite over, I was standing proud, in front of my crowd, surveying the shapes of undulating pleasure domes, when youth was currency - it's not all your sad sob story, get out of the rain, get out of your pain - remember when we were together, remember what we did???

Buddie, bud makes it go down good.

romanza

She captioned a picture of her and her neice zoe:
"free spirit and free spirit in training"

the kind of aesthetic unit i've grown attached to
sometimes severed in moments of forgetfulness
sometimes a little jolt to the CNS makes me remember

romanza zeppelin, floating for business, blimpey boy boiling into the stratosphere
let's not make it too feedbackloopy
no, there's plenty of novelty in the air, anyway

bank deposit

today i lent my card to my girl
so she could make a deposit

money is something i can give, defines ability, makes
things happen, sets creatures dancing
for me on that non-magical monolith, an executable
for my extrovert activity in economic ecology, dead president clout
is my epigenetic expression, british columbia money is now
kansas money which will be old money decades from now
having passed through laundries of luxury
as the automatic tellers foretold
in plastic prophecies, my progeny
will know me by my money

but today i'm looking for meaning in a trident gum wrapper

god help me, i'm american beauty, how disgusting
a dimestore paradox peddled to self-dubbed
“discerning connoisseurs” of swill, let's make it a movie
documentary, series in perpetuity, game of
copyright leapfrog by the studio, iron fist grip
on the gilded age of cinema, pyramid reaching for the sun
through my millennia-long wander off script, audience gypped
true but better left unsaid, dead, that's
true too, no break, and thinking of steak incidentally makes me
think that image would beef up this stanza more appropriately than
any other assonance that could drift hypothetically through this
obnoxiously-named concrescence of true noxious thought, better
dead than never, named, examination table like a lenticular fable, like
the hyper-plausibility of a saucer out of fake fifties photographs, the one
that abducted me and stole the most precious portion of memory and
implanted me with verse that rhymes but is not intended for song
or beat with fatty sides of slab-slang, angel claws
man-handling me up the escalator steps
lit in ham-fisted christmas colors
entry to the cowgod’s estate, welcomed
with open teeth, tasty payment in adrenal currency
for her slaughter, we'll work out the most vital semantics
in post-apocalyptic crucifixions
set of twenty-two
that being the number most crucial
to spacely sprockets’ numerology nexus

cosmic, man
like the sawfigure mystery hanna barbera
could never animate, that amplified feeling
through lack of meaning, unholy mix
of hallucinations and comments on hallucinations
and the occipital ocular allocution intervening
in matters of immediate metabolism and
monetary digestion that grumbles and groans
audibly when i wake barely catching the
gurgle of rhomboid bloodcells down
the drains of my dreams, like
whatever, like
sin sex and sarcasm, like
finally the words form the mint-flavoured mortar i was looking for
that smooth menthol medication for scratch-throat glossolamentations, like
finally the spaces seem to work for these lines and twine
cuts between each line, tastes like vintage wine with the floating
cork of blood-engorged metaphor, vigorous like when i would
sniff my reaction to quasi's quackadero like my fingertip, like
i couldn't stop even if i painted my nails with correctional fluid, like
holy fuck, i can't hit a wrong note until review, the dark magic
that shines in every mirror’s silver, finger fucked
with the monkey’s paw and straight on until unstern

my bank-girl said i knew better than to deny divinity

this thing she said feels important, it's how i feel
where feelings connect to semantic sinews, i've marked
the spot, made it my own spraycan logo, my trademark
traveling railcarts, talking to trees, telling them of my
folk-heroic exploits, trading bits of bone for ashcan rants
buried in the woods, slipped on a hobo piss puddle and
wound up seven hexes ahead of annexia

what did alan watts teach me?
does my bank-girl know more than me at this juncture?
are those her teeth marks on my copy of the necronomicon?

most of my words feel empty
and my words are who i'm supposed to be
over-sleuthed footprints of myth-tainted syntax veering
into that mesh of tracks, distracted, that's what wrings out, stream
of conscious thoughts together in image, adam and eve's tree, trying
to feel it in music, a hand-cross and an arpeggio identifiable
as me with the earmarked missing eighth note and
a sour flattened D

right now i'm more interested in death than anything, death
is almost as weird a word as anything, another
semantic trap because it's what happens
to a human when his heart stops its beat and
his neurological lattice loses most of its
electricity, but his flesh takes flight, whether
under the ground or in the crematorium it’s
almost hyperkinetic, the rot or the flame and
the “end” is too geometrically precise
and theologically cloudy

i feel music and poetry, enough to think that the only thing
i can call myself is an artist, having my artistic moment and this
day isn't empty, and i don't know where to break these stupid
fucking lines, and i feel a little bit of self in that masturbatory reflection and
i don't much like the looks or the sound of it, mostly free of imagery since
i'm not a very visual person, my brain teems with arabesques
in arabesques, but when i try to grab them with my sweaty angel claws their
contours squirm out of grasp and escape to alternate lobes
that demand i point to the synesthetic picture in pentecostal seizure and
that is what we call the END
of sense, a senseless
tragicomedy, finally presenting
the trite two-face, coal-blasted mask of
dull and dour dao, how unoriginal, ugh
but an accurate transcription of some pedestrian layer of mind
i can cognize and reflect with crappy words under the banner of
meta-poetry in arial 12 point

the unexamined life may not be worth living
but the examined life under examination... ugh

the moment, that's what this is

another gratuitous tense-shifting stanza:
looking back, if i was to keep one thing
it would be an escalator step
with unstated electric rhomboid veins
tangled under a metal bridge, a modest
souvenir that would change everything
if it ever escaped the bubble it was chained to
something to cling to
in the alphabetic translation to
the ivory tower severed
from all temporal interest rates

Fahrenheit 13

Snow is snow, whether you’re up north, or down here. It crusted to diamond dayglo this morning. It’s not melting. Not moving. I kicked a pile on a Parsons’ road and hurt my toe. 9 AM, and the real winter persists, far ahead of schedule. Mixin’ it up. Of course, changing my world view based on this is succumbing to state-bounded delusion, but what fun would life be with a fixed point of reference? I’d be happy to abandon my tenuous belief in global warming, even though it would severely fuck up my world view. It would probably shift my whole philosophy to the right, just because of the loss of credibility it would inflict on the coalition of ideals I’ve signed on for.

But I never really committed to the idea, though I always saw the right-wing reaction as noxiously self-justifying. Hardly anyone comes off objective in the back-and-forth. But fractal agnosticism trumps all politics for me. Preachers don’t feel enough for me, scientists don’t reason sufficiently. “Consensus” could be an Aristotlean cosmology, that was once consensus too. I can’t make policy based on mathematical models, as prudent as they may seem to be. But I strongly suspect the “conservative” bastards are bullshitting about the effect climate-change prevention measures would have on the economy.

I wandered around the neighborhood – strange word, community is about as retro as fuedelism, the present is kinetic, the new paradigm is subversion of paradigm. Still there is some sort of collective vibe, a crunch of wavefronts, an aggregate of peaks and valleys, though there’s no practical way to be conscious of it. A mess of victorian houses, modern condos, condemned shacks, strip mall sprawl, connoco, four lane, two lane, alley, plowed snow-glaze and bare trees, seniors apartment the tallest building in the area, nine stories. I wandered past the college, passed a few cuties, couldn’t help notice, one in a sweater, shivering.

I crunched back down Broadway, did some involuntary ice-capades, remained on my feet through the alley, arrived back home. Home. Yeah, feels like it to me. Desiree inside, sleeping. Bright morning but fucking cold. Her car, conveyance, Derby. I understand what it is for her, after all this time. If I had a car, I’d name it too. Cracked windshield, defiant political bumper stickers, metal investment, blood-red, still rolling. We make use of it.

From far below, in our driveway, I looked up at our little balcony and saw the door décor. I’m grateful for Desiree’s wreath. She is, among many things, a decorator. Art spills out into a lifestyle, into what I would leave blank and vacant. I can never go a day without cracking at smile at her cute and handsome blend of convention and whimsy.

Caffeine demons still scream little life-hating obscenities at me. Fragile ego demands to know, in trembling inquiry, where do I rank? After all these attempts to forge a rationale for myself, a place in a relationship, in a community, what worth would I really be, if it was all on the line? What do I really have to offer? I never fortified myself to be a solider, nor did I ever fully commit to being a warrior with words, nor even a healer. I can’t accept modesty, because it seems to me the majority is so much higher than me. Standards sink me. Snow is snow, in Nelson or Parsons. Nationalites, they could fight for their country. Me, I’m sunk. Shivering, northerner out for a walk, barely fortified with two shots of vodka, mixed with fruit punch, fruity, cold, pathetically warm-hearted, parasitic, boomerang from Walmart, bought in but attempting to retain anti-corporate ideals.

We’ve tried to raise a male, but he turned out too sensitive, not strong enough for the job, what job? He used to pack bread, but still he took a sort of pride in that, it paid the bills, it was manual labour. He has fast and dexterous hands, but not agile enough to play Liszt with any fidelity. He has his own spastic improv which he likes in moments of arrogance – tools, manipulation, manual dexterity, his ego can wrap around that sometimes, he can cock rock, feel like a man, as musician, masculine art, kickass.

Where does my fruit punch red tongue fit in? I mixed vodka with fruitpunch for a little buzz, take the edge off the strong coffee dez made me, it was making me think in twisty ways, self-garroting twine, rather suffocating illumination.

Bright day today, but I’m too brilliant to call it clarity. How soon will I groan at these lines? Winter splinter. Sometimes rhyme is all a folk’s got.

I want to give her a little lick to start the day. I’m just transcribing, that’s my excuse. A piano roll, rolling along.

gosub

I'm in the bedroom that is sometimes mine, with my good headphones on, fumbling ownership of a chaos to coltrane. And sometimes I don't think about what it means, what mine means, what hers is, where things lie when every botched thought is a piece of puzzle schlock, registering a shock of binary blotch...00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Back from stackheap overflow when we gossubbed 2000 and returned from the edge of the earth, sanity slack, civility hacked, cracked to pieces of smacktalk and square braquetext and dexhex gibs that sounded fine, sublime for real, when life-force congealed balletic ballistics on the entry wound to entry-level living, decasyllabic meal, too perfect to conceal.

Raz is throwing nag champa at me while we listen to lorena mckennet, lovely lilting celtic harmony is what I label it.

We played kings in the corner, three rounds.

The first felt dull, that kind of gloomy dull, like life forced fractional smiles at the one half-joke uttered during the game, the only words said, like the night is truth, the darkness at the end of everything, our light so sad and small, i see through the modern façade of the kitchen fluorescent, and we're shuffling around the old 52 cards like 52 weeks of differing point value, 52 familiar sounding horoscopes in another planetary revolution, one more round.

I think I won that round. Then she said I should smoke a joint and I said I didn't really want to but she persisted. Finally I gave in and smoked and after that first taste and a bit of buzz, the room began to flow with more electricity, and kootenay memories crept through me, stealthy, with the reverbed choir feeling of west-coast dreaming, and I was glad she'd suggested the joint, and I finished off the well-rolled bomber (more of an F4U Corsair) but I became nervous that my inevitable trancing out would create tension, create an addition to that long series of lovers' quarrels, but the cards were looking psychedelic and I had a hand of seven reds, how odd, and raz was telling me about what her mind does with the tarot deck, and then she moved on to the subject of ghosts and said there were two that she had let into the room that wouldn't bother me if I left them alone, which was fine since I didn't notice them anyway, and a little part of me started doing the calculus on ESP, which is a lost cause since I don't know calculus, and the paranoid end of that started fitting slight anomalies into a pattern that would justify believing in the idea of poltergeists meddling with my life in symbolic, but banal ways for reasons just beyond the fringe of reasoning, which caused an even smaller part of me to realize that a much larger part of me would rather live in a world sans ghosts and suggested that if I needed to, I could make rationalizations for why ghosts were absent, indeed impossible even if there was an accelerating rate of unexplained anomalies and coincidental data, not that I've ever been faced with enough strangeness to need to make such rationalizations.

And the rest of me played kings in the corner with something like muscle memory, using about half of what I needed to use of my brain during my stint at the bakery, and I felt like playing this game was psychedelic and hyper contextual and a routine I could do that felt good, like playing tori amos' “winter” properly.

So now I'm selecting from a playlist that is an amalgam of raz's digital music collection and an archive of pitchfork's 200 greatest songs of the 60s.

I switched back to "the dark night of the soul". I'm not really "into" it, but loving it as ambiance, because I couldn't deal with king crimson. I could go with yes, but I’m nervous about the possibility that I'm foisting too much in this communal space, out of place, and besides, novelty is better right now, and raz has some cool music I haven't listened to.

I just put a camel cancer stick out, and into a coke can. The air is thick tonight, alcohol makes my roommates smoke like chimneys and I’m starting to dislike second-hand smoke, but I think breathing a lot in for a month or two isn't really a big deal - and some might call my metabolic pulses of piano improv "noise pollution", unless we're in a more communal music making mindset.

I was very sensual with raz just now, casually, sometimes cluelessly so, a sort of quasi-erogenous oblivion phasing in and out of awareness as synesthetic counterpoint to socially dense thoughts, bright billowing patterns...

Yes, I'm stoned again tonight and enjoying it when it doesn't make me paranoid about if I'm doing something wrong, if she's doing something wrong, if we're doing something wrong, if we're going to fight tonight, if we should fight tonight, if the world is just on increasingly fleeting downtime till the next total war that will profit a small elite, damn horrific historical context.

I'm somewhat sheepish about that little shimmy towards political posturing. That doesn't happen much anymore, I wore it in my youth like a lucky hat, found I loved it at times. Well, politics usually comes back when anger does. Most people can't be too politically involved without anger of some kind. Most people can't care. And anger usually comes from local issues that might be global ones as well. Like if you are personally affected by racism. If you're middle class canadian caucasian nelsonite, probably not too much. Classism is more my bzsazg.tygds

Cue catastrophic quarrel. It’s getting hard to deal with it. I SO don’t want to take that trip right now. Maybe I fucked things up, or maybe the situation is just chronically fucked up and destined to fuck us up no matter what anyone does. I'm sure there's some combination of things I could do to make everything alright, but it's obscure, the winning chess strategy, not something I would hit upon through my ponderings.

This situation has led me to radical thoughts, quick fix squirms out of the fire, like saving myself future grief, but I know I just need to get through the moment, finch’s chilling mantra. I haved vowed not to deal with it many times in the past, but when I'm stoned, I feel apologetic when things go wrong and obligated to "deal" with it, whatever that means. And I don't want to throw in the towel, and vindicate people who said it was stupid for me to come here. I think it would be weak. Me and raz, we should be able to work out our problems.

I want to stay here, and help pay for rent and food. Don't want to abandon raz and meth in this adventure, small, humble, but noble, I think, in a way. It feels awkward to attach any weight to it, humour is light and easy and we like irreverence, I like it when I'm stoned. When I try to explain myself, I often just fuck things up further, especially if I'm stoned, or otherwise inebriated, and not able to strategically smooth out my explanations in tactful, sensitive language, although even when I can, it doesn’t help much, usually. I try to empathize, I think I do to some extent, and I see why she feels how she does, I can relate to her insecurities and ego issues, her manias and depression, her desires and her voids.

I’m distracted by kitchen rattles and hoping they won't disturb the sleep of our roommate. He's not merely a guest, the idea is that we're all equal in ownership - that's my idea anyway. Meth is vital, as I see it, for keeping things together, buffering me and raz from the other’s volatile wavefronts.

I can't trivialize feelings, even when alcohol’s involved, the folly of inebriated empathy. Oe thing drugs have taught me is the nature of state boundaries, mind states. I've sworn so many times I would just refuse to deal with it when it got impossible to deal with. But that is a state-bounded thought as well. I don't know much but I know how about the enflaming of bad associations
and the creation of feedback loops, there’s some overlap in our psychology, there’s some buttons we push and understand in our dysfunctional but loving co-dependency.

Meth sleeps deeply, thankfully, might be the result of his anti-psychotic meds, they sedate him – strange, he doesn’t seem the type to need insanity-blocking medication – apparently he used to cut himself and hear voices and all kinds of hard to grapple with intensities, but he seems very chill with us, maybe slightly melancholy at times, but generally jovial with a keen interest in music and art – he laughs more than I imagined him to and he’s often active in our conversations on film, tv, celebrities, snacks, and trashier aspects of pop culture.

Raz is the only one of us who is currently working a job, and she's also in school, and has schedules, and immediate, pressing responsibilities. She returned home from the video store. She is on call, had to go early, through the snowstorm. Stay late. She has to learn everything with lackluster assistance. I feel for her. Not enough, or as often as I should. But I loved her especially today for soldiering through her day, doing what needed to be done, coming back, and actually being fairly sunny in that radiant desiree way, being cute and bouncy and silly and grabbing at me constantly. She even made bagel sandwiches for us all, good ones, monterey jack and cheddar, smoked turkey, mustard and jalapeno peppers. I did the dishes and cleaned the kitchen.

We watched a movie called “hard candy”. It pissed me off in a lot of ways and the ending disappointed me, but I have to admit that I was often involved in the story, it wasn't a bad thriller, somewhat original premise involving a not-so-innocent adolescent pedophile victim. Then we watched the Pirates of the Caribbean sequel. Wow, it's seven AM. How did that happen?

Snowstorm in Parsons

Halliburton Faucet Inc.

**** *****

***     ***

**        **

***     ***

**** *****

Black Diamond is my only friend now

with values void, our divergent agenda delivers disappointment.

Natural Endorphins this way, a labyrinth but there’s only one way so you get there eventually, through many twists, gelcaphallic, won’t mix with ink, eyes on the sun

hormonal dictation

of lactation parallel to masturbation

the imperative of seeking sensation

Patterns that way, purity, rippling the sign, dragging synesthetic scaffolding along for a too-smooth ride, eyes dilated deltas, chemcann cocktail dictates certain behavioral fixations, channeled material, collective conscious excavation, ownership slips, dips aesthetic into a puddle, reverb, wet. Try to be nice but your head’s in the vice, anger is your vice now, hopskotch later, if you’re lucky, hard to say.

You know what the problem is but your sanity won’t let it be acknowledged, it’s an instinct for self-preservation, but not everyone escapes self-immolation, cause there’s lots of time for self-justification in your long life, four hundred dollars withdrawal from the ATM buys a lot of poison gnosis.

Still looking for oblivion?

Through what, mandies? Soma? Therapy?

Thumbprint monuments?

Could be a stately mambo stepclass

will only fit in a casket.

Rare moment of being in the rhomboid entourage. The museum. Purpose in four diamond angles. They make it look like I know what I’m doing. Magic Window.

The blast was a white frosted black diamond buried in the snow

corporate-fresh pines.

Hard to remember kootenay embankments

just thursday morning flashbacks

to idiot euphoria

fleeting giddy

idiocy and adventures to Velo City

still 300 km on graph paper.

The Welfare Cosmos

Purpose Division

is dividing my attention into a fugue state of feelings

subsidiary of the Washington Welfare Spring

Imperial Intergalactic American Federation

(US Hegemony has graduated to geological time

Rome never came close).

The Washington Welfare Cosmos

is almost a concerto, written on staff paper

with an HB pencil by a staffer drone

sitting at a green school desk

in a factory for my alien homeworld

the outer planet in the Righteous Ring

global consumer goods warehouse

with assumed infinite resources

a Halliburton Tap.

Stopped at the border of Annexia

with intent to traffic gaudy graphics

line art attempts to transcribe by stealing

powdered arabesques

fugitive visions.

Stately Ground in groovy gravity

now warhorse soot, the wonder

of age and decay & the ancient

ampersand, a footnote in a three-

millennium long run for Omar Khayyam

21^st Century Schizoid Peasant

Black Diamond mountains

sublime shape symmetry.

High Gain is our symbol, so they tell me, I’ll accept, wear the hash mark on my lapel, vibrate at what frequency the modulating masses move me to, nodding my head to the glossolalia, I think I’m harmonizing with a cool consonance, that’s how it sounds to me.

I’m popping chick-o-sticks, which our leviathan lord interpreted as praying for apocalypse, he has some strange interpretations while he wipes the sleep of millennia from his crusted eyes, he’s a crusty cthulhu and he’s not a morning person, and all the coffee in Columbia won’t save us millionth generation synthetic short-lifers from our fiery fate, not even Halliburton’s hallucinatory faucet, the high definition desert mirage. Marie-Antoinette will be reborn in 2112, to enjoy a savoy truffle – some knowledge will be saved, some delicacies still craved and made.

A bromide tide of wisdom swept the woods awards one day – the trees were jealous but still etched the records into barkives for ecological time, which is near eternal if you include the geological foundations, which I do. I also include the floating rubaiyat, Omar’s mountain, Dorothy’s Oz, safe in my narcotic bubble, Tetris level 29 when The Force takes over, moves the blocks in ways foretold by the great old ones, electronic opium.

All we were doing was writing poems, not praying for apocalypse, Tetragrammaton was a tonality-tweaking tongue-twister, not the unspeakable name of God, and sunny pleasuredomes were found in caves of ice that were discovered in brain changing experiments on mice – safe in our narcotic bubble. At least the lab rat got to consume crack at the end of its short rodent life, a lifetime supply, and at least we, at least an upper crust of us, the savoy truffle appreciators, worthy evolutionary ambassadors for elite human experience, at least this elite got to lay eyes, ears, and endorfins on personalized paisley visions, the Qual in us all, before the planet failed to support our bloated civilization’s software, the epigenetic kamikaze burnout, at least we maintained the infrastructure for the pleasure button as long as we could, the

turning of the

Halliburton Tap, safe in our narcotic bubble.

The Washington Welfare Spring is a wishing well, so the striking janitors at this demon stration tell me. Arranged in hexagonal rings, they form an easy bond with me. They even offer me honorary membership in their roguish union, the one they carved out of the carcinomic heart of city hall with a rusty pocket-knife, though I’ve never cleaned a thing in my life. Five is not a demon, they say. The amateurish occultists of the Pentagon got it wrong. Six is the real threat. They number one hundred and eleven groups. A gestalt of six hundred and sixty six.

The train across town blows its mournful minor ninth. Meaning is scattering, appropriately trashy, cluttering the entrance of the senior’s apartment block.

Oh what will people say?

Let’s not kid ourselves, this is not sustainable. No… let’s kid ourselves. The sand is so warm. And who can really say what would be a new way? We’d be kidding ourselves anyway. Anyway we slice it.

Surely you see the incongruity between your concerns and your life on the grid. Yes but here, warm on the grid, is the only place I can look cold and logical at what it might mean to be off. Safe and warm in my narcotic bubble I can appreciate the drama of death, can even armchair quarterback the blood-soaked political games that follow. Outside of this zone of taken-for-granted comfort, I must blanket myself in superstition and pseudo-scientific delusion. That is the only thing that will suffice. And I’m not alone in this. Just a typical sheep, like you.

Was listening to Yes, shining cities of the future, symbolically reconciling synthetic and organic. Orgasmic. Much great music to be written in C major, rhythms Bartok never collected, 70s futures, more like Enron stock than Macintosh, but reaching me anyway, in this heyday of information and exponentially depleting material.

One day, my son, the pain will reach such an intensity that it will release you from all your personal demons, it will be a fecund cauterization, a rebirth, the full yang of freedom, A#1.

What he didn’t tell me was that I must anesthetize myself from the torture of that knowledge so I don’t forfeit. There are many ways to self-immolate, and some of them aren’t really all that painful. Safe in my narcotic bubble.

Intelligence Quotient

Finally found a music obsession worthy to supplant the Mars Volta liason. Yes, it's Yes. Too bad this rip is a glitchy mess. That's why I'm on soulseek.

Surprisingly straight transcription.

Voices are lost in parsecs of woods. Half eaten pills in dreams.

His age is indeterminate. Leroy's. Brown.

Circuitous drunkenavigations.

Living on borrowed time. Suburbias, already sepia-toned, but how often can I believe what would destroy politics? Staring dumbly down the barrel of apocalypse - it's a barrel of laughs. Homeless, working for the mob. So it's real. But what? Buried in a church organ's wall of sound. Chooglin, sounding, organing. Soundboard. Bored of sound? Banging, mainlining, soma, euphoria. Mainstream is in the bloodstream, blissstream. Line, line on a star, over the lino, like what black god brought me to. Premonition of streamroll fogged past blanquetext. Robitussian was poetic once. A Tenth of flexeril.

This album is mindblowing - it's like I'm hearing almost exactly the kind of sound I envisioned I would have if I developed everything as I'd hoped to. Wow, wakeman. Wow. But the guitar is what really arrests my attention. And the bass. And the drums. This is like Rush, ELP, and Liszt collided to form a superdense mass that collapsed in on itself producing a singularity of ROCK!

A shame about the vocals though. They're not bad. But not that good. Kind of vanilla. No personality. A far cry from Cedric Bixler, or even Geddy Lee. Or even Greg Lake. Lyrics... I dunno. Something about getting up and getting down. I could write way better lyrics. If they didn't read like philosophical treatises, that is. Or teastises on chromatic disintegration.

Chooglin and rueing the day you ever choogled out of my starsystem. Afterburnination. Gospel spasms in epileptic fountains.

I could quote you a quote on your intelligence, but the question of the quotient is confounding me. So I'll act awestruck, cause I really am anyway. Just don't expect me to remember what it means.

Escher's First House

Our very fine house has some very odd angles to it - it's 120 years olde, so years of settling has put nearly everything at odd angles. Cabinets, mirrors, especially the floors. We have the entire top half of this turquoise blue Victorian. Here's the tour, a' la Raz.


Here's our view from the back - we hardly use the front door:

















Our kick-ass balcony!:





















Here's J'than, cleaning the windows in the kitchen:

















More of the kitchen:

















Here's the view out of kitchen windows - another pretty Victorian! It's condemned, which for some reason makes it prettier to me:





















Methmaker making musicmeth on the keyboard:

















Me lounging in my room. I was wondering if the cameraman, who shall remain nameless, had yet figured out which button to push:

















Matt's chickendance! Bawk!





















Me doing the moose, appropriately named "Blurwinkle":

















Well that's it for now, oh hey, it's J'than, cleaning the window of my car!

















He's done, yay! Now I can see out of my window!
















OK, kids, hope you enjoyed! More to come when my crappy little batteries get recharged!

Zastrozzi

composed for a local production of George Walker’s play, Zastrozzi - it was a fun project, i meshed well with the play and its director - the music is based on character themes that intermingle: zastrozzi, verezzi, julia, bernardo, and matilda - the overture is a medly of the inter-scene music

Prologue - [2:04]
Scene 1 – ‘Nightmares that could petrify the Devil’ - [0:38]
Scene 2 – ‘I’ll even call it revenge’ - [0:35]
Scene 3 – ‘I just like to fight’ - [0:41]
Scene 4 – ‘He’s back’ - [0:29]
Scene 5 – ‘Thank you very very much’ - [0:30]
Scene 6 – ‘Where is my wine’ - [0:31]
Intermission – ‘Kill him with Imagination’ - [1:02]
Scene 7 – ‘Usually I am the one who is wonderful and the women are enthralled’ - [0:40]
Scene 8 – ‘Even if I must hurt him a little’ - [0:31]
Scene 9 – ‘I lied about not being armed’ - [0:36]
Scene 10 – The Dungeon of Love - [0:57]
Finale – ‘I like it here’ - [2:00]
Promo – ‘Matilda’s theme’ - [0:39]
Overture - [6:43]

rubbed out

high definition porn girl

with a fast frame-rate

the art of the slut

she’s got it down to a science

but it’s so real she

must be a real slut

like a real unicorn

like a real live cum-craving creature

and my god, it’s like she’s popping out of that

ten second sample clip with the end of a syringe

mainlining herself into each of my several billion dendrites

all quivering monkey lust

so real, it’s never been that real before

for the best orgasm I’ve had in months

and this clip is now my favourite

and I will rub it out because

porn is made for maximum mono-sensory thrill

reward system in the absence of biological satiation

shortcut, subverting the boreal chill

I’ll rub it out

and it’ll be my climax for the next several weeks

before my neurons need new

information I'll know when I see

but the high definition girl will have a good run

maybe a historic one, because she gave me an orgasm

so good I’m writing about it

I will use it up in a flash

a sliver of geological time, no fossil record

and then I will look on the era as past fetish

dusty crusty and I will appreciate it aesthetically

as the liquid architecture of love, hall of fame material

stimuli ineffective on empty circuitry

those neuro-patterns primed

for a specific pornographic pleasure

dead zone of overdosed braincells

abandoned for the next

fit of sexy

Tenacious D on LSD

conjuring

it's not the day of the sloughed rhythm - slipping out of a cycle, in the moonlit pool's ripple, it was a hobo train to tropane freedom, lethal archetypes - the best kind of connections are tenuous - fentanyl is real but more symbolic to me than any actuality - let's not get into meditation on time though - and belief is too subsumed in semantics - moongate crasher, union fatefitter, crack-spasm teques

guilt is good so they say, keeps things in check, but that cycle devours itself, and no i won't draw it as a spiral - you can't always see a wound for what it is, or maybe it's a premonition - i'd love to be able to be the crazy drunk, or maybe my drug is self-righteousness, the limited i'm allotted in my own guilt and drug-corrupted life

it's the day of sniping distant and dying nalis on crosses - at least that's what i remember sucrets juice could conjure, and it WAS a conjuring, genuinely crazy shit - sounds pretty similar to a turn of the century record groove, a laughtrack from 02, but there are subtle variations, a clarinet solo - a paradigm patchwork quilt woven from a change of education, a school of life - oh those hard knockers, what do they know? what can they tell? maybe they never assembled lao's yang from the shards, or maybe what they needed was the yin - it's either ether or the other, and ethereally redundant and deluded to simplify it in those terms, unless you can drink your beverage of choice and get away with it

just

and i'll ramble about how much i love the word ramble
for its quaint quality, how it puts me in the suburbs of live journal
with the mass of amateur writers who tell the distant deep sea divers
that they’re “rambling”, just “rambling”