lic

there are people out there - beyond the grey lodge - i won't snipe them from inside, i'm not an extrovert - i can see them well though

stripes and biting my tongue, they come as a set - i don't want to capitalize, but nothing works - i want to blow you all off, but i've got no blowoff bubble to be comfy in - a lot of wasted effort though - so much wasted effort, stay frosty in a bunker with your hand blown off, slack was not a concept when he started out, he was a pal of mine, he will be again someday - yellow stucco chips

no entryway, not even under a toad's tongue - sennheiser's on the shitlist at the top of the recycle bin - ridiculous i ever tried to communicate - cause it's an economy or an ecology, there's not much difference, not much conservation, as much energy as is needed - everything is absolutely lame, as lame as it can be - i feel no guilt - i'm fine, just fucked like the rest of you, no worse - maybe better, but there's nothing i can use that for - it's useless, devalued currency

a surplus, commentary, sick of waiting for karma, the only thing i like is my fingertip anymore, what do you want from ME? don't expect anything - it's no great mystery what motivates me, when i'm in a motivatable mood, so you can get it if you want, but

don't you ever contradict me
in front of the void

the pink ghost appeared for a millisecond, during her appearance i realized what that great thing was i figured out last time i saw her - now i go back to watching paint dry - hearing planes fly - lusting after graves - good graves, bad graves - it's all gravy

don't expect me to be a part of society, but you don't, do you? the only ones who do are those poor people who have some stake in me, who bought some stock in me - i guess i could volunteer, by the time i have the opportunity to do that, i may be out of this sticky state - i did give more people more resumes though, i feel more ridiculous every time i do that - now i don't want a job, you can all just fuck off - please don't hire me for your bullshit fucking task force, it's too late, i'm not interested anymore

reza, red, rocks, the novelty of hustler, found in a dumpster - even then, it wasn't really my cup of tea - i eventually found out what really did it for me - a crust on a life, hydraulic spikes, not even a freudian slip, just regurgitate the last day - i can't hallucinate, yes, too tired, maybe time for simple reality poetry, as they used to call it when it was still decent to name it - i'm trying to get back to the anger thing, but my cells just wanna sleep now - i shouldn't even be sleeping, i've done too much of that, but that's when happens when you take downers, and it doesn't matter, i've got nothing to do, no obligations, that's right, no fucking obgliations, i don't owe anybody anything, and if nobody has any use for me, then i have no use for them - none - go fuck yourself

that stupid pink ghost again, will you fuck off? for good, i mean? no, i'm not praying to anyone, i'm not gonna fuck with the universe on that level - maybe what i need is a good zopiglonger - or is it zopiklone now? wake me up when... um... i dunno - wake me up when everything i touch turns to licorice - when the technology to do that has been invented and applied to my person

royal rumble and licorice, the sticks, the pure unmarked sticks, half red, half black, the pixels of royal rumble, the fuzzy 8-bit sound, that's the only thing i want right now, just the licorice, entryway to a perfect memory, the nexus of associations, damnit, that's all i want

funny that i felt guilt - now i feel fine - it's not my problem - it's the world that's fucked - oh yes, i know i'm sick - but not sicker than anything else - the only health is licorice - 5 red sticks, 5 black sticks, in a brown paper bag, clutched next to the plastic case of a super nintendo console game, rented from reo's - those narrow parameters - no need for novelty - not looking to the future, not caring about the past - no extrapolation sickness

comp rattles, headphones rattle, fucked up, my head rattles, i'm a noisemaker, that's what i make, not enough to annoy

no licorice
maybe it's time for a 48 hour famine
with some beta carbolines in the middle
not really food, maybe a smoke, maybe some novelty
or maybe just the ugly old psychodrama, the can't-handle-chasm

somebody send me some licorice
because when i buy it myself, the energy and awkwardness
that entails seems to cancel out the good effects
i want black nibs, red nibs, black supernibs, or black red vines
nothing that says twizzlers on it
got it?

zenvice: the story of virginia crucian veraprima

blessed be the ego stratification

free free free
can't complain
free free free

self-obsessed self-fuckers

what the mother fuck was that?
a scheming woman in pink - it won't matter

blessed be the wrong i've done
it's nothing much anyway
a little slack now and then
now i'm glad not to do anything
i don't owe anyone anything

nope, bleep bloop blorp music is not gonna do it for me

early attemps at conspiracy theory parody, almost useless now
self-reflecting archaeologist - arch romantic, arch enemy of the knowing

she killed herself on calm
the calm summer camp
took up smoking that summer
in the woods, a puff on a menthol
that i smelled in my dreams, finally decided
it was alright, finally could enjoy nicotine without self-reflection
appreciate the taste of tobacco, appreciate its open arms, it's
all in how you look at it

so, benzos were the next logical step, whatever she could get
the blog posts became mainly for her own benefit, had only one other link,
to that freaky jamie, with her tap into the welfare spring, lucky bitch
how did she get that? Mung had a page too, of course
he could access it from his body console, the main purpose of which
was to allow him to communicate with his human brethren
the neurotic and disfunctional bunch he hung around with
who couldn't be taken to polite society
or successful society
middle class american entreupreneurhood
or anyone really - it was like a rogue state splinter, the people's front of the factory

hey, it's time for the william tell routine
it's the only way we're gonna get into annexia

What do I want to Do?

maybe i want to be inside. maybe i don't want to go on a ridiculously circuitous tour of nelson at night. or maybe what i want is just to wander around in a confused state. i'm not sure. when i'm tweaked, i don't know what i want. it's a maddening mystery.

it's nice that i write in all sorts of states of mind. various disparate transient paradigms motivate me to describe their existential essencehood of essex county. then, when i'm feeling a certain way, and feeling, correctly, that no one understands me, i can go back through my journals or shamelessly public blog posts and find the only person that can relate - my past self, the one i didn't remember until now, the whole way of looking at things i'd forgotten about. okay, that's a little too deep. or just deep enough. maybe that's the depth i want. not sure. my dipstick is a shady sod.

maybe what i want is a little wine. maybe i'll open up one of the mediocre bottles - or let's be honest, one of the bad bottles. it's okay, it's still wine. and i don't want to open a good bottle. i'm a bit arrogant but also guilty. i don't know if that's relevant but i'll report it anyway, might be pivotal to the case they're building for, or against me, 200 years in the future, the bicentennial of this crux in my life. maybe wine will be the last stud in the terkel.

actually, what i think i need is fresh air blowing on my face. the cool night breeze. it's the only thing that can maybe take me out of my head. i need to be out of my head. and yet, it seems the sickness is the only thing worth expressing, and expressing is the only worthwhile thing to do. it's the "genius is pain" artistic martyrdom that sounds so pretentious most of the time.

no, actually, i figured out that it's waves crashing against me. and there's some nausea involved. that means i should take one of those non-drowsy anti-emetics. so i will. i'd take a drowsy one if i had the choice. i'll also drink some water, because it's clear and transparent, feels pure and tastes so much better than beer, and bad wine, and anything else, it's golden, it's gravy, it's good, it's god - it's water - and when i'm tasting water i forget how sick in the head i am right now. maybe i'm not. maybe i just feel like i'm sick. but maybe i'm actually healthy. maybe it's healthy to mix capitalization conventions. maybe walmart will hire me, even though i demonstrated against them. maybe i'm a team player.

i'm coming to admire the non-meaningful. but when i do that, i call it sublime, and it starts to mean things, and then it's fucked. and syntax starts to flow like mercury and molasses. and i feel compelled to make it right in writing. which is a fool's errand, but he took the job. just because it looks a certain way to me doesn't mean it is. it's all about feelings. we may not know bleep all... but emotions fucking rule. in the land of the hysterics, the stoic is king. or maybe not. bleep.

i was just bowled over by a wave of sickness. had to lie on the bed and talk myself down. calm myself. felt like i'd poisoned myself. but it was just a wave. it happens. better than being actually sick, like diseased or something. after a while, i felt sort of calm - still sick but. finally took that sickness pill. it's waves. but why do i have to keep doing it and writing about it? damn, it makes everything look ridiculous. do i have to write about that too? it brings on another wave.

goddamnit, i had to crash in bed again, and ride out another wave of sickness, vertigo, the collapse of paradigm, tweaked, twisted

once i resign myself to being "down", as in, crashed, i feel a little better, not good, but not horribly ill in a kinetic way - if i'm still trying to be up, or thinking i ought to be, it's bloody, brutal, a battle i can't win - when i'm officially crashed, i can be jaded

it's disgusting that i write about drugs so much, but there's anatomical value in it. i should watch tv online because i've done my "duty" as a writer - but i still need some kind of job, and wording will have to do. there are nice things in the world, good pure and impure things, but i can only conceive of them, experience them through a sick head, synthetically altered, incapable of feeling pleasure in a normal way, perverse - and this is over dramatic bullshit, state-bounded transcription of transient neurosis. just chapter 593 of the tractate, of the elemental exegesis, the leviathan in the room -- through a scanner darkly. phil lost a lot of good friends, including himself, through the dystopia of the sepia-toned sixties turned seventies, semen-stained silk and std feeding frenzy.

i'm hoping i can see those good things again, more properly, when that anti-emetic pill kicks in. raspberry flavor, like my girl, one of those good things. i'm ashamed of myself for wanting to philander in earlier times. i'm lucky to have her. she benefits from me too, i know. but man am i lucky. i feel better when i'm with her. she's one of those people, who i would quit drugs for, because she's so much better, although when i'm synthetically altered, like now, it seems to me that love and human relationships are just as synthetic as any pharmaceutical mindstate. but shortly, that won't mean anything. no, i shouldn't call it sublime, but i will, the sublimity of the sublime label, under a secular banner, wordplay in the bristling grass blades, grasscut hand, fresh mown lawn...

so many good things in the world, remember when baseball was good? kids today, they have to find a way to make steroids good. things change. baseball was pastoral. now it's at&t center. but it's also got a jumbotron. but remember the new york nickerbockers? we won't see their like again. until the apocalypse. no, i kid. i bought in, i don't want things to burn. i'm sorry i've given my sister anxiety, with my apocalyptic bullshit. it wasn't necessary. or maybe it was. like everything's necessary. but goddamn, that's gotta be bullshit. tautological bullshit. tautologies are tautological, and bullshit is bullshit.

it's sick, that sickness is so meaningful to me, that it makes me write the most important stuff. it's a kind of torture, but i guess i'd gladly take that, to having my nuts electrocuted, because i'm a sheltered canadian cracker, and "white" is a fitting emblem for privilege, and sickness, pestilence, pale horseman, apocalypse, death - how archetypal, dawg.

i'm so proud of myself, i haven't even mentioned what drug i'm on. what restraint. what artistic discipline. less is more. hemmingway knew the five and ten dollar words, but he didn't need them. was the sickness worth this writing? can you put a price on it?

Little Miss Misfit

listen

words by razberrychaos, music by me and raz

***

when she was young and full of piss
she painted wheels on a cardboard box
drove out to the middle of a desert sunrise
thinking who’m i gonna be if i can’t be i?

came back with talons instead of nails
and a mind as broad as a schooner’s sails
lips the color of desert hills
acquired an iguana, named him bill

she plays shoebox guitar
waves to the people from her yard
all fucked up but better off by far than you or i
little miss misfit

now the kids at school didn’t know what to think
as she maneuvered her bike around with a hot pink
pirate’s eye-patch and safety-pin hair
she was a bookworm dork with an anarchist’s flair

in a world as diverse as the creatures of the sea
i thought for sure they’d let her be
but the world is different to different beings
last time i saw her she was riding free
into that desert sunset
laughing like a maniac

progro, non aggro

These thoughts are getting poisonous - I don't want to think about it, but I do. Saw boxes and bottles endlessly in my sleep. 14 hours of repetitive work will do that to you. It was like that the first week at the bakery - invading my dreams - but as I got used to the job, the images faded from my background thought patterns. This hasn't faded yet.

But fuck it. I'll post something else. New artwork, something I drew in Parsons.

Fuck Managers

“Take this job and shove it", Jello Biafra said. Another punk anthem. I can't get a job to quit.

Fuck managers. Fuck their Canadian accents, and their love of martial arts and Bruce Willis movies, and crap culture. Fuck their banality, their empty heads, and their keen interest in the minutia of their professional niche. Fuck people with an inflated sense of power and accomplishment. They'd be cute, if they didn't preside over my fate. Fuck people who won't judge me on my performance but on their "perception" of me. When you train to be a manager, is there a test to make sure you're enough of an asshole?

He’s not 100% sure that I fit. I didn't show enough "aggression" in finding things to do. He said it was a slow week – not much to be doing, no opportunities for aggression, bad luck for me. So he sees my predicament – but he doesn’t give a shit. Fuck my opportunity. He’ll try some other people. I learned everything in two days, did my job as good as anyone there, proved I was a good worker. But if they keep moving down the list, someone will come along who LOOKS the part as well. Presentation. Cause it’s a fashion show, apparently. It’s Blue Steel. You gotta look good. So someone else will do my job, it’ll get busy again and they’ll look better. I’m sure they’ll need the work a lot more than me, too.

Hey asshole, think maybe you could have explained your dumb evaluation criteria to me at some point during those 14 fucking hours? Cause I could have ripped the bottle-filled flat out of my co-worker's hand with aplomb and yelled: "No, I'LL do this - I AM THE KEENEST DEPOT WORKER IN TOWN MUTHAFUCKAAAAAH!" I'm perfectly capable of doing that. If that would have allowed me to stay on, in your esteemed arbitration, good sir, I would have happily done it. If injecting amphetamines to appear more energetic than a normal human would have improved my chances, I’d have done that too. It's just, nobody told me it was required. I didn’t talk much, kept to myself. Well fuck that, you thought. Let's give HIM the axe, there’s a mountain of resumes, others we could hire, who would listen to our lame chatter.

So after my two day trial, I'm back to being unemployed. I thought I was in the clear there for a second, all the angst finally a thing of the past, but no. Maybe if the next crop of replacement losers turns out to be even more "non-aggressive" than me, I'll get to go back to work for mister dipshit manager. But probably not.

You'd think I'd be used to this sort of disappointment. But still, I got that jolt of vertigo, when my status was revoked, unexpected, out of the blue. That sick feeling. End of the day, I get paid, everything's cool. Finally I've got a job, what a relief, I'm done jumping through the hoops, all the bullshit, now it's security, money, then: Nope, false hope, back to zero.

They don't like my type. They don't like that I won't talk about hockey with them, and other bullshit I don't care about. Hey, I tried, I tried talking to you people but there just wasn't much to talk about. So sue me. Can't we just do our fucking jobs? Guess not. Maybe he's right, maybe they can squeeze out 5% more efficiency from the next poor fuck who tries out. But I doubt it. He'll be a regular drone. But he'll be on the right frequency, the keen frequency. He'll be one of those Nelson people who work at recycling bottle depots, one of the ones allowed in by the managers. He'll fit. They'll like him. They'll know him. Nobody knows me.

If somebody knew me, I could get a fair shake. They'd know I'm a good worker, honest, reliable, intelligent. They'd understand I'm over-skilled for blue collar shit work, but that I prefer it to leasing my brain to corporate Canada because I like saving mental labor for art and thought. They'd know that if I'm not hyper-chatty-keen, it's because I'm quiet by nature, and a little shy and neurotic, but nothing that gets in the way of me doing a good job. But there's no ministry of nepotism. There's no government agency that will coordinate a relative or friend of mine with a job opening in this absurd network of the working world.

I do have friends sometimes and they help me sometimes. I do appreciate it. But I'm so fucked in this society that it's rarely enough, their efforts. I need a fucking ministry. Shit like this is why I'm partial to communism. Although, ironically, it also makes me want to become an entrepreneur, just MAKE money, find a way. Hey... anyone wanna buy insurance? I’m starting an “alternative” insurance company. I’ll play it by ear. I, IV, V.

I'm so sick of working FOR these fucking people, with their irrelevant standards. I'm sick of being at the mercy of these fucking managers, of begging for a space in their workplace. Fuck trying to get their approval, and pushing myself to my maximum friendliness threshold, and having it not be enough.

It was the same bullshit at the Kalesnikov lumber mill, same manager asshole, same biased fucktard. I don't LOOK right to them. I'm too small, so of course I can't do manual labor, not like those normal people, with their normal speech patterns. And I'm not terribly terribly interested in everything. Just interested enough to figure out what I have to do, and do it well, efficiently, and fast. But I don't look like some barely cognizant ingratiating idiot boy who's just so so happy anyone is even considering him for anything. I actually WAS so so happy, but I had the dignity to hide it.

Fuck this town. Fuck this "community". They won't give me a place. I've lived here all my life, and I have no place, except my parents' house. I'm not allowed my own life here. Not even a 9$ an hour job at the fucking recycling depot. I'm not asking for much. JUST A FUCKING JOB AND A PLACE TO FUCKING LIVE. There is no community here. Just the usual cliques. Idiots with idiotic accents, saying things in a stupid way to fit in, to fit in, to fit in so they can keep their stupid jobs, their shitty low-paying jobs, so the enterprising people can make tons of money and live in the ring of mega-houses outside town, and their serfs can live in the shitholes below. You're not born with a Canadian accent. You acquire it, by playing along with the dumb fuck hockey jocks who can manage a puck and a stick and a bottle depot, the pinnacle of their careers. I've almost acquired that way of speaking at times, when I've been affable with the idiots around here when it seems like they aren't judging me, and aren't fucking up my future with the power they've been given by higher ups. But I shake off the stupid talk, because it's not me. So I don't talk right. I don't look right. Not like them. Even if I do my job right, it doesn't matter.

At least I can wash dishes to people's satisfaction. I can do housework. I'm valued by my parents and my girlfriend for cleaning and organizing things. Too bad I can't get paid for it. I could if I was an illegal immigrant. Desperation is so tasty to employers. I'm not desperate enough to act desperate. But I really wish some fucking person would hire me to do some simple fucking job for a barely livable wage. Is that asking a lot?

The only thing I can really do is music, because I can do it on my own terms. It'll have to be on my own terms. Fuck everything else.

belladonna

sex hasn’t been the same since they put those vitamins in our water supply. there was a slippery inversion, now we lust after the aged, the ones who dare show up at the bar. maybe this is what they meant when they said we’d live in our imaginations. we just didn’t realize the shift until we were mired in it, lusting after their imaginations, our re-sexualized crone neighbors, whose minds are filled with books we haven’t read, the implications of the failed lancaster missions, what adult children inheritors of the cultural shitheap can’t begin to piece together.

so the mental universe is unwinding, something’s moving backwards, and some say it’s perverse, but there’s no denying, the oldsters got a hold of their power. or was it the children who found it? is it us who symbiotically discovered, empowered the fermented and demented minds of the fifty, sixty, seventy somethings, dived for fecund thoughts, the intellectual fuck like the progressive rock masterpiece notated in hexadecimal grids with color-coded counterpoint? did we re-supply fort knox? the economy is in the rotted fruitcore, james’ giant peach.

“well, we kind of got back together, me and her,” i tell him, my mid-life crisis friend. “but hey, don’t let me harsh your buzz, carry out those carnal desires.” i like how that rolls off my tongue, over-enunciated, sarcastic-sounding but sincere.

“hey is this chair taken?” a young one says.

“no, have a seat,” i say, keeping the brittle tone, cutting joviality. i will be a gentlemen and refrain from offering cocain. instead i will buy her a shot.

“how are you tonight?” she asks, sitting beside me. barely sounds inquisitive, i can tell from my peripherals her eyes are darting, she’s looking for someone else, better company. i will strive to suffice. i can’t look yet, the ritual hasn’t progressed to that stage. the ritual? what ritual am i performing? i’m making it up as i go along. in peripheral, she appears slim, small, blond, one of those rag dolls i used to love, the climax would be quick and meaningless.

“this is mallory, we’re going to jam tonight,” i say. yes, get mid-life crisis connected. this isn’t for me, i’m on vitamins now. “can i buy you a drink?”

“yeah, okay,” she says, a little taken aback, sensing the trap, the ritual i haven’t finished inventing yet.

“a shot of humidor for the lady!” i call to the servant girl. i’m allowed to call her that, albeit to myself, because i gave her a ten dollar tip last night, although i’m not sure she remembers.

“what’s that?” our new table-mate asks, dry, almost as brittle as my boisterous and distancing tone. “sounds operatic.” still, it’s a good question, she can play, riff.

“yeah, i think it was carmen’s suicide elixir,” i say. i can tell mallory is straining for a monty python reference, since that is what he’s best at. now it’s my duty to give him some sort of set-up.

“one last shot and salut,” she says.

ah. i love it when i don’t have to hold the universe together at the corner of the smoking-room table.

“she’s joined the bleedin’ choir invisible,” mallory says with a grin. i allow a look and she is smiling. “what’s your name?” mallory asks.

“molly,” she says. “what are you guys doing on stage tonight?”

“we’ll just see what happens i guess,” mallory says. “hopefully get some kinda groove goin’.”

“he plays bass. did you see that huge-ass keyboard propped up against the amps?”

“mmm… i don’t think so.”

“yeah, well that’s mine.”

“keyboard player.”

“when i have to be, yeah. we’re just gonna improvise, hopefully it will be cool, maybe it will be crap. hopefully we won’t bore you.”

“yeah, well, i just came here to smoke anyway, unless you need a drummer.”

“you play drums, eh?” mallory says. “well for sure, come jam with us. looks like you need a smoke too.”

molly reaches into her purse for some change, but mallory has a canadian classic filter in her face before she gets far.

“thanks.”

the humidor arrives on a tray, it’s so easy easy when everybody’s trying to please me, sharing the wealth, your typical tequila puddle and loose change cup runneth over. she picks up the shot and slams it down, workmanlike. emerges, nearly choking but hiding the nausea admirably.

“forgot lime,” she croaks.

“yeah, that’s sipping tequila, you shouldn’t shoot it. but hey… does it help you play drums better?”

“no.” more darting eyes. it comforts me, i was getting weirded out thinking she had latched onto us, pathetic me and mallory, having to live up to being some sort of menschen. being transitory company is more comfortable. she is latching onto mallory’s cig though, like it’s her own.

“so…” somebody says, or was that in my head?

“you guys are musicians, huh?”

“well i call myself a musician when i can,” mallory says. “wanking is pretty much the highlight of my day.”

“and mine,” i chime in.

“are you guys talking still about music?”

“well let me put it this way, molly,” i say. “if my ratio of sex to masturbation was expressed as a percentage, there would be at least four decimal places.”

“one in a thousand?” molly says. “my god.”

“you know, that doesn’t sound all that bad to me,” mallory says. “or at least it didn’t while i was married.”

“oh, i have lots of sex. it’s just that i jerk off like a fiend. no pussy can keep pace!”

mallory cracks up, then gives me an odd look. he’s wondering what’s with me tonight. it’s freaking everyone out. i guess it’s the vitamins. i look over at molly and she is smiling, but it’s sort of a grimace. but sort of a smile. she’s hanging around, because we have managed to be entertaining, even though i’ve barely looked at her. mallory has looked, a lot. go mallory. close the generation gap!

“what do you do for fun, drummer girl?” he says.

“i hit things.”

there should be more. the humidor is revealing this to me, even though i didn’t drink it myself. this is crossing a line, but i lean over to her, finally looking her in the eye for the first time.

“you know you’re not real right? you’re just a topical manifestation of my short term memory, the neurons that still fire up the limbic system a little, a contrived, ad-hoc array of jumbled emotional stimuli – psychologists could glean much data from it, but as literature, it’s junk.”

“so you’re giving up on me?” molly asks me, looking back with eyes that change color every few seconds. “like i don’t have a character anywhere? you cared enough to give me some lines.”

“and you cared enough to come by. it doesn’t quite add up. things rarely do, here. maybe i’ll figure out who you are later. i haven’t really figured out who i am yet, even. all i know is, i’m on vitamins. let’s play some music.”

i continue that thought on the keys after i’m set up, saying: “this is what i’m thinking right now”, thinking it can flow, should flow, why not? kicking it off. then mallory interlopes with something that i’m not sure is a riff, and i scramble to play around it, losing confidence, and fucking everything up. is this my line, or his?

i realize i am continuing my thought, expressing my feeling, with utmost integrity, in sonic nausea. yes, a triumph of vertigo. might as well play it up. i play some arbitrary arpeggios while looking at the bar crowd. no one looks back.

i realize molly is playing, hitting the cymbals, an array of cymbals, a pattern that uses nearly every part of the kit, sounds like to me. so i lose awareness of what mallory is playing on his bass and try to match that beat, something that feels comfortable between those symbols, but the arpeggios take me away again, astray with augmented chords, so i justify it all by saying syn-copay-shin!

i return to my keys, reflecting odd-angled house lights. it’s always so different playing here. and i shouldn’t have to look up, i should be able to direct this trio with my ears, but who is the leader now, am i comping or leading? take charge! better to take charge than be uncertain, half-assed… but shouldn’t i let the rhythm section… is this chord allowed? oh, is he playing a whole tone scale? no, that’s me being desperately analytical when there’s no time to feel.

martial snare rolls in the midst of this, and sure, i’ll march with you, i’ll follow you into hell, i’ll try, anyway, i’ll do it for you, molly. let’s call this: death march, i’ll quote the dies irae, like anyone will notice, certainly not when i fuck up the melody, but you can’t really fuck up that melody cause it’s already fucked up, stuttering measures of notated meandering, so really, i’m just channeling.

of course there is no end but i pound a fermata chord between the wisps of dying drum and bass anyway, it’s not my fault, sounded good in a warped sort of context, hopefully the audience is all stoned or not listening, either would be nice, it’s over, so without missing a beat, i grab my keyboard, forgetting the patch cord which hooks on a mic stand, nearly sends me sprawling, the sound guy moves to catch me but i’m alright, another beer and i would have tumbled, but i’m alright, just keep your distance people, i’m getting my shit out of here as quick as i can.

thankfully, no one meets my eye, until

there is someone to greet me, white-haired woman without the glaze of the younger ones, but a laser-like gaze burning into me, beaming gargoyle from the bar, and when she leans into me and looks into me, i can tell she’s one of those parched and pursed gateways to incredible exponential edible mentality, eventual sexual ecstasy via the arabesque weave, the glass bead gang-bang. i’ve seen her around, on the arms of the potent, advertising her unattainability to the plebs, legendary for her mind and its flexibility in states far beyond intimacy, leaving the yoga hall where the rip-off artists conned mystic hippies, and the health club where the failing bodies would compete for the best meat. the legendary mind is looking well, carrying a sixty-five year old avatar with dignity, and if you think that for every fold in the skin are a thousand in the cortex, and the vortex that leads to is telepathic consummation of a non-local free-range rogue-star binary system in energy times the speed of light squared being an equitable metaphor for the implications of hyper-evolved dendritic entanglement and catalytic fulfillment of desire, even if you’re still stuck on the cock-gobbling chemical level, and especially if your cells are still controlling you, it can lead you pretty far. on.

she says: “it sounded like you were deconstructing keith emerson in a jazz context but a proper presentation of entropy requires coherency.”

nodding, i say: “i hadn’t thought the premise through nearly enough.” i hope this is an adequate response. maybe she’ll buy me a drink.

i think about what she looks like in her mind. her attentive eyes allow me this connection, she is splayed open and lubricated. it’s a trick i’ve acquired since my vitamins kicked in. layers peel away. colors change, it’s a seasonal kaleidoscope. her lineage does, of course, go back all the way to aphrodite, that much i can see, and she sees that i see, but no further, and let’s leave gaia out of this, wouldn’t want to get incestuous, i’m not that far into this reversal. i’ll keep it greco-roman, maybe establish a nomadic euroromp in our shared hallucination, that jet-black witch bitch, starved through anorexic aesthetics, fleshy when necessary, voluptuous at the summit of let-them-eat-cake, does she like that dress? because i do, in spite of myself, i’d put my head in the guillotine for her.

“what do you know about belladonna?” i ask, falling into the vortex, streaming through.

“i know it was useful at the opera house,” she says. “they thought our eyes were beautiful dilated, though the rogues had no need for that, they had less natural, more human methods of dilation, i could pretend you are one of them…”

Alt D

White space capsules, in their small plastic sheath, concealed, but always at hand. They're like my suicide pills, except pro-active, in the way of sedation, negation of the importance of the serious players in the drama. Maybe not self-destruct, but self-dissolve. Alt D is the self dissolve combo. I press it heavily. I am already a flake, and the flake flakes into crumbs, powders off into the night.

Damp Sailor's Sarcastic Template

"just... as you need it," he says, after crushing up the green pill under the credit card, instructing me not to rail up the whole second hit right away. he taught me this, like he taught me other things, a secret handshake, making sure i can do it right, so i don't get my ass beat. as i need it. no, he's right. the buzz is still strong. no need just yet. the problem is, what feels so righteous to play and say, and sounds so synesthetically perfect in the moment that creates it, dies quickly, leaving the purest wrong in its wake, like a paint-by-numbers sarcastic template. but that's for the aftermath, an abstraction so far over the horizon, i can't imagine. cause time is dilated when there are no worries, and you're flowing with more happy juice than any brain ever experienced at once until the advent of mescaline-derived synthetic phenethylamines. gulliver traveled with me, up the snow, not used to hills, yukon-boy, a year younger than me, already having written two novels more than me.

federico moulista is hunting for zombies. he has just taken up smoking. it makes sense, tonight. he has found himself some comrades. myself among them. all we need is some girls. yes, here in this absurd room. that would be perfect. the union. a quixotic quest in hypothetical lobes of heiroglyphical dens. just as i need it. but this thing doesn't fix everything. it's not got the force of something that needs to be said, that driving idiom thing. hopefully, the word "ego" isn't important anymore, ergo, whatever. it's not that those lofty juvenile pursuits were worthless, naive and stupid, it's just that they were more than i could be arsed to deal with, come to grips with, and actually trying to do that would look so uncynical and out of step with the function of society, so cartoonish, i'd end up in some primary colored ward of the loony bin and decent men would never so much as speak my name, because i haven't got much of a grip on anything, nor a grasp, and would rather i saved my strength to ornate the fineries. yeah, whatever pool-scraping that implies. it's a savory purple night-day on the cracked aqua concrete of the empty pool, balmysoul starshine through the sunfield, a kingly jungle of cosmic rays. it's been leagues, aeons since hallucinations, i welcome them with open arms:

after a cascade of fractals in the foam of rivers

i'm greeted by the vivid visage of a face, he's the guy

who sketched me a man in a chair

signed it

while i reeled from his weed

while i tried to eat his wife's indian food

prawns, never before, when in the

transcaucasian orchestra, he heard the pocket

as keith jarrett played. fell with me into the groove, i was so happy to have a fellow there with me, the fellowship of the groove, and it was his hydroponic edmonstone grass i'd smoked just minutes earlier, this new and improved laboratory study of a day, man alive, there are men alive in here, nobody knows how or why we keep going, maybe it's because he's hitting the piano at those intervals primed to make me feel like a dolphin being fucked by a unicorn.

federico snaps me out of my self-regarding trance. he wants to watch amadeus. i tell him no, fuck that, it's a great movie, but let's stay here and hunt zombies. it's better i tell you. and i don't even need reserves yet, anyone can plainly see, i’m flying above any sort of care anyone could ever imagine. wastoids, wasting time.

he heard the pocket. nevermind what it means. nevermind what it was. let's feel what it ought to be. the valley. stretching from one horizon to another. the ground feels high, like we're closer to heaven. it's so hot in the day. so cold at night. one girl honestly said she's on cloud nine. i believed her. i also believed the other one, who could be her counterpart, literally, or figuratively, when the dew is demonic, damp is the devil, a tremor in every extremity, a shiver in every fiber, no corner to hide to, it's all out in the open, the peripheral sounds, a drip drip of dementia and disease, all for the worse, the same person, in the dregs of morning, when other staggers are coming up, getting up, finding their own pleasure centers, when she said this is the time... the time when she feels gross. i was horribly in tune with that statement, disgustingly empathetic, striding in particular to parallel... and now, beholding this soft-spoken scream-slur in extreme third person, being months and months later, i see the erosion of values and things and scenes as being sublimely fucked up.

upgrade my gray matter. it won't be better than yours, don't worry. it can't be. i just want to whiten it with baking soda. i want high definition perception, if possible, just plug it in. headaches chase me through porter filters. bully for those stout bastards, i'm going to stave them off with naproxen, just to be specific.

it was one of those dreams that keep me coming back to sleep. the ghost in the next room got up from his professional slumber, morphed his torso upwards to my nomadic bunk, decades in the making, fifty feet high, in a little plywood corner, with my mates sleeping and wandering around and getting them selves into trouble, and ladled me some nectar, enriched with pure heroin, it was more than enough. i said i'd be a crack whore for the number 23, i'd run his numerology racket, i'd be a minion, a peon in the pyramid - just fill that empty gel cap again, drop it into my mouth, i'll do the rest. so it felt really good, and being drugged in a dream makes me lucid, because it's dealing with consciousness, so everything's meta. so i realized i was dreaming, and the dream paralysis became analog to a placid sedation, which ran through the currency exchange and allowed endorphin surplus, pro pelling me into one of those skiing dreams i love so much, where i'm whipping down diamond drill, an epic trick, a black diamond curving out beyond the blast, weaving musically through moguls, slamming stubborn slumps of snow, commanding contours, who's your daddy, comman-fucking-deering, allocating my weight precisely, allowing a twist the other way for a payday paydirt - yes, i'd call it a reverie.

reality

though

is fueled by toxins

take that as whatever jig you want

take it to the gaping lotus experience

decapitate it in a gapper

that would work, i'm sure

might even heal over certain freedom wounds i've won, by failing every test, every game

obeying every law, unwittingly.

parallel rabbit holes on a street corner

if a tree falls in the woods, is the sound transcribed

for blogger's stenographic record?

collected childhood drawings

enjoy the soft screetch of perception

of being known, of passing through a mind with a vessel

pissing in the wind, whistling past the grave yard, possibly

to be in the fossil record of the digital future

"the digital future", such a linear notion

the foot-on-the-gas mentality, non-harmony

carving a path through planetary destiny

how unfair, those roman plebs long past

never had their life stories preserved in online archives

were only represented as lucius and pullo in a tv series

the only grunts mentioned by name, by julius caesar

a haunted house with a nauseating smell

is somehow touching, a shack remains

one of a few, god forbid we run out of mystery

like we're running out of history

*

i can't stop eating these salsa flavoured chips

as long as i don't think about what i'm doing

and shut off the stomach cam, i don’t want to see

what the eyes can't digest

i'm clinging to light and a lukewarm tea cup

cause they shut off our gas

but not electricity

so we have light but not heat

and earl grey is my new favourite drink

calorie restriction

and consciousness

it’s examination

of gak

of euphoria

what is natural, should i care? what is healthy, is health natural?

what is society, is society natural, is society healthy? should i care?

calorie restriction

and consciousness

it’s awareness

of binge

of food

of brain chemicals

parallel rabbit holes, nevermind the carnivorous associations

so is this a binge, is this what a binge is?

i never noticed before

now health is an issue and

the physical can't be ignored, and the physical is mental

and the mental is physical

because it's all a series of

cycles and if you can determine the frequency, you can see

where you fit even if you don't know what is

natural, and healthy, and society, and should you care?

a wild night with half-caffeinated coffee
analyzing electro-chemical thought to the point of hallucination

a naturopathic purge

no binge this week

no booze this week, just a lot of thc

and now reeses' candy, brain candy after

that meta-fiction movie, a grim laugh at society

is it healthy to laugh at society, if a laugh is natural

does that naturalize absurdity?

alice naturalized to wonderland eventually

throw infinity at the psyche and watch it adapt

like i'm starting to like this earl grey, sans cream, naturally

helium and hydrogen

white knuckle test pilot ejected from energy
doesn’t know what to do
his delusions ballooned to infinity just like strassman said they would
but not in the way he could anticipate or deal with

heaven is in the hole
no color there
don’t think you know
don’t give me that look
don’t think you know
no color there
heaven is in the hole

No Means No Nelson

Goddamnit. Nomeansno is playing in my hometown, in my favourite bar, tonight. And I'm going to fucking miss the show. Because I'm in Kansas. I think I'm going to cry.

No, don't get me wrong. It's great to be down here, with my girl, and my american friends. I'm learning about painting, forgetting about masturbation. A fan brush seems synesthetically useful when stoned. But great fucking timing.

I'm listening to their new album, "All Roads Lead to Ausfhart". It's fucking GOOD. They've still got it. They're my second favourite band, after The Mars Volta, and that's not just the patriotism talking, although that does make enjoying their music and existence extra sweet. By all accounts, they're still devastating live. Fuck.

If anyone in town is reading this, and going to the show, throw me a bone, and tell me how it was. Maybe KCR will stream it, at least.

let's go to guam and fuck a baby
i saw a tour on the internet
they say hell wakes all sinners
but they haven't got us yet
something's wrong in the heartland
there's an evil that creeps upon this land
but they say god accepts all sinners
so why should we give a damn?
i was born of love eternal
but now i do the devil's work
if there's a god up there in heaven
he must be one big fucking jerk

- Rob Wright, Mondo Nihilissimo 2000

your character must change

Whether you "mature" towards the realization that there are things worth fighting for, and possible better futures you ignored because of laziness, cowardice, myopia...

whether you "mature" towards cynical realism, to the point that the prattling on of idealists makes you want to punch them in the nose...

you end up thinking whatever change you've made (first thing they teach you about characters in writing class: they must change), whatever the kinetics of your life's evolution, that is what constitutes truth, higher consciousness, reality. Because you've evolved beyond your naive, childish opinions, whatever they were. One shift is enough, fulfills the quota. Now you're sophisticated. Maybe not quite wise, but wis-er. In a better position to judge.

So you form your final answer. Your posture. Old age isn't wisdom, just stagnation. At least that's how it seems to me now. I'm sure I'll revise that opinion when I'm older.

Primo hypnogogia

elaborations on an ochre haze of closed eyelids, phosphene flowers. hypnogogic visions on a codeine plateau. blotto assembly line. i couldn't get her up to my place with a banana and a crysanthemum. it would take more. maybe a dali-cheque. his subconscious is worth more than most.

providential pits of clotted fate. glottal be-in. il merchant. so i'm reminded about the loss of values. maybe i should eschew the world, find the icy pleasuredome.

three crew-cut sports dicks bouncing in their chairs. one gorgeous blond with a gaudy ring. i have a walmart ring. cirrus logic shakes your riff to its soul. shakes on a plane. i envision turbulence in murder sense is an everyday chevrolet. chrome-letting the birthing stock, a chromlette running through the dyke hole. she's got a candy cunt, comes in handy, merlot flows from her nipples. why am i always tortured with beautiful people in my peripherals?

plains refrain, a gorgeous day in a gleemonex way. it's michael's shore, with a sheep and a fox. all the law we know. the gurgling chud language is faint now, indistinguishable from white noise. non-insistent itches felt from here and there. the brazen nihilism of the opiate is fading, but what is in its place, i'm not sure. maybe a purple-veined dick joke. maybe cheney's got a gun.

the codeine-induced hypnogogic images were surprisingly vivid, exotic, and quirky, and no thc was involved. just reverie, the raw material of the mind, intersecting muddy folds of the cortex.

unprecedented levels of habit - the ironic novelty of it! what do we do? there are no historical analogs for this depth of modern exhaustion!

dayum ~!

Scuzzy but lovable spot

i'm sitting on the scuzzy but lovable spot, fretting over the "wrongness" of writing in this notebook at this time and place. what if it's not wrong, but the rightest thing there could be? what if it's right and true? what then?

i didn't know it was the scuzzy but lovable spot when i wandered over and decided it was an adequate place to sit down, to stop the random walk and freeze my thoughts in cubes. i needed to clear my head. the house had become a concrescence for inebriation-exacerbated emotion-driven delusion. stoned, drunk paranoid, arrogant, everything i do is wrong, everything i do is right.

so i'm writing what is wrong, right here, right now, on this scuzzy but lovable curve, grass-clotted bank, gravel-strewn curb, rounded sidewalk edge.

what is wrong at 4 am?

what justifies paranoia at 4 am?

navel grants the right of gazing. gazeright. the rite of gaze. tremulant paranoid associations pile up on this curb, nexus of two of town's siren-haunted highways, ambulance, fire, and police routes.

and i notice, in the dark night, in the cool breeze, in the basic warmth the atmosphere has trapped at this exotic latitude, on the plains, in a small american town, near the house i'm renting with my girlfriend, that i'm in the sweet spot of the circadian cycle, on this scuzzy curb, at 4 am. the rite of spring is cool like the breeze, and cool like jazz, and cool like the vast intergalactic intelligence which happens to catch this moment in nano-intersection during an icy ocular sweep. the temperature is perfect and i feel more comfort than i've dreamed possible since resigning myself to living, barely, in a chronically flawed and deteriorating body, in a necessarily savage society, being nice in a way that is, at its core, selfish tweaking of the endorphins that fire in response to acts i perceive as altruistic, aren't i nice? yes, nice, in the way nature selected, in the behavior algorithm proved to enhance survivability by genes of eons past, not necessarily in conjunction with this hyper-morphing tech-fueled clusterfuck, but in the grander evolutionary sense, the game of trial and error and error and error and error, the madness of the monkey's interval, his time in the sun, her time in the sun, when women aren't human but something better, if the dominance hierarchy disgusts you.

but this scuzzy curb somehow makes everything right for the moment, like a rite for the moment, a sacred write, and it's okay right now, but how long will now last?

cartoons squeeze through the mesh of a suddenly shut lucidity trap. filter.

lights change, magic fades. there is perception of hallucination. i'm seeing the sawteeth of death-dealing dynamics, kinetics of the moment, in bondage to the state.

remembering it's never too late for a change. classical raggae.

but the stubborn facts of gravity from the ages, circa copernicus, creep out of the woodwork. i find them engraved on the concrete tiles of city sidewalks, how did i miss them before? am i allowed to sit on the scuzzy spot and write this in a notebook? surely the city planners didn't intend that, surely that doesn't fit into the plan, surely not now, or ever. surely it's wrong, and surely i'm not the one to be that necessary paisley comma now, or ever. surely. surely the scuzzy but lovable spot is someone else's territory, at 4 am, illicit circadian territory, a state boundary that could kill you dead, for real, for ever and ever and ever, amen.

looking for leprechauns is a tiring pursuit. it wears at you. you wear your soul on your sleeve, and it wears the sleeve out. so you say fuck it and try to find werewolves. it's eternally justified, a rainbowpin to a honkey. thumps of heavy automotive machinery, a rickety u-haul attachment. walking back, i deem my head clear enough, enough to head back into the concrescence of familiar insanity. back to the house. mutual intoxication was proving more than i could deal with, malevolence and benevolence perceived in different ways, in different places, in conflicting superposition, a yin-yang engineered for symbiotic discord.

sometimes problems can be solved by sobriety. sometimes problems can be solved by getting fucked up. states change. that's what that recess acid trip taught me. the gravel turned to liquid. melting is a cliche when it's a word, but when it's the phasing of every photon into a state of mind-controlled malleability, it's authentic "outside the field" originality, the possibility of penicillin and paradigm shift, even if the reins are out of the child's hands, never giving a thought to the rocket-ride, the elasticity of unlearned, unschooled juvenihilism, the sacred damnation of extreme innocence, momentum of the unconscious, archetypes fragmented into falling tetris blocks, shards i drop with energy warrior efficiency into perfect stalactite placement on the commodore. they're calling it retro, but it post-dates jung by decades.

Last Fit of Ecstasy (new song)

My best work yet, I think, in terms of both recording and composition. Written for performance, tweaked for computer generated audio. I had help on the lyrics from meth and raz.
Last Fit of Ecstasy

dead kitten, dead friend, dead poet, dead end
empty bottle, empty flask, empty house, shattered glass
blank stares, empty pool, scavengers from high school
broken necklace, broken bones, broken body in the snow

i haven't felt right since my last fit of ecstasy
i haven't felt right since he put his hands on me
i haven't felt right since the coke binge mentality
violated virgin brain chemistry

i haven't felt right since a lot of things
i haven't felt right since a lot of things
i haven't felt right since a lot of things
i haven't felt right since a lot of things
i haven't felt right since a lot of things
i haven't felt right since a lot of things
i haven't felt right since i lost mckenna's light

novelty novelty, where the fuck is novelty?
novelty novelty, where the hell is DMT?

is this my new paradigm?
is this a solid state of mind?
life's apotheosis - dread grimace
could my face be frozen like this?

can’t say how much i spent last night
since i came back, i haven’t felt right
life's apotheosis - dread grimace
could my face be frozen like this?

so the tension prickles up the spine of your lazyboy lounge chair
so the tension prickles up the spine of your lazyboy lounge chair
so you see through the sun in its gamma ray glare
so you feel that awareness is too much to bear
so you've decided to google "panic"
decided to google "panic"
decided to google "panic", panic

if you could only
appreciate this opportunity
if you could only be lucid
in the nightmare of history
the advantage is there
if you just have the strength
but you’ve decided to google "panic"
decided to google "panic"
decided to google "panic", panic

i should recognize this feeling as
psychosomatic transience
ride the long synaptic gap to the next meaning, feeling
once desired utopias spoiled like movies, cause

i haven't felt right since they told me the end
i haven't felt right since they graphed the trend
i haven't felt right since they told me the end
i haven't felt right since they graphed the trend

no matter how long it takes, i’m gonna take the scenic gurney
i haven’t felt right since i hit the shaman’s height

at least i have my health
a strange sort of health, i'll grant
if i had to say the alphabet backwards, i could

i know i’ve burned through a lot of things
i know i’ve burned through a lot of things
by now i’ve burned through a lot of things
but there’s still incineration to come

it's barely hallucinogenic, a glorified retinal grain
what you see after boggling for days on some dirty methamfretamine
fret fret fret

maybe this is how cancer starts
maybe it's how william burroughs starts
one thing i know, i need to keep dreaming

i haven’t felt right since a lot of things
i haven’t felt right since a lot of things
no no
no, no, no

Why did they care who was at the back of the bus?

We're all poor losers anyway.
What does it matter what our skin color is?
Is it really necessary to segregate the lower class?
Sounds redundant to me.
Then again, maybe it's vital.
Keeps up appearances.
His theoretical waspy solidarity with your cracker bus-riding ass:
Sure, I wouldn't piss on your head if your hair was on fire...
but I'm of your race, we're racial buddies, doesn't that make you feel special?
You get to sit at the front of the shitmobile
with the other fecal princes of turdtown
revel in your pigmented superiority!

Rank Blank

it turns a pacifist into a warrior, that is, a bully in the pecking order. to be ranked is to want to push around someone lower, or something, if you don’t have that bloodlust. maybe you can claim superiority in an evolutionary cul-de-sac. the kind of thing the void would appreciate, son of celesta. stay frosty, stay crystalline, keep your predictable hexagonal sheen.

slimy context fills in, sad canisters, phallic cylinders. hey. you think those hand spasms are funny? cause they’re not. not from here. not inside this capsule. indigestible.

i don’t see anything when i close my eyes, it’s infuriating, it’s like i’m blind inside. lost the rhombus in caesarian sediment and mahler symphonies i don’t listen to anymore.

dinner invitation, divination celebration of this first person divinity, right here, you’re all invited to partake in my sacredity, how lovely, don’t you agree? the cachet of the negative rank, except he’s still playing, isn’t he, so how could he attain that without the game genie? it seems like i only really live when i’m asleep.

can’t write the great prose. this day is a write off. got a few laughs though. action hotdog go! a lot of aches. no reason my back should hurt. i was supposed to exercise but i didn’t. a long sickly rut. still nauseas. still lulling. arrogant guilt with a little self-disgust. and disgust with everything. even though there are good things. dez is good. and my mom’s almond cookies. and the skootching supercomputer. but it all feels so fucked up. a lazy way to label it. labeling is lazy anyway. but less lazy than doing nothing i guess. except in my case, doing nothing as opposed to continuing to type would take effort. a ramble worthy of jandek. dark career of the soul. i can see his appeal. can sort of hear it, distant strains over the hills, not that strainy, sort of lazy. i should track my own guitar. write around an instrument i can barely play. piano is weighing me down. there are other options. there’s the tar pet trap.

i think my headphone cord is trying to hump my arm. it feels like a fondle. it feels good actually. sensuous.

i’m so sick of this window. addicted to the internet, addicted to my computer, usually unexamined. i want to shut this window, but then i’d be even lonelier than i am. for a while, but maybe soon after i’d discover some inner light. i want to take stone shelter on the rain drenched plains, and write songs the easy way, sing and play. or maybe i just want to want. there’s a chorus. when i wear my wet funboots, i want to want. leads to this arch and aching magnetic re-arrangement. don’t speak of words. spirituality ate itself. yeah well, it’s harder to find the sacred things now. but they do still turn up. one day they may turn up in my guts as intestinal parasites.

i think i need a glass of wine. i’m tempted to take a xanie. quite tempted. but i should save those for easing my interactions with people in situations where my hangups would prohibit me from getting work, even though that seems next to impossible anyway, unless nepotism comes to the rescue, like it did the only time i ever got steady employment.

anyway, i’m going to connect back to my ancient roman roots, and drink wine. let the id out a little. you’ll barely notice it. this white wine is tastier than i expected. it’s too bad it flips the switch so blatantly. closes off pre-intoxicated methods of appreciating life – from the first taste. i wish i got the exaggerated sense of verbal facility some claim. no, cannabis is the drug that makes me think i’m brilliant. and tryptamines are what make me think i’m sacred. and when i’m sober, i think i’m a snowflake.

i want to be softer now, short of liquid. the phase variance. four tet is good music. at this point. it’s finding combinations of sounds that haven’t traditionally pleased the auditory receptor systems. i don’t know what the method is. i can see my future loutish self flanged on a squeaky hinge. doesn’t look so good, but it never did. i’ll put on some shades, smudge the plastic glass with snot, obscure, cloud, blink, strobe, simulate epilepsy. maybe this is a nyquil night. maybe even a flexeril week.

i wish i could do my dreams justice in writing, but if i could do that, i’d know what those agents of the nightmare thrills were for. and that would be ridiculous, this side of the gnostic divide. i’ll just be happy with the stocking stuffers mckenna left me before he went up the chimney. a deck of cards, a fairyland sutra assortment. there aren’t many gaps in my set. i enjoyed bootlegs and trading days, it was my grateful dead tour.

fence-sleeper wants to have it both ways, life and death. semi-consciousness. a fetish of the pale, albino lust. go to the mountain where those people are. the mountain that does not exist. bring your ikea staff. the ball’s in your court. jacks, marbles, crypticity. it’s a soup you drink at the homeless shelter. it’s a romance. a hoodie, it was made in china in 2005, but it’s timeless. boxie could break it down for you. frederick abberline would recognize the taste.

am i going to get drunk, sleep, or watch a movie? i’m not in a fugue state, otherwise i’d do all three at once. a complimentary combination, it’s not unheard of. the window is flickering magic like a near-dead neon sign. maze walls narrowing, the day’s cheese long gone, new brain lobes cut away every day without notice, click click click, nothing new. run the circuit again, report at this juncture, a hallucination worth transcribing. was that a rubber duckie? not exactly.

i tried to play with a doll i drew, today, but i didn’t get very far. she looked like she knew all kinds of crazy games, but i didn’t know the rules. couldn’t make any. it was during the time i felt like smashing things, but instead i tried to command contours. it went better than i expected, but of course, short of redemption. still, i thought of draping her in paisley. it would be pornographic, but artistic. who said it had to be sacred?

jehovah’s witness temple stubbornly stands, near the graveyard. that’s too much spookiness for one neighborhood, it’s gotta violate some zoning law. nobody understands how the faith healer stays minted. or how she writes nursery rhymes for adults. it seems easy. but the only one you ever met who could do it… burned in and out of town, fucking everything that moved. barely seems real anymore, even though there are recordings. you haven’t listened to them in years. but you do sing your recollections of them when you’re really hammered.

remember the hand-drawn laminated map of annexia? best let the gibberish hang from a meat-hook, swaying provocatively, there is a vast intelligence at work, you just can’t see, but maybe you can feel, that little quirk in your personality, that crick in your neck, i will suggest, is tangentially related.

Willy Nilly

consumer fraud is getting as sophisticated as purveyor fraud? that's why i won't start a business. no patron gods for me. they killed each other on mt. olympus.

overzealous gag reflex won't retire, remaining obstinate in extra innings, bringing every cough to the point of retch. a toxic mix of coffee, goldenseal, and greasy fries. the incidents of hanging out. i'll do a cost benefit analysis later. or never. shred the files, or lose them in a mound of paper, or plain information.

the day jerks on. i see sparks of life in people, like perversely animate electronic humanoid toys. sorry to lay my diseased trip on you, it's just that this is what happens when your cachet runs out and you didn't realize it was prescription, a finite script, and no refills, and the search for life becomes a gutter dive, maybe that show tonight could contrive some situation i've been craving, something to fill the void.

biting my finger fills the void, it feels good, just a comfy bite, a friendly bite, separating myself into parts to be bitten. let's say this is spare decadence, presided over by a queasy reflex system warning me if i go too far with the self-regarding sickness, i will get a taste of the real wretched thing. pointless blunt first person fabrege interior smells like pharmasave, reasonable grace, how sweet the sound, how ambling the ambiance, rods and cones still detecting some movement. island in the aisles, i'm tempted to fake a seizure, i think it would trigger a real one, get some attention, i'd wake up in a hospital bed on a drip, and there would begin a bedridden adventure.

trapped house boy, lineage of gaulish wastrels completed by middling limey scholars, i'd like to mix it up with a guilt-drunk heartland pseudo-slut, sociology slur, looking around the room, stinking with ocular residue, puddles of ionized photons, a syrupy churn obscuring millions of options, listening to speakers at new age events talk about personal transformation, what a great idea. we must be purpose-less-ness-less.

yeah, i came back to waste away, it is okay to say? made sufficient overtures and efforts to arrive back, slack, let the spine curve, slump in discouraged non serviam because they don't want me, they'd rather have honest crooks stock the shelves, no one can see or define but i'm carrying around the curse i magnify in dawning awareness, it sinks in, the apollo-singed skin, while schizo plays playboy unknowingly, i scowl at the bearing of a better life than me, it's so obvious how everyone's above me in every category, envy corrodes possibility.

mashing up the air with my teeth, clenching, was paranoid enough to get a hair cut, foolish sellout fucker, now no job and no hair, funny, i guess i've got some sort of roman look now, i should find a brave centurion to squire, put me on the right humble path.

it's been more than a month since you've seen me, this patchwork of love and apathy, i've said shameful disloyal things but i usually feel little, even though i put my ring back on, like a talisman, apathy as retaliation, maybe a lull in co-dependency, funny, a lopside shifts the relationship, ballast and bombast pumps needy in me, still sloshing around, can't bail it out, don't want to bail out.

she learned a thousand new words for melancholy, apparently that is the swell in my malaisey vocabulary, but it feels good to ride on rhymes, a jaunty flaunt of virtuosity, too bad my hands will always be too clumsy, manual dexterity a skill i could apply if you would give me a crack at your pussy, they said it's not for me, but i demand to differ, sometimes i love to please at the other end of the charcoal filter, i'm a slave 4 u, slave with a six figure salary, indentured victor of the new economy, a spoiled spoil of the class war, discovered by a talent agency, appropriately appropriated to the southern front, with a catheter on my dingle dangle, willy nilly, vital signs stable, would be uncouth to freak out, i know, i know, it's like a guiding principle, a foundation of the new republic, i would never betray the marble ethos of deus excrementus, even if it meant keeping the war going, it's just another adorable epileptic fit after twenty stab wounds, in minute seven of the three hour death scene, most of which was redundant and unregarded.

jesus, this is getting gross and weird. well sorry, i'm just bored, oh good lord am i bored, and energetic, channeling petty devils, penned up in a picket fence perimeter for the entertainment of the earl of cul-de-sac. maybe this foolishness has shamed me into praying to the body temple, that's purpose, getting on the exercise bike, trying to defy the gravity of atrophy, just remember the dynamics of the pain/gain ratio, another tailspin, duck tales, chicken-fried goat scrotum for the young master, chest cavity filled with elf-paste, enchanted shoes, nutty bunnies, cloven-hoofed outlaw polish, wanted on seven star systems, i'll be careful. okay. sufficient. really. i can go now. now. slipstream 5000, a cgi slider.