half trance

Don't feel like nostalgia tonight. Don't feel like much of anything. Used up. Not sure what I was used for. But there's little left. Subsystem, system failure. Auxiliary failure. Rivulets of solvents. Putting weight into gravity. Agent of collapse. Another contact circuit. Zero. Flawed swallow. STING. That'll wake you up in the morning, boyo. But what about in the evening? I never made it through both traffic control classes. But I made it here. Got a job. Some kind of life. Slave to the ebb and flow of energy. Can't circumvent currents. Can't find the thrills. Guess I should do something crazy. Don't know what though. Shudder to consider context.

I'm not utterly solipsistic. I see how others write like this - expressing desolation. I read them sometimes. Not the generic other, but characters. I relate in some way I can't say poetically. But I see, reflections of redundancy. I don't know what every magic word means for them. My language is algebraic, trinomials, a future fractal of joyce, septuple bastardized. I'm left to express the dregs. Haven't written anything good in ages, the last words I cared about I read at the Vienna last week, and those were written a month prior to that. I guess it's why writing about drugs is a stronger addiction than getting high, it's guaranteed to bring temporary meaning that weighs me down in the end, magic fader. Trading sanctity for the meaning of sobriety - how could it not render everything absurd?

I'm writing to see if I can write, to see if I care about anything, to see if words make any difference, other than in the strict binary sense, of information. It may be that I'm flattening out. I won't say why. But I suppose that would be better than misery. Maybe I should give up on words. And just be a musician.

Eye sting brings memories. Neurochemical sophistry. My playlist is shuffling. I'm telling myself to resist the urge to skip every ten tracks for one I like, and give in to the wisdom of the random. Wait ten seconds, and maybe you'll see that random choice that winamp made is just what you NEEDED to hear. Iron Maiden? Yeah, okay. It's true, it does work like that. My split second reaction is NO, THIS ISN'T RIGHT, but letting it sink in brings a kind of real-time integrity. What little integrity life can squeeze out for me, these days. It's gonna be a solitary season I think. Which lends itself to integrity. I'm learning how to be anti-social again, how to stop craving.

homage to the caveman

blueball tendrils from charity's exudia mainline maraschino cherry

i still pay homage

even when setting myself up for disappointment
we brought home a barrow full of lottery tickets
from the food bank

when i win, i will take a vacation
to encino

Knock on Plastic

Bought many things today, things for maintaining and improving my quality of life, things for sleeping better, things for eating better, things for hearing music more clearly. A pile of more stress, more maintenance, more to lose. It gives me no comfort. Can’t muster the energy needed to keep my silly little life going. Can’t get into the materialism trip. So what am I working for? No one’s come to visit, not one person, since I moved in here. I feel potential meaning in people but they continually disappoint. I’ve tried to find purpose within myself, in my projects, but there’s nothing there. Just the same old patterns that stopped giving pleasure. No poetry today.

Was supposed to be a new paradigm but it solved nothing. An afternoon daydream of self-esteem for a terminal cancer patient. Variations on depression, in blog form, the minor algorithm in arpeggios, thank heavens it’s on permanent record. This is what I have to contribute. I have no one to take care of. No one who needs me. There are infinite degrees of circumstance worse than this. Doesn’t make me feel any better. Happiness is just a flaming moe away.

why do you torture me?

vision quest

now we'll do just what we like, cause agendas fray like faithful tatters, and placebo poetry immediately unfolds, a pre-emptive placenta

jemima surrender, cause that's what i hear
the review of a progress report
comfort with pieces of kokopellis

i'm gonna give it to you - cause i came here for chaos
and the fuck it feeling that frays with fun frills

how's everybody doing tonight? could not contact blogger? that's okay - you'll find it in the fray - a carrier wave? i've heard the words before - B o C buzz

it's an easy chair, veils and vantages, memories...
what do i let on that i know? heh - that sort of flow...

it amounts to more mound - having attained the tools

silly headgames... powder... substance... poetrite...

possibilities...

dissociatives... fits a pattern... where othere's have, yes, i remember now, self-expereimentation - it all fits a pattern, fanfic, and reality, it will get wrapped up in that gravity, lol, all of a suddeen, ways out you never imagined, the creaky holes popping up again, creek street node, this time?

some aesthetic flange...

philomystic

so here goes be ying down the hollow - but with soundwaves like these - see? who could appreciate ? those days that vitamins came my way - it can't be cracked but has to function...

keep those

ceiling tiles

coming

cause

god knows, i'm not worthy

goddamn soun sysmtes

uh oh

cruved shadows loook like selvesss yeah....

keep going - like that -

exp k sub - + re wiri

re wiring of a mind - available appenfage''''''

pontoic please let me get beyond the dpdsa gdoddsamn pontiaca thasrasodaw wsoe alsdkjaspijasp]] glowre
i t wasd ain hr weas fr erep'tataktakoafaolsaosjasoijsolijsolisjdf sd'






foruy u sdg hgererere'

Charlie, if you done anything you wasn’t supposed to – you know, like with the devil or something – maybe it ain’t too late to get out of it. Maybe you could go back to being the good simple man you was before.

return for refund where applicable

some quit because of the smell - some were fired for reasons too nuanced to go into here - best not to think about it - he was almost as upset as me

nevermind what i said - poetry beats prose, in the end

i guess i really don't need to write anymore

nightmare

that which resists persists - sometimes it persists anyway, but writing won't hurt, and i need a longer waking buffer before i dare close my eyes again

one of those dreams, where i wake up and stay up for fear of slipping back, insanely long bleedover, spooked with gnosis that if just the hint of that paradigm came back for an instant, i would scream - i hardly ever have nightmares anymore and my mood's been better than usual lately - so there's an imperative to sort this out, where did it come from?

it was all familiar things, mostly short term as in yesterday, or very very long term - my mom, mike, steve the studio guy's dog, and the hume - all safe, comfortable things - and all reflecting blank pitiless hostility, all empty vessels for accusatory dread - i had to think, who in my life has ever made me feel so shamed and dreadful? no one except myself - the only way to interpret the dream is that it was my subconscious distilled to pure self-loathing, complete lack of confidence, hopelessness, and despair - in the dream i never questioned why these people, mike, my mother, my employers, were so totally contemptuous of me in my desperate appeal for understanding - i felt i'd slipped into a state of psychosis and was unable to deal with life

what sent my dream into the dark woods was a conversation with a mockup of contra in front of a washing machine at the edge of a suburban patch of forest - it recapitulated an actual conversation we'd had about death last week - in that waking conversation, i'd reassured him that in my view (or maybe just hope), our inevitable deaths are "just" the death of ego - and there is conscious continuity in a sense that should assuage any fear - when the ego is gone what is left? everything else, thus, consciousness joins consciousness - but in the dream, re-iterating what has become easy axiomatic dogma, resulted in a cold mutual countenance, because we saw through it - we both felt it was semantic trickery, not giving the ego its due, "death of ego" being a more profound thing than i'd allowed - and the idea of conscious continuity without ego was nonsensical - but we each said nothing for fear of making it true

then the hume called and i realized with shock it was 3:30 AM and i was late for work - i start work at 3:30 PM, not AM now, so even though it was the hotel calling, it was obviously recalling my last job, when i worked graveyard and often postponed arrival until ridiculous hours like that... the hume has always treated me well, but in the dream i was terrified of fucking up - wandered downtown to get to work, feeling more and more psychotic, less and less confident i could work, this sickening building pressure - finally i made a decision to skip work and wander the streets trying to find a niche as an unapologetic madman, but this only intensified the shame - somehow wound up at my parents' house, needing comfort - knocked on my mom's door - she vividly looked, sounded, and felt like who she was supposed to be, but from her entry into the dream, till the time i woke up, she had a merciless scowling contempt for me, expressed telepathically, scolding me for being a psychotic fuckup - mike and the friendly dog i petted in the recording studio yesterday showed up later, both exhibiting that same attitude, voices in my head - all the good associations in my life, my only hopes to offset the fuckup feeling, the last refuge being the harshest expose to the reality of the void - i could not deny what they were saying: that i was a failure, unable to help myself, and what's more, no one could or should help me, my free ride was over - it was the full flowering of my disease, the culmination of my life - all joy and innocence had been spent, this was the end game, and it was all my fault, i'd waited too long to learn a coping strategy like everyone else - it was not fear of any imminent action but something far worse, philosophical, encompassing everything - trapped, but the nightmare statue wasn't being chased by anything visible or tangible, the monster was the ground beneath me

so where did this come from? i noticed a vague piss smell upon waking - a very tiny leak - i haven't wet the bed in decades, so my theory is that the content of the dream was triggered by the smell - it could have brought me back to childhood, when my conception of my mom was more severe, matriarchal, a goddess who could destroy my world or save it with a look - it reminded me what a horror show childhood really is, and how we forget what the stakes are, before we've constructed our reality - and how flimsy that reality is, outside the comfort zone - how powerful dreams are, simulated schizophrenia depersonalizing like deconstruction, stripping the psyche to its elements - i guess that realization is why i wrote this

the freakiest thing about the nightmare: i woke up and decided to lie down again - i was back to sleep in a minute or two and it picked up without missing a beat - i was walking down a winding road at night with lakeside/gyro overtones, with mike, and the feeling kicked in again, re-contextualizing everything, i suddenly knew it was returning and there was no escape - the "psychosis" was actually the dawning perception of my true self and by extension all of existence, but i felt it as a tangible tug on my cerebral cortex, an unwitting obsession, a telepathic exchange with mike, who quickly averted his eyes and abandoned me because he knew where i was going, shared in the nausea, couldn't help me and wouldn't if he could - a horror so pure as to eliminate any possibility of sympathy, leaving only disgust and dread

march light is filling up this creek street room i've secured for myself through musical connections and financial transactions, i think i can live with this strange self again for now - i hope so anyway - i'd forgotten how cruel the subconscious can be but i'm fucking tired, i'll risk sleep again, what else can i do?

fonebone spirituality

bonus

lady in the water, turned out to be
castaway, said she's been getting pleasure out of bad movies
seemed profound during a hallucinogenic phone conversation

kut a cross
stately profill acting up
slice me till it looks different
innovation in mutilation
fresh disfigurement forgets
that clitstim scene
maxed out cumshots
no quarter

ENIGMATIX

you aren't a crystal but you're in my head
it's aching, but i took the one ibu i had left
and two expired naproxem, bonus control
trying to settle down to sleep, it gets
crazy some nights, with shyamalan and contra
and keta and nikita and funpens and interpreters
and delusions of grandeur and illusions of telepathy
and seeing this all in a movie and talking honestly of
fears about death, what if it's nothing, but alan watts
said if we came from nothing into something, why can't
it happen again, nikita nodding eagerly, she agreed
contra hopeful, it's so funny, pretending to be a
spiritual authority, can't take myself seriously
but i really do appreciate my new friends, for sharing

k nit
waves arches groovewood
fabrege families in a mousehollow's micromicehole
schools of fish

Good God, Vintage Vinyl
dollhouse wakeup kiss
earn $ bar/MAF
are these GLOWSTIX any good?

it's bonus tonight, cortisol control
creativity surplus, seeing redundancy as artistic possibility
okay say hey sell me more of that
blood sugar control flow
it's magic enough for me

i'm thinking long range, like staying with the devil i know
for this thaw and flow, for a while, then going on vacation
if my friends are alive, i'm not totally sure, it's been weird lately
dunno if i have anywhere to go but i'd like to, since it's apparently
on me to make things happen, hopefully
with cortisol under control, exploit that bonus
situation, music school and debt and health food
a rearrangement where i can continue to play the game
and bonus, get to see that crystalizer more often, maybe
what crystalizes something, it's a necessity, the
energy has got to go somewhere, i know it's delusional
it always is, but i'll embrace the delusion again, try
and be stylish about it at least, the ibu is masking the ache a bit
and maybe style can mask the ache even more
say hey sell me some health, my stealth health campaign
under control, and endorphins are good for me
i'll get them however i can, you won't even know, with cortisol
under control, bonus

welcome to annexia

emotions are hiding - they’re out there, close, gaining strength in stealth - i can’t feel them now, but they’ll be back to rip me apart – it’s as necessary as vegetable genocide - i wasn’t build for solidity, i must be torn to the winds, i’m a weather system

"sexual frustration" is an interesting phrase, especially now, in this transient detachment - i feel uninvolved and unevolved - single-celled mindset, a lot of redundant dinucleic data - i was frustrated that "sexual frustration" didn't adequately convey a heartache i was feeling when i used the phrase, like lust was the surface rust on a centuries-old shipwreck - and then there was the time this girl i was chatting with talked of sexual frustration - i was a pinball sorcerer till i ran out of quarters, it was a frustrating game, the flashing lights drove me insane, i got a little too involved

i'm in some blank reprieve – some - don’t know which one - dull-eyed, tired, can't sleep - haven't got any useful meds - got some money and material – a materialist’s inventory but no meaningful activity - putting life in context like i put dishes in the dishwasher, my professional niche, my life’s work, my one true talent, a serf’s birthright, pays the bills, putting life in context like an obsessive compulsive puts personal items in the order only he understands, an arbitrary order that must be just so, once more, from the top – i’m halfway through a william burroughs bio on wikipedia - lost interest in health - disease seems reasonable – all behavior is neurosis, woodland stress, quasi-rural culture-shock baseline – mike told me he was diagnosed with the list – you know the list, everyone’s got one – if you get your head checked you come back with the list – obsessive compulsion, depression, mania, attention deficit disorder – implying there’s an order – well there was – it was vegetarian – but they don’t serve our kind at the CHUD café

read some of my journal entries from eight years ago - not much has changed really - i'm still this silly person with etched idioms, behavioral patterns inherited from a homeworld that won't have me, that demands imaginational reserves i splurged on level designs for first person shooters, a world i was going to write about but couldn't, that exists as notes for a novel i'll never finish - idiomatic patterns, synesthetic art - i write draw play music, soulless patterns, expressing emptiness with brilliant babble, play of light and sound, amateur - no commercial value, artistic value in that little riff i receive here and there, props from an equally amateur colleague, we're in the same pathetic league, i sample other people on occasion, sometimes feels right to reciprocate, sometimes it's even spontaneous, can circumvent contrivance on an overcast afternoon walk when i'm at my best, i sample, and one in a hundred samples is recognized - i've become lazy, atrophied, energy is rare for me, i take the path of least resistance, that's my artistry, i've become one with texture, redundant writing, the drug of dregs, the dregs of drugs, dragging me through what looks more and more like the way things are, just that way, the utility of futility

i'd almost managed to sleep tonight, the inanity of astroboy on daily motion, episode 3, save the classmate, the soporific purity of a japanime morality play formula almost lulled me to real sleep - woke up with thoughts of william burroughs shooting his wife - why that historical fact woke me up i have no fucking idea - but it did - every once in a while it hits me that william burroughs shot his wife - like whoa, how could i forget that? why do i care? i guess it's just startling sometimes to be reminded that something like that could become trivia in someone's life, rather than, say, the focal point - somehow the fact shattered a precarious hypnogogic state in this absurd life i've slipped into - so i got up and wiki'd bill - i feel a kinship with him tonight, even though i can't really write - but i like writing as an idea, and dreaming, and forging morphine scripts while living on allowance - it's a strange time to be alive, even stranger than that fucked up century he was allowed

i've managed to secure enough trappings of "independence" that i'm not on allowance anymore, even though "independence" is illusory, there are endless layers of sick support, factory farms and arms deals for synergistic slaughter, it's a lean-to shanty town, we've fallen all over each other to prop up a materialistic junkheap, gene made a machine, the machine made gene, he can't remember any other scene, it's the meme, it's clean, chlorine, what else you gonna do? stay in the pool, fluid, won't freeze, keep it warm, sober winter warmth, machine warmth, cause it's easier to warm up than cool down, summer will bring sweat and insanity, too much, maybe i'll find a way to be healthy, but health seems insanity, that maniac focus, that losing game - and the drugs i'm on are an ever-fluxing concoction of what's available and how much life is left in a pattern, how far the fractal extends before the frays blunt into boring curves, not much self-control, just self-loathing, with little blips of self-love to keep the stupid game going for a hopskotch stagger, rarely hip, futurehead, pills on a picnic, making a show of having fun at a silent auction, shallow people on facebook

sometimes i can crack the shell of shallow people, reveal their depths, revel in them till they scare me, but usually it's dissociation with a side of sexual frustration, a dream, semi-lucid, one i can't quite control, only analyze, meta-uselessness - also wiki'd crack today - guess which kind - it's very dreamy, the pale kind, not the pixar kind - not phosphorus peelback, sufficient cut-up code, how appropos - not that much has changed - let's do the timewarp again, pardner - shallow people - even the ones i love - no meaning here and now, nothing sensible to do - i'm not pushing a rock up a hill - bones in my hand, yeah, noted, note able, from each according to his ability, why do liberals love communist murderers? you said it, not me - mad TV - saturday night dead - head start - peewee's playhouse - let down your hair

five pounds of flax

depleted seeds - i ate them all, already - my health food - was glad of an alt liver to guide me - but did succumb to my own gaktastrophy tonight, and yes, there was msg in that dip, eschewed crackers when what was left in the fridge ran out - and yes, you would walk to the end of town to get some more - a pabst celebration, more of the same - let's rent a hall, a very merry unbirthday - you would walk to the end of town to get some more - or is that me? is it doable? i think so - couldn't sleep - subconscious itchy - perpetually semi - haven't had decent sleep in weeks - don't know what it is - trying to be healthy, it's been something to work for, work through - but it makes me itchy -- vitamin S, solipsism, self-reliance, living with self - strange situation - flush with what? purge in every other way - toxicity, stackheap overflow - log cabin republicaint - ain't no crisis we can define without rolling our eyes, chasing the bright shiny things of sarcasm - transparency and chemical control over mood leads to the same cycle slavery, but maybe i never said it and meant it so much as that last time - maybe i won't walk to the edge of town, but if the store was open - no tweak mission tonight - but things are moving faster, aesthetic sensibilities fading, the real test of values, the sink or swim trials like nuremburg, judgment, flashy aesthetic transience dying, what remains? hard to define - oh i managed to avoid the cycle of drinking more pabst long enough to notice the sting of heavy eyelids, the reduced oxygen levels in the brain - maybe i can sleep now, but i doubt it - i'll find a way to itch - unconscious blotch

i'm not your problem anymore?

okay then

i stuck with you, through your misery
your bottomless depression, your masochism
your infidelity, your depression
your manias, your excess video rentals
your coffee and baileys, your album, your drinking
your driving me around parsons, your convenience store job
your drinking, your smoking out in the cold
your smoking in escher's house, your st. vincents shopping sprees
your laughter, your depression, your depression
your depression, your depression, seemed worth it
despite misery, a co-dependency, synergy
in the understanding of mutual anxiety, something
to stick with, till the end

i'm the dumbass who stuck around, you say
but I'M not YOUR problem, anymore
cause i'm bipolar, too much for you to deal with
I'M too BIPOLAR, one minute insanely sad
the next minute loving you
who can come to grips with such madness? madness
it's almost as if i'm heartbroken or something
like i've resorted to that cliche

well i'm not your problem
and you needn't phone me sober
drunk will do, cause that's what you do
you only call people drunk, that's how you roll
so i shouldn't expect to ever hear you again
without slurred speech and screaming curses
cause i'm not your problem anymore
talking to me sober is problematic for you
and i wouldn't want to cause you problems
cause i'm not your problem anymore
you escaped - have a wonderful life
like a zoloft commercial
i'm sure you'll be a happy
family, i bet you get along great
with his kid

so, how do i purge five years?
how does an archivist delete five years of his life?
recordings are everywhere, collaborative songs
labours of love, but they've gotta go, like
for real, not just the recycle bin, but this time
the backups too, this is the real purge, cause it's gotta die
so she says, and she finally convinced me
letters letters - digital, hard copies, birthday cards
half my clothes are from her, no three quarters
so i guess i’ll do the thrift store on my own now and
drawings, jewelry, uh oh, she bought that book for me
well it's just a book, i can get it at the library
so i’ll toss it, along with all the pictures
wallpaper, digicam photos, videos
self-confidence, security, love, purpose
everything must go, liquidate

i'm not her problem anymore

Retrograd ‘08

Black ocean, white noise. Black ocean, white noise. I drove the emotions away. They’re now in stealth mode, plotting their next attack. They’ll be back to rip me apart. It’s as necessary as the annual vegetable massacre, I must be torn to the winds. I’m feeding an ecosystem with anxiety and awkwardness, nutrients for the creatures that feed on negativity, it’s all a rich tapestry, you can thank me later, in the natural history museum, you can mention me in a plaque, the epitaph to my single-celled life, uninvolved and unevolved, with a pile of redundant deoxyribonucleic data, recessive and depressive but there’s meds for that, here and now. I got a materialist’s inventory but no meaningful activity. Putting life in context like I put dishes in the dishwasher, my profession, my life’s work, my one true talent. A serf’s birthright, pays the bills, putting life in context like an obsessive compulsive puts personal items in the order only he understands, an arbitrary order that must be just so, once more, from the top.

Halfway through a William Burroughs bio on wikipedia, lost interest in health. Disease seems reasonable, all behavior being neurosis, woodland stress, quasi-rural culture-shock therapy. Mike told me he was diagnosed with the list. You know the list, everyone’s got one. When you get your head checked by your head checking professionals you come back with the list: obsessive compulsion, depression, mania, attention deficit disorder – implying there’s an order. Well there was. It was vegetarian, but they don’t serve our kind at the CHUD café.

I'd almost managed to sleep tonight, the inanity of Astroboy on daily motion, episode three, “save the classmate”, soporific purity of a japanime morality play. But I woke up with thoughts of William Burroughs shooting his wife. Why that historical fact woke me up I have no fucking idea - but it did. Every once in a while it hits me that William Burroughs shot his wife - like whoa, how could I forget that? Why do I care? I guess it's just startling sometimes to be reminded that something like that could become trivia in someone's life, rather than, say, the focal point. Somehow the fact shattered a precarious hypnogogic state. So I got up and wiki'd Bill. I feel a kinship with him tonight, even though I can't really write. But I like writing as an idea, and dreaming, and forging morphine scripts while living on allowance. It's a strange time to be alive, even stranger than that fucked up century he was allowed.

I've managed to secure enough trappings of "independence" that I'm not on allowance anymore, even though "independence" is an illusion. There are endless layers of sick support, factory farms and arms deals for synergistic slaughter, it's a lean-to shanty town, we've fallen all over each other to prop up a materialistic junkheap, gene made a machine, the machine made gene, he can't remember any other scene, it's the meme, it's clean, chlorine. Stay in the pool, it won't freeze, we’re keeping it warm, sober winter warmth, machine warmth, cause it's easier to warm up than cool down. Summer will bring sweat and insanity, it’ll be too much to handle. Maybe I'll find a way to be healthy, but health seems crazy, manic focus, a losing game. There’s no self-control, just a lot of self-loathing, with little blips of self-love to keep the game going for a hopskotch stagger, rarely hip, futurehead, pills on a picnic, making a show of having fun at a silent auction. Dissociation with a side of sexual frustration. Retrograd Zero Eight: The School of Hard Knockers. Well we got no class, and we got no principles. Gasoline rainbow. Immortality in absurdity.

The Pick of Destiny has been looping on the living room TV for weeks. Digital video wallpaper. Yesterday it was Blades of Glory. Will Ferrell hungover, puking in his evil wizard costume. Nostalgia for when I first saw that movie, at the theatre, with the X. Has it really been years? Now I’m intimate with K. Stranger danger cart. Mummy's ready for his mystical journey. Heavenly amorality. Eyecrust and angel dust. It tastes like wood when the crystals drip down my throat and I become the floor, curling into the grainy groove. Heaven’s on the rug, and Creek Street is the nexus of the universe. I’m an angel, a cockless wonder. I'm loved, in a distant, ephemeral way. Never physically. Not involved in earthly things. Absurd that transference to spacious telepathic being comes down to ketamine. A paradox. Absence of body is the presence of powder.

But it’s good to get drunk after returning from a reality-obliterating psychedelic bender. It feels almost innocent, alcohol. You know where you stand. Folks lend a hand. Finley’s at 1 AM, dead monday night bleedover. Kept it simple and solo, the intent was to drink, not socialize. Soaked in the bar, associations of good times, stupid fun, talking of sorostitutes, the game where you name your top three whatever. The last time the X was in town. Guzzled bulk cellar wine when I got back home, blacked out. In the morning I found that I’d added an old friend on facebook. The guy who taught me what songs could be, from those days when Nelson had a soul. I’d been on a memory trip, listening to the Charlottes open stage compilations, shameless abuse of nostalgia. I guess adding C was supposed to be a "fuck you" to the X, like hey pal, remember me? I decided, what do I care if you fucked the nymph while she was mine, you're hardly unique in that, so whatever, it means nothing, let's be friends, in that shallow facebook way. Waging the war against the girl by dropping my vendetta against the guy. Calling it ancient history.

The good thing about burnout is that you get burned out of burnout. Eventually, it’s just a part of life, not something to obsess over. Another meal. Frozen peas and coffee. Thermodynamics. I still talk in reductio ad absurdum, it's an irritating imprint, a vice. But the hollowness is no longer a revelation. It’s nature. It's the ground, whale guts everywhere. Holey. Solace in soulessness. Jo mama's so soulless she don't know what a soul is. She don't think one even exists. Sho nuff, she takes solace in this. Grist for the mill.

Western Turgid Inarticulate

No one comes to visit. Don't worry about the wrath of me. I don't know why I thought a change in living arrangement would change anything. About my fundamental insecurity and awareness of being nothing. I ran out of things to blame. I blame everything. I blame God. I blame myself. Down time. Waiting for someone to lift my spirits. Sitting on the soggy shoulder of the chunnel, watching traffic go by. There, a metaphor. The only one today, half a hallucination. Unremembered dreams. A grain of rice. What the welfare cosmos will apportion to me, a reduced ration, as punishment for artificial perception enhancement eschewing shamanic means. Can't write anything. Can't play anything. Will avoid pretending to be suicidal, at least. There is no therapy. There is no art. Tired. Turgid. Mired. Dead inside. No imagination. Memories of better times. There's no going back to that. No future. The past was downtime too, but I milked it. Ate at burger king. Now it's gone. The comfortable delusions with it. That feeling of being complete, buoyant, having a life. Awareness of emptiness. No logical end to this. Could stop now, could go on. Cassandra Gemini. Appreciation? Ration? Reason. They've been hyping valentine's day for a week already. Erotic poetry night. Happy birthday. I'm maintaining, for no purpose. Got a thousand dollar keyboard amplifier, and custom fit earplugs on order. Funny how I used to play video games. Like they were all I needed. Painful memories lost in sludge. Parties pounding at the edges, temples, gonna have to crank the white noise, lie down, summon superfluous sleep. Work tomorrow. Mindless work. The 17 minute improv is over.

nevermind

gratuitous grace

seeth

demon piglet

blunt nuzzle

broken key

first aeon of penance

cryptic thumbs in peripherals

not for me

maybe next epoch

scab, pockmarks

when you're tired of
delala flalor
when that line was razored down to something
when it meant everything because of nothing.

or something

well...

it becomes an ebn flo nthngasys

novela

binary code