i was meant for greed
coulda been a contender, so greedy
coulda been the champion, the greediest
people woulda needed me, and i coulda been so good
at being rich and nothing else
i remember the money games i came up with as a kid
that were like spontaneous training, that i never used later in life
i got my sister, and my friends, and my friends' sisters
to ride around on the deck of david's parents' house
on tricycles and bicycles and fischer price layers
of social stratas while i sat on the center table
collecting and apportioning coins and bills from the 1980s
according to an evolving system of rules
that felt natural in a brilliant synthetic subset of nature
that was my diamond-in-the-rough creation, work is play!
a moment in the sun, a glint, a hint of coulda-beens
if i don't do it, somebody else will
so let them
let them get credit, let them get laid
let them be the horny holy prophet
incidentally, it's in us all to express genius and power
i'll wave my warms in an inclusive manner as i hear the ring of spring reverb
we've all been deputized to do this or that, but changes could be made, internally
5/08/11
4/26/11
What is my purpose?
What is my purpose in life? At least, at this stage in my life? I need to figure this out, because I feel so lost.
My purpose is... to package savoury. It's a job, jobs are good, they give people purpose. They give people income. I can get lots of hours, and steady pay. It's a recipe for insanity, but it's better than other jobs I've had. My co-workers are pleasant, in spite of, or because of their possibly-dangerous levels of blood-savoury content. We have savoury in our blood, literally, it's so dusty. My eyes are heavy, I just got off work.
It's no dream job, and yes, I'm a cog, but Cogswell isn't all that bad in the live action version, though he does have a mustache like in the cartoon. Wait, wasn't that Mr. Spacely who had the mustache? Anyway, when he drops by, it's not a drag. A purpose, not the purpose, could be found in packaging savoury. Running out the clock. Running on auto-pilot to keep the hands busy because it isn't break time yet, but break time is coming, Timmie's time, candy junk smoke cards time, am radio game-show time. Purpose in making enough money to live, if not independently, at least more than I have been thus far.
My purpose is to stop backsliding into the indulgences of protracted adolescence and ugly ego-trips. I've done those juvenile delinquencies to death, but it's been so wrapped up in this image of The Artist as Rebel, or something, that I still worry about becoming a goody-goody. It's time to leave the carnival funhouse mirrors. But I still get to look back and laugh every so often. And even take it seriously too, like a libran on tramadol.
It would be purposeful to accept that the "party like a rock-star" days are over for me. There's just no point in continuing to try and recapture unrepeatable, context-bound past glories. Until I find a new way to party, or to be a rock-star, I can deal with my nostalgia for the lifestyle I grazed by using the notes, song scraps, memories, and experience I accumulated over those quasi rock-star nights and days, for creative endeavors. For fuck sake, that's what I've been meaning to do since I started aping the rock-stars in the first place. But the means became an end. Many ends.
My purpose is to stay ahead of my opponent, the part of myself that's always dragging us down (slow anesthetized suicide, anyone?) in our neck-and-neck race - just in time for turning thirty, which is the new twenty, thus, adulthood, or something. Thirty! Fuck, that still gives me the creeps, that that's happening this year. The stupid waves are at record amplitude. I'm going through the wash, but I don't feel clean. I feel nauseous and out of place - a bit like Bingo the Clowno, except he did have a place in the circus, upon accepting his role. I don't have that luxury. But I do have a salvation army bed to fall back on, if things get too hairy. I haven't yet burned the bridge to the Wiseman Center. I'll even eat the Newfoundland fish brew they serve there sometimes - if I have to, in order to be polite, and take nourishment, literally.
Purpose could be had in quitting caffeine and re-growing the capacity to feel actual energy again. It's like I'm on pharmaceutical-grade proletarian speed all day. I substituted the high-powered club-uppers for a shitty drug that got its hooks in me. It burns out my brain just the same - it's just less noticeable, that's all. But I'm clueing in. It might be nice to digest normally, and sleep and wake normally, and have more than a two hour time window to get anything done. While I'm at that, I could quit the trazadone, and learn to sleep naturally again, and allow my dreams to flow naturally again, and be something approaching recharged in the morning. Staying off the cigarettes goes without saying.
This lethargy problem is the bane of my existence. I never tire of saying that, anyway. It would be purpose enough to solve that problem. Whole chapters would follow from that, novels even, spin-off prequels, motion picture adaptations! Easier said than done. I don't know what the root of the lethargy problem is. Could be so many fucking things. That's why I'm always on about drugs, if not on drugs. Well that's reason number fifty-nine. Maybe it's parasites. Maybe it's what everybody feels when they get on the wrong side of their twenties but most people don't complain about it as much as I do. Maybe I can't solve the lethargy problem and I just gotta live with it. That suuuuuure wooooooould suck. But even if that's what has to pass, I could at least avoid using drugs as a quick and stupid way of feeling alive again. I could stabilize. It would take time, and more patience than I currently have - a lot more. But purpose would flower from just that state, the state of stabilization, manifold function like a marigold, unfurling. Crazier things have happened - not to me, but they've happened, I figure.
I could take purpose in keeping a clean head, if I could cultivate just a little more discipline. I'm not talking monastic shit, just more willpower than I've got now, the little that's been whittled to a sliver since addiction. With a clean head, I could work on my spirit - not with brute force, but a light touch - addition by subtraction, Japanese gardening. But I shouldn't drive myself crazy trying to live up to my fussy detail-obsessed standards concerning things that don't matter much really. They results in manic depressive cycles - no harmony or equilibrium.
Perhaps most importantly... I could continue weening myself off the zoloft, until I get to zero, and stay at that baseline, that I haven't known in so many years - and see what it's like. Reconnect with the full weight of my emotions. Something like that really happens after quitting anti-depressants, I hear.
Purpose could be had in going about my day-to-day life with sufficient satiating focus on the here and now - and not worrying about a goddamn career or a degree, or where the start of my path to martyrdom or artistic maverick is. I don't know what the hell to study or do with my life, what my vocation is, what I'm suited for, if anything - and what's the point in banging my head against a wall trying to solve that koan?
Purpose could be had in playing one or two more shows with "In The Flesh", polishing those cover tunes, then quitting the band to focus on my own stuff. There's also.... sigh.... the For The Love of Learning collaborative album project, tentatively titled "The Drop Ins", that I started last February, since abandoned. It's more than worthwhile, for so many reasons. I want to finish that. But in the purpose-driven future, I shouldn't take these draining logistical nightmares for art projects. Rather, I should be true to my own artistic drive, and follow my creative bliss. It's still in there somewhere, I feel, but my compass doesn't work too well here. There's so much noise. Ringing in my ears, campaign signs on the streets in clusters.
My purpose is in keyboard improvisation technique. To be a one man Keith Jarrett, that would do. I mean, the attempt is purposeful, obviously the goal is absurd. Improvisation is where my damn soul is, I'm just realizing that! Maybe if I was in Nellie-town with Malik and one of his many fine bass-playing colleagues, my purpose would be in doing the power trio thing we talked about, but here and now, it's improv, and not for an audience! It's my improvs, that's exactly what I should be throwing myself into, if I had to pick one thing - and maybe I fucking well should pick one thing, cause I'm spread thin and stagnant, at least to the behaviorists. My mind is smoldering, but the fuel to set it blazing is buried under some uncooperative brainlobe. Maybe in the next life chapter I could incorporate an audience. I want to get away from ego trips. Okay, and into solipsism, but that's not quite the same I don't think.
My purpose is to gradually improve myself. Let's be realistic. Run with Briar, around town, around the lake, down the jogging paths - and see if it's really true that there's such a thing as going from this flimsy body I'm stuck in, to something noticeably fitter. Watch her when she starts a new painting session and learn the basics. Conquer my fear of the canvas and give in to my latent fascination with oils.
Purpose could be had in eating better - and allowing that to be a new paradigm. Cooking with Briar. It's amazing what I enjoy, that I would never think of myself. I could see there being a chemical spiritual interface there. I already have an inkling about how to eat a peach and not merely consume it. Zen may not be purposeful, but it could serve, for me. There are shadows of forests, but it's hard to make sense of it.
My purpose is to love my woman. Yes, I feel possessive these days. Not like I own her, but like there's a bond. I don't know if that's that the done thing, to blog about this sort of thing. But just because I was sentimental once, on a blog, about a relationship that failed, well, that doesn't mean I ought to censor myself forever after, does it? I'd refer you to The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind - you know, that sort of thing. Things rarely feel worth blogging about. Nonsense is usually the best subject matter, it takes a rare bit of sense to attract words from me, in sentence case, no less. I could become someone she could lean on, one day, when she would trust me and herself enough to fall like that, into my arms.
My purpose is to love my family. And let them know that in ways less run of the mill than my standard repertoire.
My purpose is to love my program family. Not take them for granted or forget how many times I've been welcomed back into the rooms. We could go on hikes again, that's the best way to break the ice with them, things were gooey last summer but they froze a bit this winter. Purpose could easily be in not letting anything drive me to drink again - but rather to reach out - even pick up the fifty pound cellphone.
My purpose is to love this land, as an adopted home, for now - especially over the coming spring and summer. Enjoy the days.
My purpose is to love my friends back west. Write them more often, pick up the phone occasionally with the faith that the dread I feel when dialing someone I haven't talked to in forever will, before long, fade to laughter and informative Kootenay trivia. Use Skype for god's sake. Maybe get a webcam.
This is my purpose now, and I need to write this to feel right, cause I'm lost and exhausted and a little messed up. But there could be purpose in a few things, hypothetically speaking.
My purpose is... to package savoury. It's a job, jobs are good, they give people purpose. They give people income. I can get lots of hours, and steady pay. It's a recipe for insanity, but it's better than other jobs I've had. My co-workers are pleasant, in spite of, or because of their possibly-dangerous levels of blood-savoury content. We have savoury in our blood, literally, it's so dusty. My eyes are heavy, I just got off work.
It's no dream job, and yes, I'm a cog, but Cogswell isn't all that bad in the live action version, though he does have a mustache like in the cartoon. Wait, wasn't that Mr. Spacely who had the mustache? Anyway, when he drops by, it's not a drag. A purpose, not the purpose, could be found in packaging savoury. Running out the clock. Running on auto-pilot to keep the hands busy because it isn't break time yet, but break time is coming, Timmie's time, candy junk smoke cards time, am radio game-show time. Purpose in making enough money to live, if not independently, at least more than I have been thus far.
My purpose is to stop backsliding into the indulgences of protracted adolescence and ugly ego-trips. I've done those juvenile delinquencies to death, but it's been so wrapped up in this image of The Artist as Rebel, or something, that I still worry about becoming a goody-goody. It's time to leave the carnival funhouse mirrors. But I still get to look back and laugh every so often. And even take it seriously too, like a libran on tramadol.
It would be purposeful to accept that the "party like a rock-star" days are over for me. There's just no point in continuing to try and recapture unrepeatable, context-bound past glories. Until I find a new way to party, or to be a rock-star, I can deal with my nostalgia for the lifestyle I grazed by using the notes, song scraps, memories, and experience I accumulated over those quasi rock-star nights and days, for creative endeavors. For fuck sake, that's what I've been meaning to do since I started aping the rock-stars in the first place. But the means became an end. Many ends.
My purpose is to stay ahead of my opponent, the part of myself that's always dragging us down (slow anesthetized suicide, anyone?) in our neck-and-neck race - just in time for turning thirty, which is the new twenty, thus, adulthood, or something. Thirty! Fuck, that still gives me the creeps, that that's happening this year. The stupid waves are at record amplitude. I'm going through the wash, but I don't feel clean. I feel nauseous and out of place - a bit like Bingo the Clowno, except he did have a place in the circus, upon accepting his role. I don't have that luxury. But I do have a salvation army bed to fall back on, if things get too hairy. I haven't yet burned the bridge to the Wiseman Center. I'll even eat the Newfoundland fish brew they serve there sometimes - if I have to, in order to be polite, and take nourishment, literally.
Purpose could be had in quitting caffeine and re-growing the capacity to feel actual energy again. It's like I'm on pharmaceutical-grade proletarian speed all day. I substituted the high-powered club-uppers for a shitty drug that got its hooks in me. It burns out my brain just the same - it's just less noticeable, that's all. But I'm clueing in. It might be nice to digest normally, and sleep and wake normally, and have more than a two hour time window to get anything done. While I'm at that, I could quit the trazadone, and learn to sleep naturally again, and allow my dreams to flow naturally again, and be something approaching recharged in the morning. Staying off the cigarettes goes without saying.
This lethargy problem is the bane of my existence. I never tire of saying that, anyway. It would be purpose enough to solve that problem. Whole chapters would follow from that, novels even, spin-off prequels, motion picture adaptations! Easier said than done. I don't know what the root of the lethargy problem is. Could be so many fucking things. That's why I'm always on about drugs, if not on drugs. Well that's reason number fifty-nine. Maybe it's parasites. Maybe it's what everybody feels when they get on the wrong side of their twenties but most people don't complain about it as much as I do. Maybe I can't solve the lethargy problem and I just gotta live with it. That suuuuuure wooooooould suck. But even if that's what has to pass, I could at least avoid using drugs as a quick and stupid way of feeling alive again. I could stabilize. It would take time, and more patience than I currently have - a lot more. But purpose would flower from just that state, the state of stabilization, manifold function like a marigold, unfurling. Crazier things have happened - not to me, but they've happened, I figure.
I could take purpose in keeping a clean head, if I could cultivate just a little more discipline. I'm not talking monastic shit, just more willpower than I've got now, the little that's been whittled to a sliver since addiction. With a clean head, I could work on my spirit - not with brute force, but a light touch - addition by subtraction, Japanese gardening. But I shouldn't drive myself crazy trying to live up to my fussy detail-obsessed standards concerning things that don't matter much really. They results in manic depressive cycles - no harmony or equilibrium.
Perhaps most importantly... I could continue weening myself off the zoloft, until I get to zero, and stay at that baseline, that I haven't known in so many years - and see what it's like. Reconnect with the full weight of my emotions. Something like that really happens after quitting anti-depressants, I hear.
Purpose could be had in going about my day-to-day life with sufficient satiating focus on the here and now - and not worrying about a goddamn career or a degree, or where the start of my path to martyrdom or artistic maverick is. I don't know what the hell to study or do with my life, what my vocation is, what I'm suited for, if anything - and what's the point in banging my head against a wall trying to solve that koan?
Purpose could be had in playing one or two more shows with "In The Flesh", polishing those cover tunes, then quitting the band to focus on my own stuff. There's also.... sigh.... the For The Love of Learning collaborative album project, tentatively titled "The Drop Ins", that I started last February, since abandoned. It's more than worthwhile, for so many reasons. I want to finish that. But in the purpose-driven future, I shouldn't take these draining logistical nightmares for art projects. Rather, I should be true to my own artistic drive, and follow my creative bliss. It's still in there somewhere, I feel, but my compass doesn't work too well here. There's so much noise. Ringing in my ears, campaign signs on the streets in clusters.
My purpose is in keyboard improvisation technique. To be a one man Keith Jarrett, that would do. I mean, the attempt is purposeful, obviously the goal is absurd. Improvisation is where my damn soul is, I'm just realizing that! Maybe if I was in Nellie-town with Malik and one of his many fine bass-playing colleagues, my purpose would be in doing the power trio thing we talked about, but here and now, it's improv, and not for an audience! It's my improvs, that's exactly what I should be throwing myself into, if I had to pick one thing - and maybe I fucking well should pick one thing, cause I'm spread thin and stagnant, at least to the behaviorists. My mind is smoldering, but the fuel to set it blazing is buried under some uncooperative brainlobe. Maybe in the next life chapter I could incorporate an audience. I want to get away from ego trips. Okay, and into solipsism, but that's not quite the same I don't think.
My purpose is to gradually improve myself. Let's be realistic. Run with Briar, around town, around the lake, down the jogging paths - and see if it's really true that there's such a thing as going from this flimsy body I'm stuck in, to something noticeably fitter. Watch her when she starts a new painting session and learn the basics. Conquer my fear of the canvas and give in to my latent fascination with oils.
Purpose could be had in eating better - and allowing that to be a new paradigm. Cooking with Briar. It's amazing what I enjoy, that I would never think of myself. I could see there being a chemical spiritual interface there. I already have an inkling about how to eat a peach and not merely consume it. Zen may not be purposeful, but it could serve, for me. There are shadows of forests, but it's hard to make sense of it.
My purpose is to love my woman. Yes, I feel possessive these days. Not like I own her, but like there's a bond. I don't know if that's that the done thing, to blog about this sort of thing. But just because I was sentimental once, on a blog, about a relationship that failed, well, that doesn't mean I ought to censor myself forever after, does it? I'd refer you to The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind - you know, that sort of thing. Things rarely feel worth blogging about. Nonsense is usually the best subject matter, it takes a rare bit of sense to attract words from me, in sentence case, no less. I could become someone she could lean on, one day, when she would trust me and herself enough to fall like that, into my arms.
My purpose is to love my family. And let them know that in ways less run of the mill than my standard repertoire.
My purpose is to love my program family. Not take them for granted or forget how many times I've been welcomed back into the rooms. We could go on hikes again, that's the best way to break the ice with them, things were gooey last summer but they froze a bit this winter. Purpose could easily be in not letting anything drive me to drink again - but rather to reach out - even pick up the fifty pound cellphone.
My purpose is to love this land, as an adopted home, for now - especially over the coming spring and summer. Enjoy the days.
My purpose is to love my friends back west. Write them more often, pick up the phone occasionally with the faith that the dread I feel when dialing someone I haven't talked to in forever will, before long, fade to laughter and informative Kootenay trivia. Use Skype for god's sake. Maybe get a webcam.
This is my purpose now, and I need to write this to feel right, cause I'm lost and exhausted and a little messed up. But there could be purpose in a few things, hypothetically speaking.
4/25/11
4/24/11
feeling off
feeling off in her company is better than on with me
it's plenty to work with
all i really have to worry about for tomorrow is bus fare
that's all i told myself i have to worry about, when considering the list of things to do that rarely get done
something's off with me, chemical, emotional, spiritual, all that, y'all
i can't even be pithy or poetic, can't externalize soul, can't feel it inside
i can sort of draw hydro-electric whale-bone channels that may be good for something
on everybody-gets-a-trophy day
that's a symptom of what's off, that i can't express
it's a blockage, i feel like i need to snap, maybe that could be done
with feng-shui and synergy
nothing is working quite right, even if i got the right idea
do the next right thing, right? even if the feeling don't come with it
this is how the writing is coming out, even though this pseudo-poetic style is pointless, but it's where my patterns have landed, in this culvert, let's call it, sure, why not, question mark - superfluous park bench squatter's right - actually
nothing as simple or sophisticated as that - you can tell, it's fallen to tired eyes
i need a kneaded gum eraser - to turn the background into a figurine, to make the figurine a fissure in the graphite glare and park myself there and justify
tired eyes self-justify, nothing works, but i'll work tomorrow
my feelings feel well enough to take the night off
off in her company is better than on with me
it's gone beyond conventional scale
graduated from gratitude
it's plenty to work with
all i really have to worry about for tomorrow is bus fare
that's all i told myself i have to worry about, when considering the list of things to do that rarely get done
something's off with me, chemical, emotional, spiritual, all that, y'all
i can't even be pithy or poetic, can't externalize soul, can't feel it inside
i can sort of draw hydro-electric whale-bone channels that may be good for something
on everybody-gets-a-trophy day
that's a symptom of what's off, that i can't express
it's a blockage, i feel like i need to snap, maybe that could be done
with feng-shui and synergy
nothing is working quite right, even if i got the right idea
do the next right thing, right? even if the feeling don't come with it
this is how the writing is coming out, even though this pseudo-poetic style is pointless, but it's where my patterns have landed, in this culvert, let's call it, sure, why not, question mark - superfluous park bench squatter's right - actually
nothing as simple or sophisticated as that - you can tell, it's fallen to tired eyes
i need a kneaded gum eraser - to turn the background into a figurine, to make the figurine a fissure in the graphite glare and park myself there and justify
tired eyes self-justify, nothing works, but i'll work tomorrow
my feelings feel well enough to take the night off
off in her company is better than on with me
it's gone beyond conventional scale
graduated from gratitude
4/23/11
humil
break up homes, bury bones
it's all very meaningful - if only minimally symbolic
dream girl 227.290
so named because she appeared in a dream
at such a location, in the chronological succession
{with a linear time bias}
of demarcated cerebral forms and sawfigures and such
oh i forgot what i was gonna say
except it's so feelingful
if not meaningful:
a conjunction of images and gnosis
the tiny tip of the information iceberg trans-codable to this realm
sluice from the sunken colony
deep in the turquoise mines of my dreams
i'd say i'm blessed, but i don't know who blessed me
i don't know what blessed me, i think i'm still hallucinating
in alpha waves of cognitive superstition
i don't know what cursed me, i don't like the idea of a deity buddy
that's just not me, you know? and i know that's the point
don't wanna think about it, that thinkin thing
it's all very meaningful - if only minimally symbolic
dream girl 227.290
so named because she appeared in a dream
at such a location, in the chronological succession
{with a linear time bias}
of demarcated cerebral forms and sawfigures and such
oh i forgot what i was gonna say
except it's so feelingful
if not meaningful:
a conjunction of images and gnosis
the tiny tip of the information iceberg trans-codable to this realm
sluice from the sunken colony
deep in the turquoise mines of my dreams
i'd say i'm blessed, but i don't know who blessed me
i don't know what blessed me, i think i'm still hallucinating
in alpha waves of cognitive superstition
i don't know what cursed me, i don't like the idea of a deity buddy
that's just not me, you know? and i know that's the point
don't wanna think about it, that thinkin thing
4/20/11
seamless
scattered mind seemed so seamless, once upon a time
they said i broke it so i bought it
fractures turned glassware
it felt alright that night
was grist for the mill
it kept me from hunger, it kept me from cold
daylight and detritus stymied my flow
so i sold my soul to god or good or some kind of thing
sometimes i want it back, that collection
of nothing but molten sand, beta-decay
and moments that never needed arithmetic
casino delirium, soft pumpkin slave to the cyborg imperium
just like a million junkies before me
lukewarm puddle from a snowflake personality
they said i broke it so i bought it
fractures turned glassware
it felt alright that night
was grist for the mill
it kept me from hunger, it kept me from cold
daylight and detritus stymied my flow
so i sold my soul to god or good or some kind of thing
sometimes i want it back, that collection
of nothing but molten sand, beta-decay
and moments that never needed arithmetic
casino delirium, soft pumpkin slave to the cyborg imperium
just like a million junkies before me
lukewarm puddle from a snowflake personality
4/18/11
4/11/11
dry ablation
now what?
revolution's happening on some other bread slice
evolution's acting on some other scale
my tongue is bleeding and it tastes like blood
desires are dry ablations
keats is scattered bones in a plane crash in country C
an anonymous island jungle
where it would be poetic to be
nothing works
when you're living in a bukowski book
i live a little life
on a big island
so much space
carpeted ground
exposed rock, fierce cliffs, raging surf
and where are the delusions? i miss those things
can't see the ones i'm in
people ask me if i'm writing anything
i don't know what the hell to tell anybody
something's missing, a chicken and an egg in country kitchen
and a hen and a rooster and a conjunction preposition
pre-supposed to wake you up in the morning
4/10/11
semi-vegitative
frustration and resignation, all in the same
physical itch that is a strain that is a sting
that is sore in everything that bends
itchy neurons, low electrical wattage shifted
through electromagnetic re-calibration to
frustration and resignation all in the same
physical itch that is a strain that is a sting
tender malfunction, easy malfeasance
artifact of consciousness, product of biology
shrink-wrapped for the dumpster
why do i want to believe in fate?
one day i'll regret that decision, when it's made for me
because i wanted it, when i'm clawing at an oak coffin ceiling to no avail
the netherworld is a bureaucratic nightmare
but at least there's something out there
flog a dead horse for what seems to be eternity
and one day you'll see it get off the ground
and gallop over some horizon that is like
a spoon in your brain that got turned around
and nothing will be the same again, cause there's a twisted spoon in your brain
but you can't remember what it thinks like to be in any different derangement
still itching, still burning
no alternative to pleasure, take the baton
it's a relay race
physical itch that is a strain that is a sting
that is sore in everything that bends
itchy neurons, low electrical wattage shifted
through electromagnetic re-calibration to
frustration and resignation all in the same
physical itch that is a strain that is a sting
tender malfunction, easy malfeasance
artifact of consciousness, product of biology
shrink-wrapped for the dumpster
why do i want to believe in fate?
one day i'll regret that decision, when it's made for me
because i wanted it, when i'm clawing at an oak coffin ceiling to no avail
the netherworld is a bureaucratic nightmare
but at least there's something out there
flog a dead horse for what seems to be eternity
and one day you'll see it get off the ground
and gallop over some horizon that is like
a spoon in your brain that got turned around
and nothing will be the same again, cause there's a twisted spoon in your brain
but you can't remember what it thinks like to be in any different derangement
still itching, still burning
no alternative to pleasure, take the baton
it's a relay race
4/08/11
orthographic
"it's never good to isolate"
is the kind of thing you expect to hear
and often do
maybe it is good to isolate sometimes
maybe it's good for me, anyway
maybe it's not bad, at least
maybe it doesn't matter
what if i promise it's not meant as a fuck you to you, or society, or anything?
then is it alright? then do i come by it honestly?
what if i promise it's a finite isolation?
don't believe i'm clairvoyant, but i'd bet on that
if i said it was infinite, that'd be less credible than a 14-day weather forecast
it does seem atmospheric, anyway, it does, yeah, it features
earthlike seasons, titaneous gas, sysiphean contra-indicative purpose
and electric heat
it's like rain, mate, it'll pass
although here, it's the rule, not the exception
except when it's freezing
which is the exception not the rule according to the oceanography institute's latest climatalogical study
we should be happy, it's a harbinger of a slower apocalypse, a beverage best served chilled
is the kind of thing you expect to hear
and often do
maybe it is good to isolate sometimes
maybe it's good for me, anyway
maybe it's not bad, at least
maybe it doesn't matter
what if i promise it's not meant as a fuck you to you, or society, or anything?
then is it alright? then do i come by it honestly?
what if i promise it's a finite isolation?
don't believe i'm clairvoyant, but i'd bet on that
if i said it was infinite, that'd be less credible than a 14-day weather forecast
it does seem atmospheric, anyway, it does, yeah, it features
earthlike seasons, titaneous gas, sysiphean contra-indicative purpose
and electric heat
it's like rain, mate, it'll pass
although here, it's the rule, not the exception
except when it's freezing
which is the exception not the rule according to the oceanography institute's latest climatalogical study
we should be happy, it's a harbinger of a slower apocalypse, a beverage best served chilled
4/05/11
peacemaker
life's a bitch, but she's got a soft spot
a light touch on the death-bed, let's say
through this tube, it reads as peace to me
a light touch on the death-bed, let's say
through this tube, it reads as peace to me
4/04/11
lame lion or tamed lion?
which
is better? i'd go with the latter, most likely
...
things
ain't all that tame, but i was that lame
with
pockets and drawers full of crutches and canes
now
i'm running, like jim fix, not quite like jimmy connors
not
chasing tennis balls
not
dying of a coronary
in
lieu of that, clefting bangs in twain, leaving a wane
mane
strain, the silent killer, the lion de-fanger
a
parasite, attacks on a jungian level
you'll
step in front of a bus, so, therefore...
i'll
make an executive decision and shave it off, no wait
i'll
wait until i'm rejected for the job, then shave it off
as
a big bald fuck you, like as if i would ever do anything for them,
no
i'm
incidental to that, but until then
all
this rockin hair and me in a rocking chair
retired...
dio, time to go, he's such a gentleman, they say
these
are the collection of ailments, something's always wrong...
it'll
be a golden age in retrospect, gilded powerslave cap
as
they mostly are, if preserved in cerebro-spinal fluid at appropriate
temperature
some
memories evaporated through the ear canals and ocular interface
some
sweated through pores
3/17/11
Me Fans Are Scheepid Piglets
One
Two Three Fourraye am an antique wrist!
and
i am a novelist!
oh
don't worry, i'll remember that song
i'll
file it away for future reference
future
reference paves slumberland freeway
four
bald manservants at the corners of my bed
stop-sign,
ain't your rules a fucking game?
was
this worth getting out of bed for?
never
end a friendship with a preposition
you've
changed man
it
used to be about the sex and drugs!
what's
this music shit?
was
it worth getting out of bed for?
i
remember when you would take a sleeping pill at midnight
and
blog till 3 in the morning anyway
what
happened?
now
it's an event, getting out of bed
and
for what? this non-ironic happenstance?
slag
off! o slag off!
water
water everywhere yet not one drop to drink
sha-bang!
there's plenty more purple flasks where that came from
o
kinetic energy, o graphic calisthenics of caligula-like overkill
o
phenotype pheromone hairspray from the photogenic genome
yo
gnomish hearsay, boy, where's my latte boy? tell murphy i said
slag
off!
i'm
drinking purple-flask juice to forget about the excess saliva
it
could be this, or it could be that, i could be too thin, or i could
be too fat
it
could be the traz, it could be the serts, or it could be
i'm
thinking when i could be drinking, fuck the thoughts, time to bask
in
the purple flask
3/15/11
austere food and lots of it
no howl, no foul
or yes foul, no fair, scratch that
win this, tomorrow's agenda
write this
type set yes please
laundry ball
i can unsee a round slab of garlic fingers
but i can't uneat said slab
won't regurgitate
will digest as fate, for good or ill
this is what i call forward motion through linear time
or yes foul, no fair, scratch that
win this, tomorrow's agenda
write this
type set yes please
laundry ball
i can unsee a round slab of garlic fingers
but i can't uneat said slab
won't regurgitate
will digest as fate, for good or ill
this is what i call forward motion through linear time
2/24/11
i hate music
i used to love it, now i hate it
useless, self-indulgent bullshit
sandalwood dreams, troll the zen bridge
i'm sick of not measuring up - when i think i did something great, outside opinion is that it's crap - when other people say i did something great, my opinion is that they're full of shit - never the twain shall meet
i'm sick of trying to be a producer - nobody asked or suggested that i do it, i took on this great task myself, thinking it would not feel like a task, but a labour of love - it was for a while, but now it's become a labour of raping myself in the ass
no, you didn't ask me to take this on, i can't cast blame outside my fevered ego, but all i can say at this point is, go hire rick rubin if you want it done right - i don't know what i'm doing, i'm not up to the task, i'm sick of treating it like it's important and worthwhile, and worth pulling all nighters for - it's devastating to get that creative rush, and work all night on something, and find that i'm no further ahead when i land back on the ground - having to re-do, re-do, it's never good enough - and why would it be? what can i expect, it's pathetic, this fragility of mine, my inability to deal with reality - this RPM thing, maybe i'll release it later, when i've got some drive back, if that ever happens - i don't want to work with other people anymore, and try to read their minds - i'm totally burned out, i don't even want to work on music anymore, fuck music
the worst part is how people try to be nice, but i see the effort involved, the strain... i got no one to be angry at except myself, and i'm not meaning to separate my self from people - we do this for our own benefit, avoid drama at any cost - i know this, i hate drama - i know when people are bullshitting me, you can't bullshit a bullshitter - and jesus, what do i want, a fucking ticker tape parade? i guess that when i devote myself to a project like this with religious intensity, there develops a craving for an appropriate level of validation - i try not to make assumptions, but it's also hard not to assume that if there was anything like a shared appreciation for my work, i would know - and i know how moronic i'm being letting this letdown feeling run rampant - at times like these i WISH i was a cold autistic calculator bound to my own self-generated holodeck program like people think i am, then i wouldn't have to feel like such an idiot spinning around in this loop
i'm on the verge of hitting the "burning desire" button, but, nah, i don't think so - i don't want to - i dread what would happen - stranger danger - i don't want a bunch of anonymous life-coaches showing up on my digital doorstep - maybe i just won't use, i don't have to use over this, and i don't want to - i'll just be miserable... so i didn't get my validation from the universe like i said i needed "or else" - i got confirmation of my mediocrity instead - of course that would happen - it's supposed to be a lesson i guess - fucking lessons, fuck you and your opportunities, i'm going to exercise free won't-power and opt out, my hand is not out, i'm too lethargic to learn - i feel like leaning on fatalism and growling FUCK IT! but i don't feel like running out for drugs, the idea is horrific, the way it would compound this negativity... i'm thinking about it constantly, but i can't imagine getting any relief from it, even in the early stages, i wouldn't enjoy it, at most i would reach a delirium with a heavy solvent stink before the grinding comedown
2/23/11
pit boss
one is in the fate groove, one is in the sawtooth, one is in a wagon rut, applying leverage to send selective bloggers flying, as a scheme to hedge bets, but the application was filed in triplicate centuries before it was a gleam in one's eye - throwing your hands in the air doesn't mean you don't care, just that it's impossible to know what to do, and even if you did, it would require re-aligning the poles, and mackin hos, and finding good cheer in hardy barley which ain't in the cards as far as i can see
between the serts and the trazzies and the whatnots, i think something may be wrong with me, physically for sure, and therefore by extension, mentally - these symptoms keep adding up, to what i don't know, i'll call it a slagheap, a droolslathered muckscape, if this is health then the ideal isn't worth a dime - i hope it's a disease of some kind and not my right mind, the kind that tricks me into thinking there was never any healthy living, a new-age devil to play the villain in that fairy story - well smurf villages are becoming real, briar showed me, maybe i can pin my problems on gargamel, an easy target
either way i'm against myself - the cycle of self-flagellation - the bio-feedback makes everything worse, useless information, enough gnosis for a bird's eye view of the nursery, ages since demolition, nothing to see here but a union stymied mob connected crew on another no-show job, no evidence or even inkling of anything other than the loop - it's enough for a life-time, i guess, i didn't ask to not be born, so, forty years of this and it'll be a fait acompli, the self-contained cycle, from here it has a horizon underground, but it's been a while since any sort of purge, what doesn't kill it, me, one, you, her, them, makes the strength weaker, the dark and drowny logic of its spiral, so hypnotic that i'm still in the trance: it all becomes clear when i say that i'm a machine for producing phlegm - and it doesn't explain the allure of those magic faders on my fingers, the worst drug in the world that's more immediately addictive than anything ever, the amen corner chorus for acapela floor splatter
some people think it's a robot - maybe a turing machine, so they'll call it an honorary soul - but if it acts like a robot, those analog folk can't be blamed for thinking along those lines, can they? if it don't throw no big flashy empathy party, how can it be thought to be empathic? they'd need an almost saintly level of empathy to extrapolate that ability to the calculator
i think if i just plunge that cast-metal shovelhead down into the coalpile again the delightful kaJUNK of that crunchy gravelly black stuff aflyin into the furnace will make everything burn bright for another interval, or at the very least, the experience will allow me to get away with that assumption for a temporal period to be determined at a later date... this train ain't headin that way, no, intelligence isn't even on the line, but that's what you get for hoppin on, boy... shoulda read the tag, didn't it say something about, something? boxcar young adult told me that, you know? yeah, you know him, he's got that cheek-length head of hair you thought was the gold standard of cool when you were ten - yeah, you know what i'm referencing, don't be denyin
what's all up with you anyway? you just angry cause you don't got a hobo name? okay, i give you one - ima gonna call you: "MC disc jockey" - yeah, hehe, that's the one - you MCDJ - no, i like MC disc jockey better - whadayou think boxcar douchebag beard? yeah, suit him, don't it? no, you can't be "boxcar transient", we got too many boxcars in this boxcar - i get confused m'self sometime - i get confused bout a lotta things - like am i black, or white, or pirate? whada you think boxcar douchebag beard? nah, i ain't no puerto rican, that's fo sho, you be trippin again - i remember my first twistareefer
between the serts and the trazzies and the whatnots, i think something may be wrong with me, physically for sure, and therefore by extension, mentally - these symptoms keep adding up, to what i don't know, i'll call it a slagheap, a droolslathered muckscape, if this is health then the ideal isn't worth a dime - i hope it's a disease of some kind and not my right mind, the kind that tricks me into thinking there was never any healthy living, a new-age devil to play the villain in that fairy story - well smurf villages are becoming real, briar showed me, maybe i can pin my problems on gargamel, an easy target
either way i'm against myself - the cycle of self-flagellation - the bio-feedback makes everything worse, useless information, enough gnosis for a bird's eye view of the nursery, ages since demolition, nothing to see here but a union stymied mob connected crew on another no-show job, no evidence or even inkling of anything other than the loop - it's enough for a life-time, i guess, i didn't ask to not be born, so, forty years of this and it'll be a fait acompli, the self-contained cycle, from here it has a horizon underground, but it's been a while since any sort of purge, what doesn't kill it, me, one, you, her, them, makes the strength weaker, the dark and drowny logic of its spiral, so hypnotic that i'm still in the trance: it all becomes clear when i say that i'm a machine for producing phlegm - and it doesn't explain the allure of those magic faders on my fingers, the worst drug in the world that's more immediately addictive than anything ever, the amen corner chorus for acapela floor splatter
some people think it's a robot - maybe a turing machine, so they'll call it an honorary soul - but if it acts like a robot, those analog folk can't be blamed for thinking along those lines, can they? if it don't throw no big flashy empathy party, how can it be thought to be empathic? they'd need an almost saintly level of empathy to extrapolate that ability to the calculator
i think if i just plunge that cast-metal shovelhead down into the coalpile again the delightful kaJUNK of that crunchy gravelly black stuff aflyin into the furnace will make everything burn bright for another interval, or at the very least, the experience will allow me to get away with that assumption for a temporal period to be determined at a later date... this train ain't headin that way, no, intelligence isn't even on the line, but that's what you get for hoppin on, boy... shoulda read the tag, didn't it say something about, something? boxcar young adult told me that, you know? yeah, you know him, he's got that cheek-length head of hair you thought was the gold standard of cool when you were ten - yeah, you know what i'm referencing, don't be denyin
what's all up with you anyway? you just angry cause you don't got a hobo name? okay, i give you one - ima gonna call you: "MC disc jockey" - yeah, hehe, that's the one - you MCDJ - no, i like MC disc jockey better - whadayou think boxcar douchebag beard? yeah, suit him, don't it? no, you can't be "boxcar transient", we got too many boxcars in this boxcar - i get confused m'self sometime - i get confused bout a lotta things - like am i black, or white, or pirate? whada you think boxcar douchebag beard? nah, i ain't no puerto rican, that's fo sho, you be trippin again - i remember my first twistareefer
2/11/11
Retinal Grain
yes, i've finished a new song tonight...
Mike Hodsall on guitar
Janet Smith on violin
listen
desperate cause i have no inner strength
deprivation, in a hibernation
bed bugs help me to hallucinate
same old nothing, dead weight
you ask me why i'm so quiet
you ask me why i'm so quiet
it's not my place to speak to you
i speak only when spoken to
i speak only when spoken to
i don't hate them, i just look that way
i love them too much, i was made that way
it's not the grimace of misanthropy
it's precognition, it's my destiny
don't wanna be who i'm supposed to be
i'm sorry i'm so sick
i'm sorry i'm apologizing unneccessarily
i'm getting used to vomiting
it doesn't purge anything
except the day's overdose
desperate cause i have no inner strength
mercy fuck granted 2028
it's a date, it's fate
made a good enough impression for a second to cash in
post apocalypse
no reason to stay awake
no reason to stay awake
bedbugs bedbugs
i'm sorry i'm so ill
a desperate invalid
you wear designer clothes
i take designer drugs
i'm sorry i'm so ill
a desperate invalid
i can't take care of you
you won't take care of me
i wish i could take care of you
i would i could be the one
i wish i could take care of you
what do you do with the drunken sailor?
too bad for me you got someone
reptilian riddle
in a limousine tryptamine
reptilian riddle
in a limousine tryptamine
don't ask me what it means
Mike Hodsall on guitar
Janet Smith on violin
listen
desperate cause i have no inner strength
deprivation, in a hibernation
bed bugs help me to hallucinate
same old nothing, dead weight
you ask me why i'm so quiet
you ask me why i'm so quiet
it's not my place to speak to you
i speak only when spoken to
i speak only when spoken to
i don't hate them, i just look that way
i love them too much, i was made that way
it's not the grimace of misanthropy
it's precognition, it's my destiny
don't wanna be who i'm supposed to be
i'm sorry i'm so sick
i'm sorry i'm apologizing unneccessarily
i'm getting used to vomiting
it doesn't purge anything
except the day's overdose
desperate cause i have no inner strength
mercy fuck granted 2028
it's a date, it's fate
made a good enough impression for a second to cash in
post apocalypse
no reason to stay awake
no reason to stay awake
bedbugs bedbugs
i'm sorry i'm so ill
a desperate invalid
you wear designer clothes
i take designer drugs
i'm sorry i'm so ill
a desperate invalid
i can't take care of you
you won't take care of me
i wish i could take care of you
i would i could be the one
i wish i could take care of you
what do you do with the drunken sailor?
too bad for me you got someone
reptilian riddle
in a limousine tryptamine
reptilian riddle
in a limousine tryptamine
don't ask me what it means
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