Luc's voice in my sunrise

Dude. That house in the country ain't funny, 'twas a beautiful dream once upon a time, near-reality. The pump was practical. I was so proud, I brought a vial-ful of its first water to my father-in-law. He shared that with you, did he? Dude? What's so funny 'bout peace love and understanding? Bro, why don't you get a phi tattoo in my memory? If you can find a place on your body to etch that isn't too hairy, hahaha.

Sweeping serious blog malaprop swipes. So it's okay to order everything online? Oh, I hope so. I can feel okay about customizing my life, riding shotgun runon ribbon hydro-electric night power surplus. I can feel betrayed by apocalyptic solipsists in paranoid mirror caves?

Why do my friend's boyfriends have to keep overdosing on dilaudid and booze? Fate is not only cruel but a composer of demented nursery rhymes.

Pet

Petable, so petable, it rubs me the wrong way. And don't mix lit w recovery. Stitch together a batch of bitches, and litbitch, complain artfully. The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.

You can pet me, I won't bite. You know that. I'm only a pet. Never anything more. Why don't you caress me? I'm not picky. I can barely remember the feeling. But no, okay, pet, cause I'm petable, adorable, in the way I'd rather not be. Not that I mind, but. I want more, I guess. Not biding time, I'm wasting it. Clock's ticking in this life drama.

But nevermind.

Either words have meaning, or they don't.

fucking ruined ruined fucking

don't know why a crumble of visions leads nowhere
unbiased unpacked pain clusters at the extra sensory fringes, caked with old blood'n'money, i dunno - missing swoon... better walk lightly paranoid territory insect enemies reptile whatever, i'm okay, why should i mind? cause, of two minds, too trapped in both of them... etcetera sentences, hey candle, is the candle worth the game? hey, game, you're too fuzzy, too noisy, oh horrible line noise, oh bitwrecked, oh fuck, i'm aligned with a shade of the plural thing of too much line in disappointment, not knowing or caring why anything, nah

fuckin diamon games, when i dint fackin care, definite very conscious of having lost something, fuck, like the void took a bite out of me in a big way to add to the negative ledger and null space, where a fuckin fracture of a thought of some body says, wait, what? certain pragmatic stylistic feature bugs to keep the thing going, to keep frowning and playing some game.

an exercise in style, a smear of cirrus content, for what format? for invasions of glasses of water or the appearance of pestilence, or a healthy if poisoned system of cell clusters - regarding ambassador of nature, which is silliness ridiculous pieces of oh my god, wait, well, what? not nevermind, just crazy thoughts of polluted subconscious and struggle to stay wedged or hedged or invested in a g h bripping bouncy mix of languages, why couldn't it foster and fester into some adventure worth having? because, the part about being lousy at that, i guess, i don't know, not taking dictation but writing cliche-ridden needlessly-hyphenated bouts of squeezebox geometry for a masterclass in funk-

ouch, aw, raw, fuck, fading out, failing, fainting, out of here, but not really, mind's not blotted enough with heavy solvents, could use a blotting out, a blotto, might self-medicate with heavy sleep meds to keep me covered, covered up in a pre-grave, a pseudo-coffin, a sleep i guess, and let it lie, let go while tightly gripping the illusion of control, like it's needed, possible, suppress, what? nothing but a line in a song, abstraction, a persistent illusion, on the edge of hallucination, paranoid response mechanical conditioned, canned, border

feeling ridiculous shifts things

a moment of weirdness - rusty gears, fucking fusty musty RUSTY gears, oh man, grinding - the ridiculous cycles, paralysis, grinding giggling noise of nothing but...

now thinking about not having the strength for this and that, and failing so miserably as an addict, and dawning awareness that maybe i should be offended, deeply offended, and react aggressively, aggressively commit slow but accelerating suicide... but nah, whether fake or real, there's a better way to live and cultivate appropriate things to be proud of

ugh, what's this shit, journaling? poetry? nah, not quite, neither fish nor fowl, more like soliloquy but less Shakespearean - a bland steady pulse-pattern of cardboard noise in semiquavers under experimentation with polonaise, the plastic version - gold dust in a puddle, runon rivulets of melodic fragments - and then covers, reflections, refraction

swiss cheese

yeah, and that sort of thing, and pointless runon, and giving not taking advice... giving advice like a maimed hydrant, piping up, not down

what was that artificial flow that just flowed like magically-functioning plumbing back in those old days?
state-bound-in-twine cardiac arrest moments

and spiritual program energy lattice forming which an addict mind bores holes in, tenacious, one little thought and allowance at a time, acidic and acerbic frantic clawing for a way out of the simple solution bound to current moment thinking feeling cell

running low on words, trying to ignite three-quarter vapourized gasoline puddles with a random spark generator, blunted and burned off flint, fuzzy edges, nothing to grab hold of

but outside the haze cloud iron sharps iron, and i took that to heart and will have to go on faith that it was a reality of mutual support

cause, poetry puddle dry mud introvision low definition

i never bothered to write much when i had important seeming stuff going on

omniparanoia

passive anxiety dread and sweet-turned-sour, soul-shucked shell

don't want to close my eyes

attention

-

i think i have a lot to say, and then i get a good look at the void

-

investing in words returns a negative

the trans-atlantic garbage patch

the oil sands

applied geochemistry

self-circuit surplus lap

too many dreams and drughouses

maybe all i can write at this point is fragments suitable for dnb stock, ministry of sound radio
vowelize every consonant, ford every stream
and pitch shift that bar and drop out everything but the drums why don't you?
don't you wanna try my crazy idea?

and napalm the reference hedge, ember to ash
pretend i'm not ahead of every curve, including the curve
that's supposed to preserve mathematical balance

stepping shaking over the gutter below those focused with wobbly vision on unstern, chasing the dragons up and down, more synthetic than organic, but it's too twisted together to tell the exact percentages

when you buy the synthetic, at least you know you're getting crap

you don't have to fret about organic scams and schemes

when you join facebook, at least you know you're opening your vein

to corporate-industrial-military datamine bloodbank central

just accept it's out of your hands, embrace convenience that balloons

to a plague of locusts that're so alluring, they're features, not glitches

they were glitches yesterday, but today they're smoothed over

even more finely filtered than before

precise cross-platform pollination for steadily sterilized interaction

purpose sharpened to the nanometer, surface turned to atomic dust

yeah, and a vowelized cross rhythm wubbing in my left channel

dust banger, web scrubber, for the sake of - 

what they called flow ten years ago - what i called precise detritus

seven years ago - 

never been more estranged

even from my best friend, even in death, whatever that is

is it gonna turn me full bore atheist? i don't think so

just getting more or less what i expect from the universe

no answer, no clue, nothing paranormal

but i'll make it up to him

somehow, at some time

when i'm a little more human and whole

indecent and imprecise distance from emotions that should be processing -

so now i can't sleep, so now what should i do now that i can't dream, and

too many dreams and drughouses

sleep surplus, elvescircuits

excess lappage, self-lappage

leavings of the blunt chemical experiment

trails of particles in tensor equations

it could be miraculous that it feels mundane

Life on Mars (David Bowie)

why the fucking hell do i ever look at my facebook newsfeed?

it just makes me irritated, angry, and depressed - what a stupid stupid addiction - social media is making me anti-social

that was a more profanely worded observation than was necessary - but it kind of fit a mood of casual revulsion

what if i was deputized to be the worst person in the world?

prime redundancy
a marginally functional mix like
thunderbird wine and bacon grease

victory by default

i think this is a better take

controlled conditions

college of kinesthetic sponge topology

Introduction: Conduction. Synthesis. Conclivity... Levitate. And there I went, into a plow chute, was worth it for a little bitcoin, for as long as the commission determined the guts grinding the millstone. I can use the word little in its long form, I needn't shorten it to 'lil' all the time.

exhausted

Contingency

What to do when someone says it sounds "tinny"... as they will inevitably do... as everything you touch turns to tin... beautiful gleaming tin but nobody likes the enamel... and your warm is their cool... and your cool is their warm, except where it would help you... is to accept the fate of being tinny, and go on about the business of transmuting tin from sub and supersonic signal. Import, never export, and amass til you drop from sheer exhaustion. Which you thought was imminent, but look, here's a fifth wind, a hollow howl crossing zeros, never transactions, just manufacture for in-house sequester.

coffee crisp insanity

frog on a log

waiting, waiting
Waiting. (is the convention), waiting:

for someone
to make something
interesting

of course, it seemed like things were on the brink

of pouring, but then it became clear there was merely a drizzle, soon bone-dry, like the wit of a wet blanket survivalist

i know, i can't be waiting for someone - i say i'm gonna be the change i wanna see, but that was just cloud talk, man - i mostly talk in references now, but a simpsons reference is extra cool if it's left uncited and we all just know it's a simpsons reference but don't mention the fact, just treat it like a public domain figure of speech, like it's flouride in the drinking water. Hydro-metaphors. Drought seasons.

Until I get a phosphorescent concresence of artistic essence, I'm going to mention things that are real, I'm gonna get real on ya, and raw, like a radio pirate lounging about in this makeshift booth, and say that I'm driven to type words lately, but I'm out of practice.

Also, on the subject of real things, to paraphrase a hundred mile-long trail of inoperable drone-struck analogies, I'm hoping something delightful and unexpected will suddenly come out of the blue, in the form of some one showing me there are ways to be I'd never even known - as such things have happened in the past, but not for a long time, so long I stopped believing in miracles and even drug magic! Ah, oh, drug magic, fairy dust, angular momentum, ketaverse! But I'm so open to fucking up some shit, or fucking some shit up, for I have drunk of the kool-aid, Oh Yeah!

But I can't do much with this fetid fated state of lethargy, I need said theoretical person to make a thing happen, whereby I can be energized, regain old faculties, synthesize never-before-seen ones, generally 'n fundamentally be an all 'round down to earth post-human 21st century schizoid. So this is what it's come to. This is where life begins, at abortion.