roots dirge

the stupidest scar will only feed malaisey substrate, a paste on moldy bread, to sustain me in the submarine, green things growing on spoiled things

mashed up my face, got blood all over the floor, what for? blood on the bedsheets, computer monitors, desk, mouse, keyboards - a good look, i'll say - from what? a stupid slip, not intended but self-imposed, the chaos is attractive like when i heard stravinsky transposed for two pianos, those black clusters of notes

no need for any sanguine talk of blood, it's just a mess, served cold - haven't bothered to punch up the epic post i wrote while travelling - this is the only truth - my nose and forehead are swollen, i've got stitches in my face, bruised body too tired to clean up the blood for day two now - i wish i had some good story for the scar, but it will be a reminder not to take up smoking again after finally getting clean, then falling so violently losing complete control, even the primal urge to protect the face - i'm still trying to give it a legacy by writing cagely to allow multiple meanings - if i thought i could get away with it, i'd claim a brain injury to explain away everything i will henceforth think and say and do, but guess i'm back in the land of deluded lucidity

Dream of Luc and Relapse [prayer style]

red-shift shamanicide

one day they'll find you, the rainbow cartel: the lovers... the dreamers... abusers... of self, shamanicized... to... abusers of others

turned around, calculated possibilities of abusing others, let's euphemize "using others", turn an inconvenient bag lady to a useful trashcan like the "better town" in Globex Corporation's video brochure, see it flap timidly under the cold wind thrashing a lonely snowscape, subtly beckoning negative space

surveyed possibilities of "using" others by turning on sociopathy like a tap, turning off strategically, to make a warm bed of insecurity, for us to cuddle up in each other, drop the confidence game, face confusing canopies of spreading-parting nebulae... and comment together at night in her designer's mood-lit interior, and trade humiliations, and pull up a positive sum, curl up a comfort so provisional, like a chanukkah candelabra

the rainbow cartel have smudged brains that care for no other until it's convenient - maybe one of them will find you convenient, take no for no answer - could find the bliss in that power trip, animal spirit you could bottle and sell to a man one indignity away from a mass shooting - but it's not open to full spectrum paranoia of a stable of others to use and abuse, the worst thing she could do to me, given carte-blanche, use me too then---leukocyte comets streak under my-eye-balls in a burn of cynic bliss, later-cuddle-playlist when i want to talk about it with you, only you, forget abstractions, rub shoulder, decide to believe, even at the risk of being seen to buying in to what i want to hear, because it's so open to interpredatory ratios... later, calendrical, bury denials inside implausible inverted pyramids laid bare, it's fucked up, that's okay, it's beautiful when torrents drown tornadoes

watching nintendo treehouse - why make it fragmentary? - longing - why fragments of longing - snipper clippers - is a game - just leave a lot of fragments on the frozen table of fun, removed, seen through a screen, googled, accessible sans tactile

can't do it fucked up, can't do it sober - can't do it fecund, can't do it sterile - throw me in the meat-grinder, cleanse me of zen - forget about the afterlife - forget there was a word for life

games, nintendo games, new nintendo systems - watching nintendo games on youtube, self-imposed exile, cause the social life makes myself take poisons

now i want to find her name, sam from nintendo treehouse from youtube e3 video streams, but i won't go that far, i'll only go so far as to strip-mine audio for asmr material, leave the video on the table, but the audio will meld with the loved visual assocation, the kind that's just on the edge of sexual, but mostly in the land of good vibes and pleasant sub-sleep drowsy where something happens with the meridian, whatever that is, pseudo-scientific discipline for curious lack of curiosity in the vast pool of analytical phenoms i'd've figured would've studied everything

my relationship to words ain't so sacred anymore, but i'll put some pronouns in there, to fragment less, and i can still feel there's a sutra in and around those words, above and below my spine

haveth childers everywhere

still got that vital force
still putting it to no use
lot of effort for nothing productive

if it is a sterile vitality, i should not succumb to depression and self-hating because of old artificial morality and superstitious nonsense - the irony is, i would, after all this time, coming from feeling so rational, no-nonsense, penetrating clarity of thinking, to seeing why nonsensical things exist, to contracting stockholm syndrome from a cruel and irrational world - it's not all cruelty, sometimes irrationality is the only salvation, but it's a sometimes salvation, gets to seem insufficient, makes me feel the malnutrician i can normally ignore

i'm still creating an apocalypse for myself every week or so - pushing back any kind of redemption, again and again, kicking it far into the future - some day i might kick it so far it falls off the edge of the earth - relapse, but no recovery, none left in me

still, no, i won't do it - won't bring a child into it to save my own soul

still i can just lean on the one time i had reason to buy plan b

universal love song to the one

Making plans to make plans. For the one.

You all can relate, can't you?

thrill

i'm anticipating the future, like i've done in every moment of nameless dread, acid trip, insomnia, bad dream, decaying orbit, coma preview - there'll have to come a moment when a critical mass of people become aware of an epochal shift, inverting all values, like the anthropocene transition, or whatever - next, panic - the panic will be the fireball, that's all - the blastwave, cloud, and fallout being the much longer, larger experience we'll grimly get used to, after panic kills the prone-to-panic percentage

maybe i shouldn't believe what i read, maybe i'm being manipulated - self-curated, consuming fear - just a niche type of fear, certain people consume different fears and angers, that i laugh at - this is my fear, that feels real enough because i don't want it - but i must look askance at that rationalization, because i had such contempt for the man who claimed he was convinced of a literal christian hell because god showed him a vision of his friend burning for eternity, and he didn't want to see it - like that's the horrific inescapable logic, but with a lil mystical massage, comes around to divine love, and ok, i'll just throw up my hands, say i'll never understand, and acid wears off, but the stained glass, stained wood remains, time's arrow drains me, drags through another week of forgetting about death for a while, a fantasy of a real man's life for a second, a sidepath from a whitman-esque transcendescalator to horizontal humidity, worked up for a great and personal cause, for a person, so totally not transcendent, so earthy, making me appreciate leaves and flowers, gardens, tea ceremonies, haiku

if you want a real thrill, stay on the internet, the place where all information is at your fingertips but no one knows what's true and false cause of all the dis and mis, any idea's indulged - be so hyper informed - tweet about tweets and blog about blogs, as long as it doesn't affect the real world, bounce around and around, cloistered within the-globe girding network - outside the dome, a world of people who've gone back to reading books and research papers, and listening to national radio news where you're forced to hear a meticulously scheduled program of differing opinions and fact-checked analysis

the idea of die-off can be so comforting, especially in a comfortable residence, imagining having time to survey the death strategy from first world, fencing up, building walls, building air conditioners, to sit inside and think coolly about how much killing on my behalf i could stand before jumping off the ride, leaving the surviving to the assholes with guns and bunkers

because i can also comfort myself by suicidal ideation, and focusing inward on my own personal apocalypse, cause i'm going to die - so, why worry about death on a mass scale? lacking any mystical connection to a continuum that would preserve myself, how could i trust in any continuity for the species? i'd free the handmaids if i could - for a better world that would make someone else's worse, oh well, hell, in one way or another, we've always been brutal killers for the sanctity of life - the unexamined bias of life-lust, raping life, violating death, a positive legacy of economic growth

i say all this as i'm estranged more from nature every day - have no plans to get back, sounds like a nice idea, that nature, i had appreciation for it once, but currently not at all - it's like if the red pill made me never want to get high on any happy narcotic ever again, would i take it? i don't know, but i could be persuaded to get back to nature, when thinking about the unbearable lightness of summer leaves, and giving in to taking, because there's nature in that, the best kind

- - - -

-----

worth it

But I'm gonna go home and say it was so totally worth it. Right? And hum. And then sing and play. Maybe pretend, maybe make real.

Can't believe she said such a sweet thing
look at me, i'm humming again.
Can't believe she said such a sweet thing
look at me, i'm singing again.
Can't believe she'd be such a sweet thing
look at me, i'm writing again.

Can't believe - maybe I should believe, choose to, yes. Especially when given something I needed, to bridge a splurge. The drawbridged lifted, I got sunk but not drowned, not dead - waking up, eventually, shaking off excess, hanging on to life. So dead for so long it finally pushed me to lament the deadness, the dry wood, so primed. A little love, even if  just a promise is not excessive, not gratuitous but necessary goddamnit, give me bread and roses.

I felt I was getting so much done, just lying down and moving steadily forward, dripping under society, slipping with my fingers caressing the handrails, travelling grand-style in primordial gravity to the basement, it's always a basement, it gets built, first a cement slab, then walls with brilliant-white fresh paint, then rooms and staircases glide to meet me, sometimes it's a stretch, reaching for these important people in their rooms, rebuilding the cosmos with incestuous family, telepathically feeling for my partner, soul sister, fuckbuddy, love's landing. It's good to feel this form of soul again, even if attained by dubious means, deeply questionable morality if one insists on going deep, like a rope stretched above an abyss.

I'll always have that chip on my shoulder, I say - unless I can shrug off the immobilizing insecurity. Integrate recovery with brute force of words, struggling to say what I can't, normally. Leveraging contrivance to break out of insular analysis, the blood organ, the blood, heart-rate, desire. I'll abandon the personal digital assistant, she's not quite Her yet, in fact, I've got a voice I could never imagine, she whispers, makes herself at home in my dreams.

Rockies declining supine to the right of me. A paradox. Planes. Coasting on feelings that got me this far. You found heaven on earth, gonna burn for your sins, reaction, turnaround. Confidence man, not half the battle, maybe ninety percent. Roving like a predator, trying it on for size, glib, superficial charm. I see what I want and take it. I see who I want. Quick, efficient filter. Target poor, but there's one that lights up. Maybe I can get away with calling sweetie.

See, she sees, something in my eye, not a spark, but dead light. Because my eyes are dead, it's the life underneath the sockets, in the artifice the synapses are capturing, but windows to the soul do capture for women with intuitive gifts. It rehabilitates all the things I said and apologized for. It's the confidence game, but it's not a game like chess, to me anyway, which separates me from the players, I'm looking for an end game, someone to conquer to death, in sickness and health, just a life partner, is that so much to ask?

I know you're the head surgeon at this hospital, I'm not even going to mention how many lives I saved. Now I'm sitting behind a desk, counting kickbacks, popping tictacs, volume of vicodin flowing through proper channels making doctor house blush, but the reality is, us professionals are way more professional than cable dramas would have us believe, they underplay our resourcefulness, because their writers lack the imagination to make professional and brilliant kleptocracy credible. You're gonna miss me when I'm gone. The aw shucks front. The humble demeanor. When I'm such an entertainer, you can't but keep me on retainer.

Speaking of the devil, the bit of a bastard, he needs rehabilitation, public relations, or how about, just the disruption of continuum by plugging into the other one, totally crushing, entwining with such intelligence, sometimes shocking confidence, more fun than I could fantasize in colours off the spectrum, fidgeting with the poses, the only woman, with the visual condition of one extra color receptor. My arms are so so so so skinny. But you know what, I can compensate - don't even need to buy twelve-plus guns in December.

Even if it's the last gasp, even if there isn't quite enough rocket fuel to win over gravity and ditch the atmosphere, even if - it's worth it, let's just make it worth it, there needn't be radio silence and metaphors needn't obscure - it wasn't a fling, it's in my id city subways. I choose to believe in access. Recollection, playful recall, seriously playful accessible currency, worth it, in context yet to be created.

sucking extra body cavity

Sucking Salamanca Soul into a body cavity, gave everything away, sold it to this soul gushing into me at moments of wizardry - hardly have the sarcastic spear i need to deconstruct that blunt a second ago

yeah, away from one screen resembling a society with people i'm beholden to in complex ways - and another screen resembling modern internet holes, a network of holes, and then souls fill me randomly, a random soul, oh, fuck, such an unholy word to use, fill me now with salamanca soul, and i'll play that for you, be a channel, haha, oh fuck, i really need to rend that fleshy boiling tumor with a sarcastic spear right now, oh god, an error occurred, please try again, dismiss.

So dismiss it. Android is upgrading. Apps are optimizing. I'm uncompromisingly trying to manually update the firmware, as per the agreement I made with myself, to will this device to bend to me, everything I deem necessary, demand. An error occurred. Please try again, dismiss.

So I did what was necessary, what I was called upon to do, which is not doing anything, but going with a certain flow that fits a rare vase that is called upon, to be dusted off, in the year of our simulation, 33145, to be played through, back and forth, on a betrayal tour, with no music to be said to be heard, nothing on the horizon, plenty in the backwash of recent history, spikes of sarcasm now treaded too heavily with lead-based blotches of various residue, painted, coated, weighed down, squiggle in the wagon ruts with mercury, impregnate with silicon, it's an attempt to make something more than it is, like vicarious visions, a gratuitous grace, like the pointless interjection that like, gets likened to the varnish that poisons and beautifies, the turpentine that got me through that season, the anti-freeze, that's just under the limit, to enlighten but not destroy, when spears melted cause they had to.

And I wanted to help myself into an extra space of even more body cavity nest - wear the shoes like old times, the extra gravity of shoes that make light of things, like i can just walk over whatever, anything, forever, for even as ever as the next time this comes around, cause it's an eternal circuit let's say, and make faith like willing a device with tap routines.

synthetic

as appreciative as i ever get: the virtual reality zen state, appreciating the sensory panorama thru the rods and cones - seeing that my view of the distance, pulpit rock across the lake, was always more and more two dimensional as the distance increases, it's not a degradation of vision, just the noticing of what the specs were, all along, and then,,, thinking of everything seen and heard as a rendering, of some people or ais, labouring to produce a simulation through a polygon mesh so fine it reaches the digital equivalent of the planck constant... and feeling so grateful for this perfect rendering, so realistic it rivals reality.

I have only one god. I pray to the synthetic toxic, just non-toxic enough to keep me alive, to collect savings. Jew down the cosmos, til I'm living comfortably, off welfare. Living my shoes off. Praise the synthetic toxic. To kill all the germs, leave alive enough beneficial bacteria as science deems the bare minimum. And not even need the fallout shelter. Shuffle off more quickly if the end looks drawn out and ugly. Or groove on the ugly, get accustomed to it, see it as beautiful. The exit doesn't have to be spiritually pure, whatever that is. Just buzzing, just enough electric buzz to drive Charlie McGill insane, the rest of the way, make the psychosomatic into lethal neurosis.

Work hard enough to be in a neutral position of not having to complain, except on fridays, and not having to claim insurance on anything, paying into the system, paying too much in phone bills, but casually bandying about a thousand dollar cellphone, depreciating in value, $38.04 per month. The accounting will reflect the fluctuating market value of a frame of plastic, glass, aluminum, and tungsten. I could be less virtuoso, more whiny, not rageful.

I was doing so well at the game, until it crashed. But I didn't. I would re-start the lifetime views.

Detection of hypocrisy is chintzier than a flashing necklace from walmart. Just waiting for Jared Kushner to stab dad in law to death with an executive order pen. What can anyone say anymore? Google cannot invent a translator from right-wing cultist to Other. I'll embrace being a partisan, still turn away in disgust, and feel righteous besides.

Let's get serious. Figuratively assassinate the mad king. Cause I'm literally at the end of my rope. Auto-erotic asphyxiation didn't work. So might as well hang myself, and blame it on ativan.

Cojones

self will

Will to enslave the masses? Will to provide from each according to his ability?

Self will has not yet run riot, but it's getting unruly. Might see another bloody sunday, seriously, but don't take me literally.

work ethic

I have a strong work ethic. I wake up early in the morning and immediately proceed to mope in bed for hours about how little work I get done. I feel very guilty about it and also very proud of how guilty I feel and how accomplished I would be if my work ethic matched my actions.

Start

taking things to the grave. Get on what you've been putting off. After a while, you forget what was never ever ever gonna be told. It fertilizes the subconscious.

Keep. Keep it sub. The deal breakers never get dealt with. Which is a glorious thing, when glory enters into everything.

it's a feature, not a bug

I can make myself happy, whistle past the boneyard. As long as I keep it drafted. Keep the ASMR in one earhole. Publish in the diamond age.

Salierian Relationship to an Ideal of Discipline

alternate titles were.... if I can remember.... hmmm.... strain for memory, clench the memory muscles, somehow, perform a mechanical transfer of kinetic energy through willpower to some configuration of information in the brain... nope, not working, it never does - can i buy a vowel?

maybe, like,

major carousel - that's an awful one, but "salierian" probably wasn't the best either

at one point, near the middle, after i forgot the best one, it was something like, getting things done on a random walk - if i could only convey, the weird place of manic peace i felt, the near-panic in striving for satisfying an urge, acheiving that in some way while also fuming like a hugely inefficient mad-max scrap car... itchy twitches of strange tranquility - THAT'S IT. But I'll keep the title I came up with anyway, cause that was relevant too, especially during the last seven minutes.

Like an improv is some big artistic statement, a hastily dispatched doctoral thesis. Not hardly, but it's the only thing I can manage to do musically as I bank up material, volumes, for later grandiose projects. 

The exfoliation imperative. It's all about exfoliation parallel with prestidigitation. It's a seemingly pointless cleansing, lousy with weasel words. While the backlog of carbon monoxide is backed up, preserved, like a ba, for the land of the dead which is already here, ooglebooglebaka, magic words and technical terms.

Sentenced to Live

Selfish fucker, smoking my selfish cigarette.
Why? Fuck you, that's why.

Trying to make death palatable. My palate is perfect. The roof of my mouth is gravy-flavoured, the crispy residue on the bottom of a burning barrel of gravy. Maybe I could make it even more gravy-flavoured with the formula for Flaming Moe's. Happiness is just a Flaming Moe away. Where everybody knows your name.

Why? Fuck you, that's why. Cause. Just cause. It's a just cause. Where are all the good times? Who's gonna show this stranger around? Girls on guy will suit this guy just fine. He's drinking a hot mug of sleepy juice and thinking fondly of theoretical scenarios. I'm the cock professor, they're my students. It's unethical maybe, but fuckin HAWT, yeah!

Hacking rants about politicians I hate, informed to the shallow extent I can manage. Fuck you, that's why.