sex girl patrol

trying to stay awake but i'm trying to sleep but i'm trying to stay awake - do you want a quarter or an eighth? how bout them digits?

betty says: i'm not a drinker, really... daddy never made much of it

yeah, and i'm not much of a farmer, i reply - always wanted to be a chemist though - how bout them digits?

there's a brewery right in town, btw - there's a storm coming too, it may not be perfect but i'll take it - i'll take that violent shock of hair, candy coloured - time and again i told myself, i'll stay clean tonight - well i have for five days and five nights - i could for another - it was nice to wake up to your voice - i'd get out of bed for you, even if just to supply your sister - i'd get into bed for you too - i'd stay clean for you - i'd do drugs for you too, if it would allow me to be confident, and connect - but something tells me i don't need to

being myself, not a chemist - what a concept

only in nelson

If I'm going to pay 25$ to hear your book-tour lecture on your alien abduction experience, they'd better be small and grey... not tall and blond.

sensational precurers

polyticks and cushion
where will it end?
where did it begin anyway?
are you getting finnicky? are you thankful for that?
what would be an appropriate activity at this point?
the great defective
the taste in my mouth
comforting blanket of thick english industrial

that point, when the telepathic k sway goes that way, peruvian cocopowder, and i don't remember being dead, yes

this is what you do with a dude whom


there's only a spoon of coco left in the can

guzhemtight

beginning to make sensational precurers

MAINTAINING THE MORNING SUN

Mainlining the morning sun.......

swinging toward solstice........

a masterpiece
a masterpiece

clover

clover

it’s not over
til i smoke this clover

clover
clover
crimson and clover, fuck YEAH -- in the court of the crimson king

heck no, in timepaste, in things that are like other things when they drie in the sun
drie in the sun
drie, betelgeuse rises and myeees are drie – crimson and clover
over and over

it’s not over
but that’s not a threat
i haven’t released an album yet

my left arm should not be heavy but it is
i haven’t found the burden yet, but i left it somewhere
it will creep up on me, it will make my leg restless, it will be there
it’s around, i can’t ignore it just this second... just a second... nikolai tesla coil

~zzzzzaaaaAAAAAAPP!!!!~

can you believe i put on my red coat just now? grateful dead wasn’t warming me enough – but c’mon, what can you expect from a 70s bootleg? don’t get your hopes up – and don’t eat the brown acid – omission of action – it’s still the truman show – i forget how it ends – and

don’t take stock, you shouldn’t, you’ll fuck up the flow, but you’ll fuck up the flow anyway so go ahead and – stop and is this a requiem for rosemont? no, i still hear beautific tonality, and i still love, and when i took stock, even though i shouldn’t’ve, i thought, jesus, maybe i’m just being an asshole... which i doubt – but hey, there’s always that possibility, i can’t deny, i have an ego that’s for damned sure, so it’s no great leap to imagine myself an asshole, the kind of asshole who doesn’t know he’s being one... maybe i can transcend – through iron maiden lyrics – seventh son of a seventh son!

I was going to paint that clove smoke burning, splinter sillhouette against my ochre sick-lamp, the half-alive light that keeps me slow-burning at night in a ketafrenzy when i do that thing, tar vapours curling up to the creek st ceiling, the minimal house i live in, the monastery for meditation on kootenai equestrian merde, but music is an attention whore, it steals the show – it’s got a stack of marshalls, you can adjust the gain but it won’t affect the volume.

Clearly this is the greatest thing I’ve written, since the last thing I’ve written. If you’re into that sort of thing. If so, then there’s no competition. No one even comes close.

late for dreams

what do i dream now that i'm late for dreams? crystalis told me to pull the chair back, sway, keep writing.... keep typing...



typ

typ

typ - it's hard to count to herbie hancocock hallucinations

post traumatic improv

hanna montana

town in north ontario

heavy arms

Requiem for President

I was aloft, quite aloft. Couldn't remember where I was, but things felt okay. Then I recognized the walls of the Bembe Loft. That's where I was. Aloft over the Upper East Side - fifty something stories, thin air, minimal atmosphere, Ruben Gonzales playing piano by the balcony.

That’s when Barack walked in. No one recognized him, not even the wine-sipping politicos. He sat on a couch and proceeded to stare into space. Or at the television, I wasn't sure.

Shouldn't you be running the country? I asked. He said it's too dangerous to run anything right now.

So you’re just going to let God sort it out?

I don’t like it any more than you do, he said. But there are factors in play that you couldn’t possibly be aware of. For starters, the secret service is on strike. Why? Well all you’ll read in the papers is overcooked union propaganda, nothing to do with the real reason. Which is? The whole thing was set in motion by one agitator, who happens to be my top security guy. I was paying him too much, see. He started feeling unworthy of his salary, which led to guilt. He was making too many deals, and couldn't deal with his deals. And all the extra money he had to spend on shrinks didn’t even bankrupt him, because I’d given him excellent health insurance, so his malaise only worsened. The more money he threw at the problem, his wife told me after one great night of Oreo love, the sicker he got. Of course it’s ludicrous, but he must have spread his strange form of dis-ease throughout the agency. Just yesterday the union rep told me they want - no they need to be treated like commoners. At least, commoner-er. So they’re striking for lower wages? Yes, much lower. They can't live with luxury and leisure of the tier we’re used to, their brains will explode. But I wouldn't budge - I can't have minimum living standards for some and not others – that’s as long as we're talking about the middle class here. The middle class is now the upper middle class. So it's become a conflict.

I asked him, are you scared? He said no. If someone caps me, I'll be the biggest martyr since JC. And it'll be as big a gift to the left as 9/11 was to the right. Because all that audacious hope stuff? Everyone projected their ideologies onto that. Those promises I can't deliver on and wouldn't want to anyway. And they're not even promises, see? But if I was assassinated, hoh boy, there'd be no time for disillusionment. The illusion would live on strong, and those great things I was gonna do, for pretend America, hehe, they'd be fresh in the minds of the real America. They'd be MLK's dream. A dead Obama would spur action, you know? Real revolution. But that's the problem with assassins, they haven't thought things through. Like the guy who whacked Franz Ferdinand - he wasn't trying to start the first world war, he was just an archduke playahata. I hate those twerps. Insofar as I hate anyone, which I don't really. Anyway, anyone dumb enough to martyr me would be intellectually incapable of buttoning up his shirt, let alone assassinating the leader of the free world. But still, I’m not taking any chances. Chaos can run the show for a while. You’d think we’re enemies, but we’re not. Chaos often works to our benefit. I mean us elites, and America by proxy, albeit to a far lesser extent. We have immunity to chaos, it’s like smallpox to the conquistadors.

Hmmm, you're a cool customer, I said. You make your secret service look like Yosemite Sam. Is it true you raised a billion dollars in your campaign?

Yeah, that’s in the ballpark, Obama said.

But even so, like... what was it all for? Cause I mean, who wants to be in even pretend charge of this clusterfuck? And the last kleptocracy, they already looted the place, what's left to steal? It's like - did you see South Park last night?

Yeah I did, he said. Brainless as per usual.

No, it was half-decent satire for a change. They depicted both campaigns as crack teams of diamond thieves.

Obama smiled for a second but quickly reclaimed his poker face. There's method to my larceny, you know. I'm stealing from the lesser gods, those parasitic middle deities. They've been hoarding their treasures for too long, I'm gonna shake things up in this town. This town? I asked. Oh, well, not this one, but - well yeah, downstream this town will be shaken up, but ground zero is gonna be Washington, obviously. That's change you can believe in. I'm like a grand canyon-sized syringe, loaded poised over the popped out vein of America.

Well if that’s the case, I said, you better shoot us up before the national arm goes dead for lack of circulation.

Did I show you my stimulus package? Obama asked. Before I could stop him, he informed me that it was in his pants. But he succeeded in not smiling as he said this. I failed to not smile – I’d always wanted to snub an American president who thought he was a comedian, but in person I felt obliged to smile at attempted humour, even if I was aloft.

Across from Obama was a giant plasma television with footage of the president at a press conference. He didn't notice. The sound was low, but I could make out quotes from a cascade of statesmen and women giving O the thumbs up. He had the globe's endorsement. He was President of the World.

You're president of the world, I told him. So where do you go from there?

To the gym, he said. To practice my gravitas. That takes time. And in these dangerous times, I refuse to sit idly by. I can’t exactly run the country now, can I? But I can practice looking presidential. You have to look presidential when it’s assumed your hand is on the god button. And that assumption will be correct when the security strike has been broken. You can't look slapdash, it just won't do. For instance, it would do hideous things to the stock market, if my gravitas dropped appreciably below Harvard standards. Yale standards would be bare minimum. And to think that teetotalling Steaksauce-guzzling Arby’s-patronizing Yaleite Bush-the-lesser tried to get his greasy fingers on the God button!

You mean the nuke button? I asked.

No, there's no nuke button, that's just a comedic device, Obama said. But there is a god button, that's real.

Oh yeah, the God button, I said. I’d forgotten about that thing. But now I remember. I found mine in the synergy of LSD and ketamine.

Nonsense, Obama said. There's no God button there. Just hallucinations. The only place one finds a real god button is an ivy league school. With the probable exception of Yale.

Hey, I'm sure there's other places than where I found it, I said. I'm not denigrating the Harvard god button by any means, but why criticize mine? You found yours, now enjoy. Although I'll admit, just between you and me, it seems like your god button is wired to at least some of my cerebral cortex because it does sometimes intrude into my reality, insofar as I perceive digital representations of daily newspapers to be accurate reflections of events occurring thousands of miles away.

Obama laughed, but he was sitting in front of me with his space-face, silent and serious. It was a different Obama laughing. I spun around to look for the double but there was no one to be found, just the original Obama sitting on the couch, and still that laugher, coming from over my shoulder. The new Obama seemed more friendly, even though I couldn't see him. I asked him if he really found his God button at Harvard but he wouldn't tell me. C'mon, I said, why won't you tell?

He said, in all honesty, I don't know. That's the problem with pressing the button, things warp fast and it's tricky to retrace your steps. But that's change you can believe in. I kept the faith. Like Watson when he discovered DNA. He had the shape in mind. He dreamed about the double helix, and lo and behold, it was there under the microscope, insofar as you can infer the structure of deoxyribonucleic acid from up-scale contours. I saw the contours of the god button in my dreams - actually it was a dial. Sometimes you've got to believe your dreams. And when I got up the nerve to twist the dial a bit, I began to dream bigger. I realized I could just turn the dial a little to the right and within a few years, events would conspire to make me president.

And there he is. I looked back at the President of the World, staring through the television. Look at that Obama over there, new Obama said. He's not handling his God-transition very well. He may look calm, but he's over-calm. The tension is being stored away. Stored where? Probably under a mountain in Colorado, new Obama said. But he's living the American Dream.

The American Dream, I mused. I dream of snow. Banks of snow. Crystalline webs like financial systems, but it's all snow and nowhere to go. I never get anywhere in my dreams, just kind of drift and try to keep warm. I have Canadian Dreams. I'd be content to be President of Nelson, but I'd blow the whole municipal budget on phone sex.

New Obama asked, you're a slave to your addictions are you? Yeah, I said. I have faith in that.

Old Obama shot up from the couch, looking perplexed, Then broke into a childish giggle. New Obama's voice began to flange and merge with Old Obama. Oh, it's happening, they said. The dial's almost turned. I never thought I'd skip so much time. Why am I saying this? Hehehe, President of the World and I don't even know how to channel yet. Well, I'll learn. The flanging stopped and Obama, now unified with his retro-echo, slumped back on the couch. Caught his face on television. Hey, that's me, he said. Isn't it? God I'm annoying. Can someone shut this shit off?

Yo Barack, someone said. He was finally recognized. Ruben Gonzales challenges you to a piano duel. Whatever dude plays the best montuno wins... wins the state. Hey, I said, watch out Ruben. Obama plays a mean montuno - a better montuno than you. That's why he's president and you're not.

free write

i am your oyster - i move slow lee
please don't rush me - very sexy song

listening to aspen on cjly and freewritin

freewritin

that's what i said


yep



so soporific this live radio broadcast
droney nelson voices soothing me real people
real people who don't know how to speak speak best
kootenay hippies swinging their hips in a kooty sashay
not quite, but something like that, mildly


Am I less fucked up since this time last year
or am I
more fucked up since this time last year?

not sure... in this moment - i'm quite fucked up
twisted, allegations, allegiances to molecular structures
SO MUCH WORK TO BE DONE ON THE QUANTUM LEVEL
but the real work takes place in telepathic palaver
in those wisps of energy you feel and actually see when you
sniff koot krystals but don't remember can't wish but

drone drone
"let's close baker for sunday"


i should sleep i guess, lest i become insane

searching for lost time

forever blowing bubbles

Creek Street Hooligans - Cap That. It keeps burbling up. I can float for a while, and I will. But I'll do it right. Until I don't.

Washerboard style when the random tears it from the floorboards.
The floorboards, you don't want to overlook the floorboards.
You might want to underlook the floorboards.

Until I don't, that node will definitely poke a node through my fleshtastic fantasy one day, endorphins can be used, have been, web two point oh fuck, let's keep going

drag, it's a drag, that's how we get things done, dragging it all over here til we're ready to set up shop, you want to buy anything? just wondering - not sure

have a half facility for languages, still some ashed instinct to play, but
see, emily is cliff slipping, so

slips are hip for a while, that's why they're hip, cause they shift

shake your glass, it's empty

do something with a cello

B

A

Metric

Jesus Saves?
My harddrive crashed

shake your hips, move your feet

BLOGGER saves

good karma didn't record

my friend dreamed i died from air bubbles

death is everywhere today

today is death, everywhere, dreamy

time for a change, they say

mandated, demanded by machinery

everyone told me i was a piano genius

then one day they told me it was a prank

what i thought were white keys were black keys

they took the blindfold off and i saw

what i’d known all along, sort of

that i'm a bullshit artist

but a pretty good one

pretty good at making

bullshit pretty

my parents look older, old, old, really old, i really looked, i

noticed, i'd never really looked at them since a certain day

they talk about the economy, their stake in the stock market

they want to gain back what they lost, then get out

"but what if it keeps going down and down and down?"

contra lost his drum and bass track, the file corrupted

he's nearly crying

everything's a sign

the sky is heavy atmosphere

gloom granted, grace, put a good face on it

i take them out to the hume to try and make things feel good

that place i just quit, don't recognize anyone there

there’s no menu meals, only buffet

it’s weird, that never happens

it’s cause of kitchen renos?

grandmother died, didn't get any good writing out of that

quit my job to become an artist, didn't get any good writing out of that

still writing, didn't get any good writing out of that

still a writer

wouldn't it be ironic if i died of a brain aneurysm while writing thi

biofeedbackloop

jobee

job eye existising as an eyesore

hope
hope fully getting over it

plunk

nicotine

highway to the danger zone

yes, it's interesting

getting addicted to substances and being honest

supreme court

down home country musiclichards

fuck you both then

another fuck you - another retraction bound to follow - i guess it all means nothing, except for whatever meaning may be found in the fact that i'm writing this - forget the ex, why should i even write anything? and i'm not forgetting, despite wishing to - so much wasted time, i should give up - when i don't even get responded to, after asking to be friends again - when i'm thrown away like garbage, just like the last thirty, forty times - and fuck my former friend, who sees and still cavorts on that side of the fence - only that side - fuck the both of them - i don't ask for much - and i don't get anything - not from them - fuck them both - good thing the universe will grind all these stupid emotions into dust

Mentholated

Ran into a performance poet on Baker. He asked if I had anything to write. Got me thinking, and writing. I remember the Mercury. I had something published in there, years ago. It was just after those planes hit the towers and I thought I should write something. So I took a few swats at the low hanging fruit of Christian hypocrisy, sounding like a fifteen-year-old Tool fan in the process. Maybe the article wasn’t as bad as I remember, but it was probably worse. Youthful naiveté, mutual complicity, compromised Christianity, easy targets. The more elusive targets are in motion, taking new forms for new ages, springing out of good intent substrate that was poisoned to begin with, rich in benign pesticides, miracle grow. I’m a self-absorbed drug enthusiast, living in my own hallucinations. A real nowhere man. Isn’t he a bit like you? No? Alright then.

What can I write about the world? The way things are – or even should be? My pastime is to sit in my bedroom and communicate with energies, fragments of personality, for a rhythm, beat-boxing the continuum. Sometimes I hope to condense into the creator I was when I shared a beer with God (He opened it Himself). What do I know? Myself, intimately, incestuously. It’s so wrong. Is there a microcosm? A macrocosm? I hope for your sake there isn’t.

The performance poet who wrote for the Mercury, who’s starting it up again, he was an inspiration in those old days. A good open stage guy. Charlotte’s, my first bar. Back when I had a soul to lose, when I lost my black leather jacket at the booze den above the Royal on Halloween, ridiculed for dancing in public, knocked over my friend’s rails, drank vodka, plotted the soul’s destruction, the soul, my soul? Any soul. Don’t remember driving home. I have recurring dreams of car crashes, but it hasn’t happened yet. Never even got a DUI. I must be protected by spirits.

I used to call Char’s the “arabesque burlesque”, the sacred and profane in perfect harmony. But it was discordant often, all sorts of ugly politics. I tried not to notice and succeeded most of the time. I barely know my own country. I vote NDP because that’s what I do as a consumer of politics, brand loyalty, blind atom running in the machine of democracy. I’m a reflexive voter, a knee jerker. Whatever the right is for, I’m against. That’s why I boldly hold forth in public, articulating my penetrating world view – oh yeah, I’ve thought this shit through. Politics, the pedantic art of the pompous pragmatist. But I admire people who make their politics personal. If intelligence means anything at all, it’s to see and act on problems you create for yourself, before circumstances force you to. Hunter Thompson, intoxicated omniscience, still waiting in line for his next hit. Suicide by shotgun: “This won’t hurt.” He had no stake in it.

My two passions in life these days are music and drugs. Women I include in the drugs category, but they’re too addictive and dangerous. I usually abstain from that poison, it’s ten times worse than reefer madness. Smoking ash-coated butts in the breakroom, alone, cause I want a fix – any fix. This can’t be far from bottom. This one’s menthol. Mint-coated cancer stick. Good rush though, cause I’m still tripped on the large dose of dextromethorphan I did last night, and nicotine is ten times stronger on a DXM plateau. Whee!

Each Canadian is entitled to one hundred and sixty hectares of land, we just found out. I just found a thousand parsecs of headspace. C’mon over to mine, I’m building a townhouse. When I take dissociatives I go back to the Creek Street Nexus. There, I take telekinetic commissions from adjacent dimensions, certain I’ve discovered psychic abilities, those ones I’d forgotten. Trying to create a telepathic language, communicate, heal, flow, live by example, maybe move mountains, turn matter into energy and vice versa. I think I hear answers, vaguely, they’re trying to create a language with me on their end, it swirls into the non-local psyche pool which carries the essence of sublime locality I feel on Creek Street, wrapped in the Kootenay K Krysalis, the good times with good people, the struggle for survival, the really not so bad scene, the dynamics of telekinesis, Michael’s diagram for a “free energy” machine, the machine that was going to power Stanley Street, debauched toboggan party before the apocalypse. Before it catches up. I think in ketamine dreams: This potency is ludicrous! How can I be getting away with it? Voodoo economics? Feels unsustainable, and the most lasting thing there is, timeless, magic, black arts, this moment.

Now I’m quitting my job. Maybe I’ll do less drugs. I think I’ve been doing so many because I realized I could be a dishwasher and still be fucked up all the time. But I can’t do music and be fucked up all the time, not the music I want to make. Except in that telekinetic K world, when it seems like I’m doing music by just lying in bed, fated purposeful music that will seep into everyone’s dreams and heal psychic torment, the music that is gravity. Maybe I really could help people. Not in a K way. Rather by overcoming my hangup about an artist being useless, especially in these cruel crunch times. And do it well, and provide the service of an artist. If I’m going to play music, and try to make a living at it, I might as well feel good about it too. Might as well feel entitled to that, at least. Leave my ten dollar an hour job, with its class connotations, the issues I really don’t care about anymore on a personal level. Maybe still a political one. Maybe one more smoke. One last cigarette, let’s hope.

It woked me up, it really dided. Also incoherentized my speech. Threw a wrench in the gears of the dissociated dishwashing machine. Set too many neurons firing, revealed the fragilities, the holes in logic. Gave me nothing to fill them, no more ignorance-is-strength abilities to cut through the bullshit – because bullshit is all there is. No more lifting heavy-ass rubber mats off the ground like they were dishrags in the absence of body consciousness. I’ve actually performed my kitchen duties above and beyond, until now – this day three of my last week at the Hume. I’ve been a good machine, that’s why they treat me well – well, well enough. Tried not to stumble walking up from the breakroom, and failed. That’s what happens when you hit the “on” switch, while the “off” is jammed. Now I can’t even write. Well, no worry. It will be taken care of. The universe will edit, when it gets around to it, when it’s crunchtime, when cancer cures smoking.

Can I go back to casual? Was I ever casual? I may not be addicted to any one substance (excluding booze, tobacco, K, DXM, coke, and amphetamines) but I sure am addicted to getting high. Hedonism. There’s no time for politics. Maybe I’d write political protest songs, but zoloft mashes emotions into a paste I spread on my morning toast, digest and forget. Maybe that’s why adbusters hates anti-depressants. Too much numb will stop your heart and you’ll forget how to breathe. People are going soft, finding their comfort zone. I was a stronger person, when I was younger. Constantly challenged, constantly miserable. I used to really practice, attempt lunatic stunts like learning the Rachmaninov concerto just to see how far I could get. I used to have principles and act on them – or omit desired action. Of course then, I could sustain righteous anger. There seems to be no righteousness anymore. Now I feel more of the world’s pain, and more helpless to do anything, even on a local scale. Who knows what to do really, who knows who I’d be working for really, or what agenda the purest charity would secretly serve? What balance would have to be retained in the universe that prefers duality, not joy?

How can empathy and apathy increase simultaneously? Now I know what I like. I know myself too well and what I would sell out for, have sold out for - would I admit I shopped at Wal-Mart? Shop at Wal-Mart? Not the latter, but what does it matter? I can’t make apologies for lack of savagery. If getting to a better standard of living means a sickening softness, and getting soft means the unwillingness to tolerate violence and poverty, then it’s civilized and beneficent. It’s a good thing, but it makes me sick, because the system is such a mess, and soft also means the unwillingness to fight for the people who haven’t had the opportunity to get soft and squishy, and are still feeling the hardness of humanity as only recently evolved from apes, locked in self-perpetuating dominance hierarchies. What a bundle of contradiction and confusion. Just another ramble, another day in the menthol stage of civilization. Still puffing away, trying to sooth the burn with useless filters. The menthol trees are fruiting down factory conveyors. Soul is cheap, it’s on the music stands, they’re still burning plastic with lasers for that subgenre.

south of heaven

wow, feels like summer again, warm in my head - why do i do this? oh right, because i went to that dimension where everything was perfectly set up for me, and extended a tendril through the many filters of this veildance... uh, or maybe something like that

yes, life does seem mystical when you do drugs
it also seems like you're living in a music video

hey, am i becoming the chemical matrix?
am i the exemplar for the molecular matrix?
avatarexamplar, planting, ranting

nothing does its job, body itches, screams, cries to what source? no source, no source anywhere - i am scratching but it's worth it - i like the craziness - and i have my beautiful new chair - obsessive self scratching experiments -- are you watching me? like, really, what does one need? hehe...

need a mark and make no mark - need a mark and make no mark - again and again and again...

anduh wrong approach, kindof... let's hope the skin heals...

holy shit classic itchy collusion awareness of two dimensional realirt WTF/..=/????

MAGIC SHI

too late, i found it

"if we let anybody in there, it wouldn't be a place"
- george carlin

Lamenting about limbo, and wanting to get back there. Lamenting about doing that. But never lamenting about being there. That's where it is, again. It sucks, that's why I love it. It's a black hole. Only problem is, I can escape. Not for lack of not trying. I spaghettify through the singularity. A queasy feeling of easy failure, a flavour that resonates with the tongue. I'm chewing cashews to eschew the taste of failure.

Four more times. You won't feel a thing. Almost there. Desperate, the desperation circuits, the neurons that must keep firing, after the brain is switched on, that switch, that silly switch, the stupid switch. Belief in free will. No choice in the matter. Justifying the inexorable decision. If it's a disease, then I'm sick. But I can hold it in. Keep it inside. Keep it in the Kosmic K Family. Taste the toxins, wear the toxins, cigarettes inside pimples, stallagmiting out of my torso as fully formed sores, ripe for the plucking. Tastes like chicken. Keep it warm, even when it's ice cold. Pretend it's warm. Cause it will be warm, again, for real, for a real eternal moment, a memory that still resonates, outside the laser grooves, outside the mind.

There's methods, there's Maher, there's cashews. There's not eschewing sentence case tonight. There's serious jesters screaming at me, from most angles, but by no means all.

Thinking about an afterparty I dragged myself to, solo, back when I couldn't talk to girls, back when I couldn't take pills, back when I could say no. Ended up somehow satisfied, alone again, in the dregs of the night, and my mind, a confluence of garbage, happy in a depressed sort of way, before I took pills to deal with that, before I'd had many bad relationships, as opposed to just one.

Wow, sure was a preamble. Well the preamble was ample. Cause now I'm staggering around the gardens, tumbling into the plants. Well, that's what happens when planes interact. Clumbsiness. I could caress those plants in my mind. I think I did. I just remembered. Maybe there was a point to it. But it's itch and delirium right now for some reason. Weird Sun. Colonel Cockblock tricked Major Mustard into accepting the position. Wow. Who'd have seen that? But from a certain angle, it's alright. And nevermind. Just go your own sweet way. Sway, with your hand frothing on the fountain's case. I've got tools for scaffolding that further. Well then. What what.

old time itches - i don't quite understand

rose and jonathan's song

mp3 listen link

by example

communion wafer

i'm still waiting, still waiting - are you waiting for me? is it still on me? am i gonna have to write you a stupid love song? am i gonna have to go through those painful calisthenics? a laborious love song, a labor of love, pure loving love, stupid love? well produced and ill conceived? well?

well i've got a shelf full of love songs now, i should be proud, but i hide them from company cause those stupid tunes embarrass me - but those hate songs, they endure - cause all you need is anger - my company loves misery, we're incorporated and unlimited, except in love, we accept some limits there, there's such a thing as going too far, we'll let you know where you stand

well i'm still waiting sweetie

still waiting for you

i'm getting impatient but you're still quite young and you still turn me on - just to reiterate and knot stimulate - of course i know you won't read this anyway, that's why i can say what i want to say - SWIM wrote a poem on a piece of paper, i found it on the road, took it home and plagiarized his words

see, if i could say this to your face then you would fall for me - so i tell myself to savor fantasy, a careful theory, full of cares, like an emoting bloodclot cutting himself on his glottal stop - reality won't work for me and i won't work for it - i won't be hurt again

although i'm getting numb lately so whyknot? anesthesia is topical, it's in the news, i'm in the noose, and why'm i writing yearny poetry anyway? i've not been for want of katie, she's back in town, crystal gown sparkling and she gives herself to me, my k tea, wah wah wah, n2o in a needle, funny aye?

for want of a woman the mind was lost, until the drugs made me sane again, but still i say, my kingdom for a horse, a white horse, i'm not riding into the sunset yet, not riding over a cliff either, i just like substance, i'm not that fussy, cause substance beats absence, that makes good sense to me and it would to you too if you were me, my little pony

last night i got drunk whilst looking for k - hit every bar in town, over-tipped every server - called a cab to get home, over-tipped the cabbie - last night i got drunk whilst drinking - got some ideas, forgot what they were - a bourgeois bender, over-tipped every bartender, what did i get out of it? i'm wondering

today i'm practicing healthy misanthropy, you wouldn't know it to look at me but i'm being careful with my money - it's healthy, healthy for my money whom i've neglected and disrespected, i'm taking care, like the servers never said to me

today i'm kungover and shivering - they're good shivers, righteous shivers - there's something about this partially artificial kitchen temperature, it's changing my chemistry to emote surges of childishgiddygush in the language of bloodstream, and that's good, another beat pumps childgush through my veins, i remember that taste, it's like licorice, a big thing of licorice

well at least i didn't hurl - well... at least i didn't remember hurling - it was MERCIFULLY BEYOND MY CONTROL -- and oh yeah, bury me with my money - drugs are free, but bury me with my money