point

in general, my words aren't generous
when i write, it's to complain
i tend not to share happiness, in text
though, i figure if i felt it more, i'd share it more, too
but who can tell what, where, when there's
so much synthetic in the substratum
and happiness is now a subset of economic theory

? meaning means less than ever
and okay, death

generally

waiting for the stomach to settle

eating isn't healthy
wears out the tubes
life is killing me

and i'll drag everyone down
and i know how i sound
as well

habits formed in the meta-game, meta-stable malignancy
it'll be hard to dislodge what's congealed
this absurdity might continue for an absurdly long time
past what you'd think would be sustainable


waiting for a settled stomach, or some spoof of that
so i can swallow one of a series of pills, take an extra traz
to just embrace sleep with an extra wide stretch of the arms - and not bother with another statement on extra glut - but, see cloudy punctuation and gauzy syntax swirl - and sound like half a self - and shrink from things - with or without corrosive intoxicants, my world gets smaller and smaller, like people shrink in old age, whether that be mental or physical or an acute dilation of this too shall pass - cracked-out lyrics, don't say that word, cause i failed to write the libretto on the subject that would have conquered several worlds - fuck it - fuck that, fuck them, fuck y'all



gluroakrle - won't dignify with an apostrophe - behold the unwritten, unsent email response - decomposed in the mind - phosphate in fertilizer - gotta mean something - sulfide solution - shrink wrap tear

it's harder and harder and harder to assemble any meaning to this process of pushing food through tubes - so congratulations, void, you won my heart and mind


resounding stomach
pet name for a pill, so cute
and tree frogs, and kittycats, also cute
and despite being the most slapdash avatar for dionysis yet, he still spoke the truth when he said
"love hides in the strangest places", i don't deny that
so, it's not all lost, just so fucked up the system's crying for a hard reset
which will probably not happen within the time it takes my tubes to wear out to an unsupportable toxic chemical dump in a bag of human flesh, but it will happen at some point, no thanks to me
being part of the problem, and useless except as a lamentation artist
with a leviticus postscript
the earth's museum
and one thing and another like that

just noticed, when about to make a poetic update, that everything deemed worthy to be on my newsfeed has a big annoying photo - that's what the network wants to see, no leatherbound, non-illustrated heap of text, not fit to print - that's why i'll post here and not there, conventions are starting to crystallize in shards that poke me aggressively into shrinking postures of propriety, so fuck facebook and crack metaphors and social chores

we'll all end up in the same sewer pipe everything's swirling into anyway, it's not like i'm significantly better or worse, my delusions of grandeur and over-corrections with shame shindigs are predictable pentacyclic permutations, something very similar to something i would say

i love global hotkeys

hotkey love, encompassing love of power

glakatu shekwek

glakuh, glakuhtaurus checkhak

they thsould call you thsqueek *i used a th and an s, thso iths only a half listhp, not a full listhp, the bethst of both worldths, yayah, put that in your panel*

emergency medical transcription is a game, a theory, and a hallucination - the past is history, but it's not even past, and the future's a mystery but it's bearing down on me - or actually, not really, it's not even a mystery, it takes forever, tomorrow and today are so blurred together in a monotonous slur, but at the moment, i'm grinding on energy cause it's so manifested for a lil lolitalic interval and i refuse to think of fleetingness

oh thsqueek, i just wanted to say oh to somebody, yo
reprusen'

quick scan

for your name here ____. If you take one thing out of this, take the blank. Rather, scratch that. Pen odes to pain abolition. It's good to set goals I'm accomplishing while writing. Thin the blood that insults the body. Dilute the cells that swell the skin. Scrape acid-plastered teeth and brace for insulin shock - I'll be the outlier drone that lived amazingly long, just hung on, indecently, for so much time it's shameful.

I require that precise detritus comes back, it needs to, in a big way, like hair metal guitarists turning pintos into porsches through the power of their ROCK.

swamped

Ukee highways

i could look at a phobos loop forever after death - and i'm saving all my good words for the medium of chat - chat is an okay word, and an okay thing - feedback death from my own nostalgia - i'm willing things to warp into ever more corrupt contours - noticing the gouges in the wall - the cracks that make me wonder, are there things developing that would necessitate thousands of dollars worth of maintenance on this house? good thing i don't own it, but am i sort of responsible anyway?

i could edit, you could edit, logo, 220 right, vibrayt, love and haight-

laid all those things to tape, but it's got to be re-magnetized - lionize the hull before we land on the roof of the bank - we'll christen a grid of consistent flavour from alexandria to timbuktu

Bleak mystique of oblique

Jonathan Bepler soundtrack to Cremaster 5 reminding me of Things. What a strange acid aftermath sub-stratum. Echoes will continue for a while. If I was suddenly faced with their source, things would be instantly untenable again, and I'd feel why.

Surfing on waves of stupidity and silly shambles dreams, chasing down pills like Packman. Getting lost under pines in slopes of tent tangles. Stuff I left behind, stuff that isn't mine, what's this stuff? Where's that other stuff? Is it okay to just leave this stuff on the ground and... go? Go wherever the next place is? A sober secular workday squeezing out time and energy.

Transquigglify

It's hard to mean much in these 2013 times in this post when exgfs filter into most dreams, foisting ghostly schemes on me, disquieting in their disparate personalities running togetherness like mercury in the molten cauldron the t-1000 dissolved in at the end of the movie. But it doesn't end, it just keeps roiling and boiling.

Paragramellaton with jujill jastars and jessuckle masteteaser. Refrain. Versefrain. Chorus pour. A tempo con Migo. O it's a bitter vitamin pill. I need a woman like a fish needs a monocle probably but I miss the ones I used to have in my life, especially the one quite recently, a real woman's woman, or womon she might say, and paint, with oils.

But let's get back to me, cause that's really what this blog's all about and we wouldn't want to stray too far from our mandate with myself, would the royal we? No.

Me's not so much a we, wheezing dreams in which only certain things happen out of all earthly possibilities. I miss things that have already distorted in my memories.

Paractive

What would you call a certain kind of opposite to "pro-active", where you're "active" alright, but not to any positive end? Or maybe you actually are doing something positive, but you think you're just fucking shit up for the sake of rage and chaos and the urge to see certain obnoxious orders crumble. I got nothing against order, mind you. I ain't no disestablishmentarian. Just certain orders that have gone on too long, on the might of inertia and apathy.

It gets a lot less fun when it gets political. Not that it's ever that fun, this blog... except for me, sometimes. Today's a fun day, my lucky bun day, you know what I mean?

Yesterday was a queasy sostenuto, getting into political arguments with friends of friends on facebook, who, when, where, why, what the hell? it feels strange, a flangy field of candidates, the president's weird, she's got a burgundy beard, it's a rip-off! oh, such a ripoff. "it's so easy to complain, isn't it?" says this guy, so facile and smug, dunno who he is, somehow connected to my dad

what i won't say to him, cause i don't want to get into my psychological issues on a family member's facebook thread, is that it's actually not so easy for me to complain - on my blog, sure, but even then, political complaints are not a swamp i wade into lightly - cause i hate conflict, and i'm painfully unsure of myself, and still thrice-bitten three-billion times shy from old flame wars, and i had that nasty feeling in my gut all day being suddenly involved in two separate fights online after so long out of the fray - for me, it's easiest not to complain but ignore issues and just hope things'll be alright somehow, and surely the smart people have everything taken care of, and the steady stream of digital entertainment and cheap petroleum that enables all soul-corroding excess on a mass scale will continue forever and ever and ever, amen - and distract myself, tesseract myself out of the looming ecological realities

i got a strong urge in me to go that route, and it cramps my style being all political, and smacking of ideology, which is so icky and unstylish and shrill, oh my god, how shrill it is, to voice opinions on things outside the cultural and artistic realms - but i'm increasingly compelled to, even though i haven't had time to study up on everything yet - information has trickled into my head nonetheless, about states of affairs that i don't feel obliged to just accept, because there are, supposedly, no alternatives, and i can't understand the bigger picture anyway

Some people twist themselves into pretzels trying to think of the 5.8 million canadians who voted Harper in as a majority. But I guess the important thing is that they know what's best for Canada, better than the majority that didn't vote for the cons, or didn't vote at all because the system is so screwed up.

and anyway, fuck what's "best for canada", how bout what's best for the world that we have more than our share of effect on and influence over, given the hugely disproportionate amount of carbon we burn and suck out of the ground and burn and suck and spew back into the heat trap again... Ah the hubris of these tenants of the scotia building. The canadian association of petroleum "producers" - they think they produce it, not the earth over hundreds of millions of years.

Aah, Canada. Born on home plate and thinks it hit a grand slam. How could you possibly fuck up an economy with this few people in that much land / natural resources, all while enjoying the military protection of the armed to the teeth psycho nation next door?

The four 'H's of being a dumb canadian: Harper, Hockey, Tim Hortons, and don't tHink too much about anything.

Sorry, i know its unpleasant, the scowl. Honestly, i have a hard time with people. There's some persons I like, but if I liked people, I'd work at Tim Hortons... To quickly cure that delusion.

Virgos need not apply. Don't wanna meet your eye cause it's not a neutral location. A good deed never goes unpunished. So many extra miles to go... Go fish... Gone fishin'

hail satan

and fuck servicemaster

it's just, it seems it's been so long since i hailed satan - thought he might appreciate a call

and servicemaster, i don't think i've ever called them out - i've been patient, and complacent - biding time, wasting time - feeling a lot more fortunate than i was - now the reality is catching up that i'm being treated like a dumb servant, paid chump change, and considered untrustworthy scum

thing is, i dunno if i CAN do better, but i can do better than to clean the boxcars of the leanest gravy train in town, even if that means being an immobile hobo, hell yeah - satan knows what i'm talking about - servicemaster knows nothing, not even their customers - it's depressing working there, and for them - don't gotalotta metaphors, just saying stuff straight out, cause i feel like it

sigh

a few strategies for comfort within a shit job now shot to shit, i don't even have them anymore cause they're cracking down on the extra minutes employees spend doing nothing when there's nothing to do - if i've got time to lean, i've got time to read a fucking book, there's only so many ways i can figure out to sift through a matrix of dust - you fucking idiots, claim-jumping my time after i've gone well beyond due diligence, which you don't even know - you think because i'm here i'm stupid, and barely human, and i might as well be one of the immigrants you condescend to - you're clueless that they see through your bullshit just as well as i do, perhaps better

but let's not stay negative - let's hail satan - he always brings me back up - he'll whisk me out of here, when the time is right - he'll pull some strings, i'll feel like a marionette, it'll be hilarious

just riffing on "friends"

it didn't mean as much as it sounded like it might have meant - not that it meant nothing - it mostly meant, i guess, that i associate the death of relationships with the loss, not only of my best friend, but all the other friends i gained through osmosis, and that's a bitter pill - i make that association disproportionately to how much i've lost in reality - but there has been loss - i'm sure for you too - and the thoughts of your suicidal thoughts haunt me - but probably no one's gonna be offing themselves anytime soon - and mere thoughts are not worth a reaching out, mere talk of suicide - talk's cheap, and even wrist scars are a dime a dozen, though i'd value them higher than OTC-ODs

a lot of muck of dreams though, and things churning in the swamps, dunno if i'd call them love but they're entwined with slimy tendrils, watery and dark magic squirming out of my control, i'm left sore and powerless

i'm not actually sure what anyone else might have lost - but lately, syd barrett lines are bouncing off the cave walls in maddening lattices - wouldn't you miss me at all? well, i can block the haunt with headphones, ghost voices aren't so scary when i'm blasting specific frequencies through my ear canals as a buffer - distraction only half-works, dreams have the last laugh - still i prefer those laughs to the cruelty of the self-reflecting mind on the fringes of sleep - that's when the ghosts devour me, that's the only time they can, albeit briefly in objective time, but it's so insidious how subjective it gets on those fringes, and how delusional flaws balloon to infinity - and molecules could be spiritual if i could comprehend their function in planck constants through megayears

noodling while the ocean burns

Rennie's Mill Solitude

If I was a hedge fund manager... I'd have it all worked out. I'd have the whole thing sewn up tight, daddy. I'd be wrapped up with a pretty little bow. The risk would be entirely deflected from me. I'd be completely justified in my salary. And somehow, I'd be creating jobs. And that would be an inconvenient fact for narratives in which I was on the wrong side of history, and an obstruction to sustainability. But even in the least flattering narratives, there'd be a lot of people worse than me, if you crunched enough numbers.

I never wrote songs for you in the first place

Not about to start now.
At least I saved some time
and more importantly soul
didn't waste any soul that way.

But I did waste a lot of time and soul
in other ways, on you, in the
"being with you" ways

but no, it wasn't "wasted"
and I never wrote any songs
that's a youthful thing to do
so youthful it's more perverted than true

Can't remember what I was gonna say... Just taking note of another banal fade out of a love. It fits the pattern, it's just a bit expedited this time. But still painful. Not being able to be friends. Why must it always be that way? Especially when my friends are spread to the four corners of the continent. And fuck your friends that were never mine by extension - mine were never yours either, you didn't want them.

Gonna write a lot of songs this winter though. Lots of things to sing about, lots of things lost, but it's perverse to sing of people. I'll write of selfishness and the ugly truth of how I don't care what anyone else is singing about, it's all looping serial tone rows, predictable variations of indie-rock-pop that is such sadly inflated currency of calculated quirks and contrived cuteness. I now know it when I hear it instantly, everywhere, music, even the good music, is worthless to me. Still, I want to make it, for myself.

the people need to lead

voting isn't enough, obviously - politicians won't "lead" people that expect to continue living the growth-fetish lifestyle that will probably make life harsh if not unlivable in future decades - the people need to lead by opting out of that lifestyle - people aren't gonna vote in government that forces them to change, government isn't gonna force people that elect them to change

lifestyle change... that's scary, but not as scary as the predictions of climate science and the hubbert curve - and the word lifestyle makes me nauseous but not as nauseous as the fetish of growth - i've got those tumours in me, though, obviously

there's a dark relief in cutting to the chase, intellectually, but i don't at all claim to have gotten anywhere near there emotionally, the proof being my ability to write something like this, still largely detached, but not enough to not write anything

Uninspirable

Couldn't do courier, much as I wanted to, too obnoxious a font for blocks of text.

Mundane miracles. Routine wonders. Hard to get a spike on any telemetry. A reading. A hearing.

The most natural expression is to say there is soreness, dryness, like tight skin around my lips, I dunno. The meaning of that sentence is like a hook dangling accidentally from some large and hidden machine I can't comprehend the mechanics of, that runs, or fails, on the skills of a maintenance crew unknown to me. I don't even know how there can be enough maintenance people to keep those things running, or why I never see them, or how they get by.

Bust out, then bug out, cause it's all so worthless, nothing moreso than your bust and bug cycle, useless to fellows. Food drive for the maintenance crew. Third eon iteration. Bearded baldie turned tommyknocker. Please let there be no will in this. Don't let me be free cause I can't own this shit. Let it just be noisy prophecy that's like a pile of dust in the darkness on the chasm floor thousands of feet below the tile that crumbled and Indiana Jones nearly tumbled in, because he stepped on the wrong letter that didn't spell out the name of God. It's still part of things. And the natural rebound of energy can cave in, and we can manufacture more soreness to join the legion of lesions, make lids heavy even when they should not be for fuck's sake, and beckon to dreams, make another horizon an event, waste, ablate, stymie

you and i and dominoes, i used to say things straight out, back when i could type, when keyboards didn't get in my way, when they seemed to know where i wanted to go, and i could hit the "o" key without thinking about it... oh, this keyboard feels misshapen, and for all that, this is a poor simulacrum of, see, there isn't even a word for it... but it's obvious anywhey, uhhl.

Beryllium

Looking for the words that work for me. Serenity, because it embodies what I need, and sacredity, because it's mine, I made it up. Tranquility because it's beautifully polysyllabic like a babbling brook running on life sentence never seems to end.

Momjam

I'm eating the currant jam that's been in my fridge door for two years, the preserved jelly from the 2011 berries my mom picked from the bushes below Hoover Street, that she canned and sent to me from Nelson, BC, all the way over here. "The toxicity of our city", I'll quote, and not not quote, because my culture is trash, my references are impoverished, and I'll just embrace that like a stiff board in subzero January.

Ignoble savage prose-stylist. Thank God some make use of leisure time with study and experiments yielding theories to advance human understanding, or at least applied science, that being, to technology, that I consume. We're all dead anyway. Maybe the world's careening toward the end, maybe it's not, but my life's gonna end, and so's yours, that's a sure bet. What dreams may come? Perhaps, in the soliloquizing between now and then, I'll find a way to accept blackness, and not need to have some dream to ease the perceived bleakness of that being it, the end. And should I manage that feat, at that moment, after such a long journey and eventual arrival at that edge, it will instantly become irrelevant, my acceptance or lack thereof, because suddenly, wishful thinking will have vanished from the equation and it could just as well be a new beginning because I won't be clinging to some pitiful scrap of the macrocosmic drifting celestial permutation that I insist is me and all I perceive and must exist otherwise nothing exists! (for all intents and purposes, as far as i can see)

January's such a beautiful sounding name, names really sway me, sustain reveries, bubbles, carbon-based heat-traps, dendrite-dependent consciousness... i can't edit but who's counting, who's reading? i'm reading george orwell essays - tallying sheep, art and concrete, washing the dishes of the lawyers who work as a team to wash the dishes of the litigious money-shuffling fuss-budgets who make possible the kitchen sink we all enable in a clusterfuck co-dependency with our unequally-apportioned specialized skill-sets. If I don't volunteer for early die-off, then maybe one of the useful people, who isn't swamped with requests for re-training, might be kind enough to show me how to do a little of everything, to get by without the power grid - it would have been wise to learn to like the earth and the outdoors and gardening, but I never did, even a little, I became this person I am, who is better suited to living in a space colony, set aside for the epic galactic arc, a prodigal return that involves the circle of hell that is plasma before a humble homecoming to the nomads where they happen to be after all that space-bound-time

there's still preserves of currant jelly, Mj2011 vintage, for when I run out of frozen and canned food, and I'm too lazy to cook anything, even though I'm hungry, but not too lazy to write. I feel good for eating the jam, at long last. It's a taste of home, and a reminder of mom.

Bismuth

Strung out on nothing. Automatic words like leftover radio signal from the northern hemisphere after radiological die off. Constellation of mixed messages, the medium in any case, entropic levelling out, misleading two dimensional mytho-metaphorical characteristic. There's a three dimensional manifold which expands indefinitely that makes these pegs they stuck in the ground pull in crazy ways and drag the fabrics til they rip. .

Should should should not sleep but sickness makes sleeping the only reasonable thing.

Should I save the world or be myself, my true defeatist self? cause not everybody gets a trophy, not when you get out of pre-school, I've come that far at least. It's only right and good and vile and beautiful that some of us succeed brilliantly and most of us fail and a few of us do more than fail, but fail abysmally, not giving up on bids for greatness in middle age like most decent mediocrities, but sticking with the selfish program and clinging to the gift-less ego grift. So at least there's the fact that I'm playing my part in the vile beauty ecology, being a preposition from which to be surveyed by heroes aeons in the future in a galaxy light-millennia distant, for a microsecond of fame.

Bronze Age can close, we got our antimony holdings cashed in time for the Mesozoic recast. Loneliness with the best quality people so close at hand. Platinum jewelry. Wasted plastic handset. For all the melancholia in Poland, it's still better than the chemical prepositions of the drug-drain. . Strung out on nothing is better than strung out on the evil powder planes with their vicious sharp edges and satirical state boundaries. Immoral porpoises.

Cuties

First you infantilize them. Then you sexualize them. That's why it's so gross, when you're forced to think about it. Girls. No, it's women now. And sometimes, ladies, that's sometimes acceptable. Ladies. And why not? It's not like I was ever comfortable with girls, the word or the beings. I liked to think up names for my imaginary daughter, that's all. Could never even draw them, in line art or descriptive prose. Maybe once or twice in poetry but it still seems gross to me, strained through a filthy shopvac filter, crusted with lust and loneliness, my own gastrointestinal version that my words conform to.

It's women and the goddess now, praying for matriarchy and the white race to be placidly dissipated in soft pumpkin genetic homogeny. Lord make me an instrument of thy peace. Yes, I can get behind that arcane sounding and humble request, even if I want to purge the thys and thous and arts and haths from my prayers because of the false feeling that language gives me, the way I feel pretentious when I parrot that dialect instead of speaking the way people of this age speak, whatever the lingual guilt by association. But yeah, Howard be thy name, so, your will be done, or rather, help me be useful to others, see, I'm praying to be a better person, so I can contribute to the good, not for a bunch of stuff for me - save for meaning and purpose and the purest bliss of virtue, iow, circumventing the material goods that briefly feed and then stymie happiness and hooking up directly to the overarching good feeling of being in harmony with my fellow humans and maybe nature, thus, a more efficient selfishness.

I think I have a good heart, it's in the right place, but clogged with the sticky tar this sickly society runs on. It would be a fitting end for my world if my heart failed. But my blood pressure's so low. More likely, I'll find a balance between euthanasia and euphoria and push the plunger on that when the time comes.

Contribute to the good, what a nice idea, how nice of me for coming up with it, I'm so proud of myself. A shame though that it all goes out the window the instant I'm called upon to act on it, the thousand little ways I'm tested each day at work, the opportunities I could take to practice this principle, like I used to practice piano. I struggled mightily with that form of practice too, and eventually gave up. And I had passion for the piano. Maybe I have passion for being good and making the world better, it may be trending that way, anyway. But more likely, it's a random walk, like this blog. Which is not to say there isn't sense in the pre-apocalyptic Melbourne drunk's tuesday night stagger trending toward the ditch, and statistically likely to end up there.

prelude to epileptic fit

silly idiot, jumping at the imagined sound of a text message - the romantic context is like an eerie jamais-vu

there will be a cafe, where early deaths are encouraged - maybe i'll live to see it, haha - by then, i'll be a prime candidate, if not now

the repetitions of my job are increasingly insanely absurd - the "thank you"s, the "i don't think there's much in there," comments, the nano-scale smalltalk, the roteness, the gaps in between where i contrive things to do, or not do - but it's far better than a lot of other jobs i've had - i feel sorrier for the people that work behind the counter of the tim horton's where i go for my coffee and lunch breaks, than i do for myself - i absorb their hostility to me with acceptance and understanding

lines creep under my eyes - a perpetual sleep mask, anvils on the lids, iron chains on the limbs - but i still feel young and stupid - is this what anti-depressants and caffeine are doing for me? why am i still on this shit? maybe cause although it sounds like such a good idea, to get baseline pure in brain chemistry, i got a sneaking feeling i'd still be feeling whatever it is i'm feeling, whether on or off meds -  and i'm scared to go completely off the meds, what if i begin to go on hysterical crying jags? i have a feeling that could happen - maybe it should happen, maybe it's part of some long-term process i haven't dredged up the nerve to begin yet - so, i guess that means get off the meds, cause at least some side effects would be eliminated from the equation, and i wouldn't feel obliged to gag down vile coffee that i hate 59 times out of 60, or swallow pills, so many pills, i've learned to swallow pills, but it hasn't gotten much easier, i just tolerate that disgusting routine