time is running out...
you just don't know it yet

Impromptu Fuck You to my Neighbors

church mouse

all precautions in operation, headphones, sound blanket, everything except what i can't control, the mechanical source of the sound that gets past the dampening, through the floor - and i'm in trouble for playing music again, fuck

finally get out of my slump and play a little keyboard and i'm in trouble for it, and my dumb enflamed emotions signal that it's a punch to the gut, tension headache starting already... feeling very fuck it, want to change consciousness immediately

more than anything, i'm angry - for being chastised, yelled at through the floor, forced to imagine myself as an annoying blundering idiot who i'd make into a big ugly strawman, and there's that extra bonus of knowing i was in the wrong to prompt an assholish overreaction almost anyone would emulate, so i'm not allowed to be angry, plus it's the dubious luxury of normal men, remember?

maybe i could start this new phase of going full-on monk eunuch, accelerate what's already happening anyway - to become a church mouse, worship a language out of earshot, in passing, and mostly just survive on crumbs, and not really worship anything, not grateful

well, my style's gonna get cramped quick... what else can't i do in my own damn apartment? so the paranoia was justified right from the first round of retaliatory pounding, nearly knocked my good old h4n from my computer tower - fucking hell, seven hells too, why not throw them in? what to do now? paralyzed, obsessed, and depressed... turn this already monastic space into the house of total prayerful reflection, subservient to the lord of hypocrites and anal undead?

or cut extrovert activities entirely and write the great solo solipsistic novel? for myself? unless i can't even type either - cause i'm already beaten into a little corner of a shell, paranoid, creeping, suppressed mightily - maybe this is why those others hate it here, what they were trying to impart to me, about the community crap, the crap community... ...... ...... .......... ... . ..... ... .. .!

where can i go to escape conflict? i don't know, nowhere i guess - what drugs can i take to escape conflict? only the ones i can't take - how can i talk about this? i can't, really, or even write, but i'm trying a little bit online, and malik's putting up with it, he actually responded like a good friend would

so let it be written, so let it get stuffed, let it be stuffy, fuck it, fuck all of it, strip the air of every kind of molecule but a synthetic few, thin down the fresh, thicken up emotions for a canned starch

maybe i'll just take what drugs i'm still vouch-safed to take - another round of trazodone, back to the regular dose and then some... man, i'm really angry and a bit lonely, and i'm starting to really crave a brain burning chemical high cause there's a big void tearing through me lately, or it's like my skin's gone - and like other things, like Silver Surfer, and other lackluster hiphop similes

adrift

Feeling weird. Not knowing what to do. Improvising. Could it be that the world is ending? Or I'm interpreting on hyper drive? A drink would be nice right now. Or I could drive cabs for a living. Feel strange and alien and suburban and first world and hardcore. Interpreting blues fragments. Feel fragile and already starting to burn out. Maybe could veg out instead of burning out. Rejuvenate thru vegetation. I'm not in my right mind. Fragile typing fingers. And writing feels weird. And drinking feels weird. And not drinking feels weird. Could edit better in a solid state. And judge. And not feel overwhelmed by heavy machinery. A hard look into things and interpretations. Don't feel social. This is what I used to cure with booze. And especially other drugs, the ones that are chronically a part of dream wallpaper. Between sandworm negotiation dramas. Medicating medication and neuroses. And animal instincts misplaced. Need a virtual correspondence with an angel online. Would be perfect, magic cure-all... Self-regard. Recordings. That's what it's all for. Not glitchy-twitch euphoria. And when am I ever an artist anymore?

The essence is, I was feeling righteous anger, self-pity, and like a martyr. Now I'm questioning everything, feeling guilt and self consciousness and body consciousness. Won't bother singing the tenacious D song that Gus is playing. Well, you never know what's coming down the conveyor belt. I don't feel remotely capable of going into something and scoring a fulfilling career, but when I get more straight and solid and determined, and a little put-upon-feeling, I'll remember that I want to succeed out of spite, and anger is powerful, if also the dubious luxury of normal men.

Feels strange being here. Could laugh and speculate and anthropologize. And dream of sparkly diamonds crushed in hands, in past glories never re-creatable. Sibling banter. For my benefit. But it's nostalgic. But flash forward on the timeline. A drink would be nice. I remember I used to get hedonistic and tripped out, and transcribe this finch brood casually like this. Miss the freedom to drink. I used to do this, but with a notebook. In some weird ways, very little has changed.

Civilized, with benefits. Charming. And me, so paranoid and bitter, and dissatisfied with life but it could be worse. I'm so slick with devices and interfaces, aren't I? Can't I profit from that ? But I'm just a user. Wish I had the passion and ability for making, anything.

Yeah.

Feels weird, writing, like this. I wonder if I'll ever be a writer again. Or a reviewer or an analyst, columnist, journalist. Yeah, from this scratch, sounds fucking likely. One thing I seem to do well is swipe words that rarely get corrected. But these bids for empires of selves. They never seem to satisfy. So, jonesying for external validation.

And to-do itineraries seem important or at least worth bothering with when I'm solid. Or is this as solid as anything else? I should be rejoicing I got all this fuck off free time. But I don't know what to do with it. The second I'm left to my own devices, I realize they're glitched to all hell. My devices are broken. They need a driver. But I don't like it when others drive me.

justdrain? was it?

pathetic economic niche

if these are life's terms, then fuck living life on life's terms - or, can i live on my own terms if i just stay sober? take me anywhere, is that what she said? christ - animals don't put themselves through this - maybe make my own terms? a little comfort, a little fuck you buffer to the edges of the world? would you wanna see me burn out that quick on clean clean fuel? would it be worth having me have a paycheque, to keep up appearances? like, there's an example of terms that are not my own, and don't need to be lived on anyway

god-proximate guacamole

I shouldn't be a foul-weather blogger. I should write more positive things, share positive moods, they do exist... if I feel like it, cause contrivance isn't my style. But it just so happens that I do feel like being positive, yes, I will allow for that eventuality. Even if that also makes me feel like a tool. A tool for Ned Flanders' God can't be such a bad tool to be. Not the sharpest tool in the drawer, better for spreading mortar.

There's a high I can feel from a good meeting that reminds me what it's all for. I can even sometimes get through the awkwardness of people crying around me, and spilling tears of rage and grief and shame and sickness, and sometimes joy. Can be cool with the awkwardness to some extent, and come out feeling high. And the reason it's such a good reminder is that it's a high based on something real, earned, and pure, the euphoria of seeing other wretches saved from the grave or misery by the healing spirit of a spiritual program, and the plain friendliness of other people that allows it all to happen. The road to heaven is paved with good intent and awkwardness.

Even euphoria based on doing a good job at something, or having mastered a skill - ego-based gratifications - they're healthy and infinitely better than material satisfaction or synthetic bliss, but still based on too many false premises - that my little life is so special, for playing something on a keyboard that's too complex to pin down.

But the euphoria that comes from a good meeting, sometimes it even feels like it's good enough, like I don't need to ultimately turn to the substance crutches again. Every once in a while, it's powerful enough, that it feels substantial, like what I'm supposed to be getting out of participating in this "next-right-thing" spiritual doohickey. The trick is, I think, that it's mostly beyond ego, it's more feeling a part of helping others, and being one of those helped, in a pure way, leaving room for gritty war stories to texture up the primary color candy coat that brings nausea. So, beyond ego, ergo, less transient.

So there, positivity, good I suppose, even though it smacks of charity, and doesn't satisfy me in the raw sense that a good miserable ramble does. Now I can get back to being sarcastic and bitter.

future self absorbed

Date Cake

I should be grateful, stop resampling sour grapes, it's tasteless picturing maggots. Starland vocal band tattoo associations, idea balls... baked into the cake, certain words sting me, sweet is so edgy, cuts me, honeycunt, fuck it, the fucking moon, over. Bitterness, because hunger, big belly, small mouth. Frustation in hyper-sexualized society, personal politics, power plays - practice chatting with checkout girls cause they got no choice.

Wouldn't the most telling change be to change what I express here, of all places? Or does this have to remain the sick room? Yeah, cause that's the maison d'etre. Maybe it says something that I'm - cut up - waiting to die. I didn't think how it sounded when I said morbid things and freaked out facebook kinfolk. Didn't think. Blink, hazy blank interval that won't clear. Blinking back to bed an hour ago when I meditated, cogitated, in love with loving the abstract. In bed - isn't interesting in my case, adds nothing to the context, no euphemism. Quite a lot of sleeping going on, as well as lying down and pseudo sleep, and rest, and restlessness, and recharging a full battery, and failing to affect a dead one.

I could get on the broad highway, and be more outwardly grateful, even in writing, share spirituality. But I wouldn't be here, writing, if I was into doing that. Global hotkeys, miserly spirit, swipe, fuck, cockgoblin, douchecanoe.

Promises, they said. Code words. Sometimes the symbols pile so high they fall and I suffocate under them, the only death a clinically demented hoarder deserves.

I want a reaction. Ought to pick a fight. Start some drama. Now that things have settled down, sickness regroups, attacks me from angles of quasi at the quackadero. All I really want to do is lie back down and listen to more math lectures, and understand a repeating fraction, and barely let on that it's mostly about a voice that makes me drowsy. Addiction to the drowse-inducing voice. The best I can hope is that it's a quirky vice, or at least a silly detail that I alone (in a sample size of ten thousand individuals) put into words, to give voice to a rarely-mentioned grain of reality. So the drowse addiction may be as common as the common assclown, but I staked a claim on a description and mined it for material, like the observational humour that hasn't been tapped yet, between Jerry Seinfeld and George Carlin and their thousands of imitators. That's gotta be 44% of the sum, roughly on par with petroleum reserves, or if we're not at peak awareness of human foibles, maybe closer to peak phosphorus. Peak apocalyptic gloom seems to be far away, perhaps perpetually in the future if we're lucky.

So, or and, or therefore, ie, fuck meaning, let it forever remain elusive, give me the wisdom to avoid it, even if I can't be granted the satisfaction of knowing I'm dodging it, so artfully. There may be enough iterations of wallflower patterns to string out what life I've got left.

21st Century Pythagorian Prototype mourning for a partner in rhyme, 1/17th of a multitrack wavefile. I don't want to know if it's the future of listening to music or not. Oh, no, stop, don't tell me. The information age is my poison. It's allowed this string, this mutation of viral code, in which I describe using digital audio mixing technology as metaphors for ugly aspects of life. Sometimes they can be pretty too, like a spectrum of frequencies, like a peacock's tail, but isn't that gaudy, really? Who does that display work on? Oh right, the superior people, with chiselled features and social skills. Who partied harder, the gays or the ravers? Or are they still at it, do people still do that, if I'm not around to see it as being frightfully new and frightfully cute?

There's no meadow to go to, to get all spiritual, nature does nothing for me anymore. I'm pickled synthetic, I'll say, just to indulge in comforting cynicism for a slur and feel there's no way out of it, this is my cushy vampire coffin.

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)