deletes

can that time consuming continue, that stream of
consciousness we have all wanted to dip our toes?

its like really late in the hours, the rules must be kept

the delete key we must return to the manufacturer
the one we were given at birth
that delete key we should return unmarked
un soiled
un moved by human hands
un greased by human indents

that delete key we should return unused
as a testament

that which was new is never really old
and creation is the point of creation

batteries

you know what, i can do this,

i can rekindle that espirito ha

its funny how the dead disappear. i have read what i wrote before.
nathan.

i wouldnt spend the time but for a 2nd i forgot his name. is that love, jesus.

I can't really tell. I haven't done this in so long.

you know its probably the country music i heard a guy
talking to his buds.

i think this experiment is dead. Not the grand experiment of course.

but this particular experiment is probably concluded

can you even change battery cables? you're 17 years old.

a long absence, not explained

god i love doing this, and its been many
years

i read what i wrote and it did seem like i had some youth, i had some energy

some momentum that might carry be foreware into some conclusion

i can close my eyes and see it, i can see what it is

i can see that my mind may not make sense anymore and that
it might need some exercise.

thou shalt not backspace i guess, though shalt not backspace

every thought is worth something isnt it.

am i embers now where there once was flame.

am i embers now.

time honored

TWICE THE BECOMING SAINT
perhaps three or four times the living
has brought to use, our joy

a poem

when bit on the halycon days of december
in a dark cloud
brushing my teeth in a mirror
hoping that neither vanity nor the mirror fail me
feeling empty
but not knowing or blaming
or feeling empty

spitting and returning
smelling like smoke
always spitting
coughing sometimes
consumed by fever
tested by flames

counting toys on the shelf
before they are even hatched

separating tenses
eating tenses, devouring the past
sometimes we learn before we love
sometimes we love before we learn

i have a phrase stuck in my mind
it's been there for years
without hyperbole
i cannot say where it was constructed
or even what it means
is it from a movie?
some poem, some work? some overheard remark.
I cannot say.
i've considered it; tattooed on my arm or chest or leg
or dick

it goes:
"terror stalks the hearts of men"

perhaps a google search will solve this

Our world has fallen again
into the shadow of war,
and terror stalks souls
in many lands.

that, the preface from a book entitled
Fulton Sheen's Wartime Prayer Book
the text admits to being written in 1943
the collector assumes it is still

relevant.

so
i guess i should not be surprised.
terror stalks
as it always has.

my father always wore these
heavy chamis shirts
they were like things you would wax a car with
soft but fucking thick

i don't think anyone wears those anymore
but maybe they're missing out
shit's probably warm

i remember when i was young
and i wrote something about wires and shoes and girls
well a girl
and when i was brushing my teeth
i thought of her and she thought of me

Interest in fire

move it on, move it down
perhaps its false to think that writing something everyday will change anything
but maybe the goal isn't change
but practice

and so it has been said that picasso learned to paint before
he became a cubist.
and mixed it up.
I guess it doesn't have any meaning without the former.
Maybe there's something to the former then, even as it grows.

Once cannot shred without first playing greensleeves.
so it goes.
if you can shred, without playing greensleeves.
you're kind of not shredding.

And authority i guess
it grants us these rules

this isn't a very fun conversation, i'm aware
it's not thought wrenching, provocation
but maybe i need to learn to be uninteresting

before i can be interesting.

if buildings had to be burnt before they could be
set fire to, what would that accomplish?

corinthians 15:50

I declare to you, brothers, that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable.

Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed— in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet.

For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed.

For the perishable must clothe itself with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality.

When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: "Death has been swallowed up in victory."

Where, O death, is your victory?

Where, O death, is your sting?




or maybe this is your cup o tea

The hollow horn plays wasted words
Proves to warn
That he not busy being born
Is busy dying.

a new format lol

corner store burns to ground!
series of violence outbursts outlawed by teenagers
parents are on fire!
(they're not alone!)
manic household dreams gone awry!
death defying stuntman dies
the doom is everywhere if you open your eyes
sometimes you close them and type
lalalalala
!

is everything i'm creating good?
or bad?
could this even be considered creation?
what is the entire post was one audacious
attempt to control the spacing by whatev
means required by the editor (in this c
ase me) for no other purpose other tha
n to create a decline in the structur
e of the work. Would this not in tur
n, by its structure alone, lead you
to a conclusion at the end? It wou
ld have to conclude after all, fo
r soon there will be no room lef
t to add anything else. Perhaps
there is something else to say
, perhaps there's untold volu
mes of truly meaningful pros
e to fit into here, but may
be that's the point of the
format afterall. There is
nothing in the world whi
ch can be told. There i
s nothing in the world
which cannot be a lie
if nothing in the wr
itten realm can eve
r be finished. For
the format is a m
etaphor, and the
metaphor is a m
etaphor, a met
a-format, the
worst type o
f thing isn
't the end
but perso
nally I'
m afra
id of
my e
ndi
ng
.

To the deceased

To drop a cherry on top of a delightful pie

fifty posts and not a ship worth sailing became more

But there's a dream! AH!
And where dreams lie, so do desires.
So I resolve to fix this
With better writings!
Ahah!
Less violence, more substance!
More violence! Less death!
More death! Less substance!
something...

Triangles of perfection, substance, death, and violence
and cursing, oh god the cursing


The secret is to never stop typing
never stop typing and channel some really zealous emotion
hope you can find one...
if you can't you're in trouble.

Maybe that's why its been so long coming,
i like to postulate, but have no basis for postulation
for hypothesis for testing!
Maybe thats it
If you never stop typing, will something worthwhile arise?

it has to do with words like arise maybe
thats the key, strange words in strange places
like arise and key?
the key to a sun rise or something else that rises!
the living dead!
LO! they arise!

Zombies are far too common in this day and age.

Would thoreau write about zombies?
maybe.

so a guy I knew died
in a shitty apartment
alone
freezing
maybe drunk, i wouldn't know

Some act of desperation, not unlike thoreau

some final act of civil disobedience
or social mutiny.

I refuse to leave this house; you'll have to come and get me.

so that's kinda what happened; he was drug out dead.

I think we all wish we would of known, but we didn't.
so that is that, but its there.
This is more like a journal!
An online log
a blog.

Redaction, learned that at the house of blues.

Well, i know I don't have readers because there's no sense in reading
this.

except as a milemarker, or a tombstone, or a waystone maybe.
I may spend too much time fantasizing. That may be true.
And when people you know start to die, you gotta snap out of it.

its time to stop being polite.
and start getting real.

I think that's the future right there.
metaphors involving the real world / road rules challenge.

If a generation is raised on shit
the only way to get their attention
is to serve them a shit sandwich?

man, remember me by that, will ya?

i wanna be the guy who made up that shit sandwich thing.

Let's make this more like a real journal:

oh shit, indentation
bam! outline format
I) Introduction
a) Introducments
II) Body
a)Body Parts
III) Conclusion
a) Concludaments

see what i did there? just disassembled the whole of western knowledge.

anyways.

until next time faithful,

we're the wolves who don't know who Alf is
even though we watched the show
we didn't kill it, and we only know what we kill.

we're the feral ascendent.
aawwwoooo.

at least when i freeze to death they'll be like
"did you read his blog, no wonder"

i should scorn to shiver with terror at the thought of annihilation.

ah, quotes.

Oh, okay, its time to get serious

Too many times we find that we're not being serious enough
that seriousness is important
and that serious people grant serious gifts to other serious people
that the world was built by the serious
in a few serious years

and perhaps

if you're lacking in some aspect
it is in all likelihood seriousness

If i were going to write poetry,
I would start with a stormy shore
and a lost ship, braving the waves
and a maiden in a tower
twenty yards from the shore,
worrying and debating about
something that matters little
of tea cups and coffee spoons
and lords and lordships and kingdoms

and when the ship is dashed upon the
rocks
and indeed it is a necessity,
for it could not be prevented.
The lady would come to her conclusion
and choose the silver spoon
with the inset emerald
and striking gold filigree.

and as the men swam for the shore
they would soon realize it was a foreign shore
those few that survived
gasping for air
their eyes burning from saltwater

they would land and thank their gods
for survival
for life
and the lady
from her tower twenty yards away would see these men
and the drowned men, the dead men
and she would reconsider
the emerald is too tacky
she would then decide on a simple golden spoon
inset with a peridot
with subtle silver filigree.

half wise

When there is nothing but life in a cartoon pedigree,
where you are defined by a tree, in a scent, in a leaf.
there
you may find yourself, lifting a bottle, and glancing half wise to your left...
at the object of your love, at that miserable thing called love
and you might realize, that the cap is still on the bottle

but not until your lips touch it
not a second before you lips touch it

and you might feel like you once had a gift, but it was lost to your age, or maybe your wisdom
when you were less wise, it seemed greater, and now more wise, it seems smaller, and less significant, and you may find yourself, glancing half wise at that thing and wishing it were greater.

but not until your lips touch it.

win win, die death win

I won the grammy for performing arts major
decked in celefane and horsehair.

there you see me, alive and well
dancing for your children
i hope they aren't poor

drown the world in all the silence
until even silence is brave and violent

one on one, tenacious 3
thee thee thee thee thee

i got an eight hour day to trade for sex
left and right
come and get

pray for death you miserable kids
life doesn't hide
life isn't hid.

two thousand and six

well thats it
2006 is over, on with 2008

and you think your life just got better

harken! it just got worse.

2007 has gone missing, don't know where we'll find it.

the school is done, the life begun, come

the wolves are baying into the night like jesus baying for our sins.

come come come
come


i'll drink and write and die as such, until your heart is filled, until your measly black death heart is sucked clean.

i do not write of love anymore, love is dead.
i do not write of hate anymore, hate is everything.

we are something that cries us to sleep
we are something that cries to be heaped

on dead end alley streets, unto night time silly
unto nighttime correct

west side story

When the wall fell, we laughed like harpies. The curtain closed and Tuesdays were Saturday night drink specials, running through the streets, eyes closed, fists balled. We cut through life like we cut through fog - on rainy nights and Saturday mornings.

When the war ended, we danced to the tune of Soviet horns, collapsed in tired heaps of flesh in alleys along already narrow streets, breathing the wet air - offering penace to the Deity.

When the towers fell, we cringed with delight. Monoliths crumpling like tin cans under the feet of something beyond the void. Something beneath the stars.

We are the last of a dying breed. The vanguard cut off. We are women, children, places, things.

We are asserting our voice.

We are the feral ascendent.

We are asserting our voice.

We are the feral ascendent.

The Angel of Death Battles the Brown Shirts (for control of Men's souls)

I didn't bring an umbrella (foolish) because umbrellas are for women and children. Stoicism in rain is one of our most lauded virtues (men).

This is me on October 13th, the year of our lord, 2006, wet (because of the rain) and happy (Wendy not 20 minutes prior has given her non-minor, entirely uncoerced consent to [wet]).

I met Wendy a year ago (November), by one of those chance encounters met often by those of a chance (rape) existence. She has blonde hair. Blonde eyes. She's blonde. Really, really blonde. It was raining. She had an umbrella and I stepped under it (bold). I imagined some sort of humanity thing. Something that lives in us all. We don't like to see others wet; we want to provide shelter. And I was right (about that alone) because she responded with a greeting and a blonde laugh. This is how I met her. She was a kind and well meaning sort.

A bad point, but as good as any other, to deflect your gaze, because this isn't about me.
I'm just walking to get some condoms.

It's Wendy, now finishing her cookie (wiping the crumbs from her chest), that I direct you
towards.

It's a room with white walls in which she sits. She's huddled (shivering) on a bed with a
white blanket. You can only see her head. There's a commercial about Dove soap. "A campaign for real beauty." Or something. And beyond the screen, alive in the white light, the room. Wendy feels alone and desperate. That's me she's thinking of rescuing (from what?). But I'm on my way to get some condoms and to fuck her sorely.


Wendy will die for 21 reasons.


1) She was white. This alone is enough.

2) She once ate the last piece of bread.

3) She was born with asthma. This means, without the modern works of doctors and nurses, she was a dead one for sure. Asthma is a fish god, the writer of the fifth gospel, to quote Darwin.

4) She used computers, whose only design is to emulate man.

5) She believed in Armageddon. Judgment Day. Ragnarök. Regardless, she loved them all.

6) She mocked the homeless via a home.

7) She called a NATIVE AMERICAN by his god given name, "INDIAN"

8) She once dreamt that life was a dream and that moral judgment was a human construction.

9) She blew a bubble. This bubble wished she hadn't ushered him into existence. He said, "Insects have better lives than the one I'm about to live. If only they would listen... If only they could hear the thoughts that a single bubble can have. I am a bubble. A BUBBLE." And died. Popped by Wendy herself. If this doesn't offer a premise for belief, I'm not sure what will.

10) She believed all information existed only to be properly disseminated, all facts organized with purpose.

11) She resolved (absolved) herself to never finish the Bible (or vote).

12) At one point in her life, the name "Nietzsche" had pertinent meaning.

13) Triskaidekaphobia. A symptom of [unknown].

14) Upon reading Fragments from an Apocryphal Gospel, she chuckled to herself quietly. God did not.

15) White epitomized her. And to be epitomized by a single thing is doom.

16) Her father was a butcher. Death begets death.

17) She was struck with the majesty of the Global Positioning System and said to a Mexican friend, "Behold the tower of man!" who replied, "Quien soy yo?"

18) She locked her door, expressing a need for isolation from the Communion of the Lord.

19) Consequences of previous actions untold conspired to rob her of free will, which she accepted.

20) Nothing. She did absolutely nothing. (And the time demanded action!)

21) Omitted


I finish my trip to pharmacy, exchange two disease ridden bills for three other disease
ridden bills, a handful of coins, two boxes of sex armor, and one fifth of JD. With this, I start
back home, casting sidelong glances at two black fellows I encounter and taking brisk unmeasured pulls from my brown bag. They nod.

The two men are wearing long coats and shooting dice against a curb. Two days prior, they had watched “Torpedo 4: We Built It, They Took It” and were now out for vengeance. Both are drunk and furious and calm. They are two eyes of one storm.

In front of the Majestic, the noise of Necropolis can be clearly heard. It's nerve wracking. It's movement only consistent loudness. It is gray, chaotic static. A naked man (Arthur the Sage) hangs from the third floor window using his feet (hooks) on the window ledge. He stares down at the pavement. He would collide with the the two passed out (vomited) pre-meds that lie propped against the wall. All manner of broken bodies lie about the 7 feet of dirt that separates the Majestic Apartment Complex from the street. All are wasted, some drunk, some tweaked, some burned, some wet. All are witnesses to their bodies.

Wendy is inside, up the stairs, up the stairs, (the Necropolis is alive) to Room 321.

Arthur the Sage was brought upon the world, a genius yet half-baked alignment of embryotic fluid and godly schematics. A cramp sent him to the ground from which he rose.

I knock on door 321, one door short of my own. Grundlich answers.

Grundlich's room is a shithole. It's dirty. It smells like sweat and urine. Like meat kept in a refrigerator that doesn't work. Attached to the ceiling, via chains, there's a 22 foot replica of a G7eT2 German torpedo (400 lbs). Amid fast food debris and discarded clothes, there is a music box. This box plays only Necropolis. That is only authentic, genuine, 150% Scandinavian grindcore deathcore black metal (a genre within which exists more than a few nuances that permit further classification if wished). This is the epicenter of catastrophe. The single point from which it all begins and will return.

My neighbor is a burly man of indeterminate youth (as if it could one day end - instantly).

He enjoys:

Skin (the pleasures thereof)

BBC Radio

Submarines

Film making (He's made four)

German Films

Scandinavian Grindcore Deathcore Black Metal (Who does it better?)

The four films are all documentaries on one subject, each a revision and editing of the
first: Torpedoes. Grundlich is a fan of the silent ship killer of WWII. But his films are not about
WWII or even torpedoes in the truest sense. They are a symbol (instrument). Torpedoes as a cause of Torpor (rest, unconsciousness, apathy). It is part political propaganda (Awake, my brothers, and cast off...). It is part extreme sports video. Part snuff film. Part pornography. But mostly, the sum of all the parts, its a hate film, a bitter remnant of brown shirt ideology, adapted to American sensibilities. A nasty bit of cinema for sure. He has an audience of 5. I've bought all his tapes, as insurance (protection). The other four were sold at a local video place for $3 a piece.

The fact is that Grundlich is the scary sort. A guy that you want to stay clear of (at best)
or befriend (at worst). The other option is a poor one.

I tell him to turn that lousy shit off. I've told him before. There's a girl in my room. I'm about to sex.

"Nek-rop-o-lus ist shnot laosy." He was born in Maryland (not München). He's barely audible over the ever-present static that is deathcore.

"Du ist ein pussy? Eine kleine Fraulein?" He revels in it. He pounds his fist against the door frame. It bleeds a little. He stomps his foot, his nostrils flare, like an overbuilt German (bull).

My bottle is half empty. I'm getting into that swagger. My feet are tingling just a bit
(restless). Someone should really break Grundlich's skull, ya know? I know he sees it, the shifting from toe to toe, the observation of his flat footed stance, the darting (wild) eyes. The song ends with a 60 second double bass solo.

What I'm about to do laughs at death. It's a prayer, fair and simple.

Grundlich breaks my nose with his elbow and slams his door as I stagger (blind) into the
opposite door (ajar) and fall three stories into a pool of vomit, two passed out premeds and a scholar of vast erudition who says,

"Man, a complex, mendacious, artful, and inscrutable animal, uncanny to the other animals by his artifice and sagacity, rather than by his strength, has invented the good conscience in order finally to enjoy his soul as something SIMPLE; and the whole of morality is a long, audacious falsification, by virtue of which general enjoyment at the sight of the soul becomes possible. From this point of view there is perhaps much more in the conception of 'art' than is generally believed."

I'm bleeding from my nose (A significant crack on the head). I've broken a rib and snapped my wrist. It's then, looking up, lit by the street lamps and the general glow of industry,
two angels
are walking up (wings under long coats). One's holding a brown bag similar to mine, the other a
Israeli submachine gun. They are black shapes, only silhouettes, haloed (hallowed) by the glow. They walk past. One of them (gunner) grins at me with glowing teeth. They both proceed inside.

Wendy. Up the stairs. Up the stairs. Staggering.

The Necropolis is alive.

I can see my door (323) open down the hall. I stagger past door 321 (open) to see Grundlich and the angels conversing. The Necropolis is deafening. The conversation proceeds:

Grundlich: Torpor is the beginning. You are born from torpor, and so you die, to return to torpor. The mind does not exist before conception. This is torpor. This is a perfect state. This is the state that we all long to return to eventually. Death is a release, birth a curse. Life is temporary and death consistent.

Angel: We are energy, moving constantly. Men are nothing more than energy; when they die, they transfer. Energy never dies. The man dies and his soul moves on. So with all life. One giant game of pool, man passes his energy to man.

Grundlich: I've seen a man die in the throes of starvation. He begged for mercy for days. Then he ceased to care. He lay silent, complaicent. There was no struggle. He passed on, beyond life, before death claimed him. He achieved what we dare to attempt. We all wish we could be that man, removed from care. That's the point of all of this. That's the point of the Torpedo films. If life is nothing but a sick game - right and wrong are nothing but games. There can be no Heaven. There can be no Hell. There is no salvation, damnation, nothing except rest. The light at the end of the tunnel is a mute gray.

Angel: You are nothing more than a sadist than. A fool. This man, when he died, did his body not still have weight? Did his soul not still exert itself? If asked a question, would his silence be an unworthy response? No, silence is a response. He still exerts himself, even in death. Death changes nothing. Heaven is on Earth, and it's easy to find. It lies in the power to change. It lies in the power to effect.

Wendy, naked and bound into the fetal position by a series of ropes looks up and speaks from the corner of Grundlich's room:

Wendy: I've no self. I've nothing to exert. I've given all that was me to become what I am not. What you speak of is a world of men, a heaven of men, and a hell of men. Am I truly only the woe of men? Are men my only conduit to salvation?

The prophet-martyr began to sob.

Wendy: You all talk of this... torpor. I have seen it. It is terrible to behold. It is life without life.

The party stood stunned, each member looked at the other. Grundlich sees me, notices the blood, nods at the angels and makes a leap for the gun. The left hand of God is caught, twists and drops the Uzi, which, due to bad maintenance (a 40 year stay in a sandy bunker) experiences a trigger lock as it collides with the floor and fires continuously, spinning with muzzle velocity as it sprays bullets in all directions. I move out of the doorway.

This is where Judgment reigns, a cheap apartment battleground. Only here, midst the drudgery, are the works and words of men to be judged. In their context.

Inside, no one dies. No one is hurt. Except Wendy (bound and kidnapped). A bullet pierces her throat and she dies. Otherwise, they bury themselves harmlessly in walls, tear themselves through blankets, fast food boxes, swastica posters, 3 exit through the window. One finds the music box and the Necropolis stops playing.


The eyes of God release us.

It's a flower emerging from the wasteland if only to prove it has roots.


The torpedo, loosened from its chains by an errant bullet, falls, crushing Grundlich with its authentic replica weight. One angel (right) takes a drink from his brown bag.

“The lord works in mysterious ways.”

The angels check his wallet for cash before retrieving their gun and leaving the Majestic Apartment Complex.

4:14 and its alive lol

in the ancient bottle
for ten dollar 99

white

terrible

dream

why when the eyes diliate we see masks

who?

asked?

this?

for fucks sake it was sgt. plum, in the watchtower, with the loaded 9mm.

obviously.

what is torpor and how do i finish it

kakakakakakakakaka perfection

a collapsed lung

he died

i wish i wish i wish

ok. so i'm back into it.

like a grimy new age mograt, back into it.

I loved it at first, and now i worship it

please people, the time is it

and we are puppets

time time time time time time time time
8 times
8 times
8 times
8 times
8 times
8 times
8 times
8 times
16777213
yeah

penquin nation

yeah, so we built this penquin out of spare parts right? it was huge, like 20 stories. Twelve stories wide. It was like a building, no? A giant penguin.

We made it belch fire. so it set out to ...

title driven title

we are drinking with hiccups and stuff

we are smiling with smiles and stuff

we are eating with forks and stuff

we are smiling with hiccups and stuff.

Fifty Posts and not a ship worth sailing

Turns out, after all of this, that there's nothing here worthy of mention.

That's too bad.

experiment 10

Jeremy was a wellmannered man. A man of taste and of a calibur that few could match. He dressed in the most stately fashion of the day, with dark brown eyes that glistened and shown from beneath a brilliant red sequin cap, pulled low. He wore a shirt of yellow, though not too bright of yellow, and tucked this shirt into black trousers that were pressed and creased to decrease the slightest chance of inperfection. His belt and boots were a dark brown, shiny snakeskin licked with orange. This was Jeremy at the height of the game he was playing. The game was simply perfection. And he was a accomplished and time tested master.

Jeremy is established.

A man walks into a bar, choosing a corner booth that he moves to and takes. He sits alone. The barmaid sees him and comes over.
"What will you be having?"
The man stares at the ceiling in some deep contemplation before replying.
"Oh, I dunno. Let's have a milk and gin."
The barmaid doesn't know what to do. This is the slightest moment of panic. She's been trained in the trade, however, and simply says:
"Ok."
The man raises an eyebrow as she walks off. This is unusual for the man as well. He was fishing for conversation, fishing for women, fishing for something. He caught nothing. This really isn't too unusual he decides, as he shrugs and lights a cigarette. He smokes too much and hates milk.
Meanwhile, a bartender excuses himself to the bathroom to jerk off in the man's drink. The bartender is fishing too. He hopes to come off cool and crazy to the barmaid, with whom he greatly wishes to engage in intercourse. He hopes that this clever interpretation of milk will lure her to such an end. That's the only reason he does it. He has grossly misinterpreted her, but will not learn of his misstep until much later. Though he is convinced nine out of ten women would bed down with him instantly at such a show of manhood.

Man is made.

Then there is tornado ripping through civilization like a Mongol horde or a tornado. It descends from the heavens and finds its soulmate in the earth and destroys trailer park after trailer park, ripping and ripping, throwing and throwing, whirling, whirling, whirling. It finds beauty in destruction and life in desolation. It searches for meaning just like everything else, until it finds it and/or dies.

The tornado makes man and man becomes Jeremy.

experiment 9

You are a curtain. Scarlet and hanging, dirty and beautiful. A curtain has no remorse. A curtain, a shield, my aegis, my dream. A curtain, my killer, my loss, my lacking, my life.

There's three terra cotta men that stand guard on the frontdoor step. There is one too many. Two have to stand to the left while only one stands to the right. These guards of mine are always out of place; their numbers would have it no other way. You carry no weapons.

You are a terrible guard. You stand naked in the rain and afterwards, the dust clings to you. You are the third guard, the lost guard, the guard without place, mission, or agency. It is something oh so terrible to be the third. Your brothers stand in perfect harmony with their place, and you must wander; the places are taken. The stations are filled.

You have carved a place for yourself, temporary, unrecognized by your peers. You wander only so much to stand exactly, right there exactly, where you never left. You stare listlessly and always to the right. You're a terrible guard, a worthless sentinel, a timeless staring eye. You watch forever and see nothing. Nothing but a curtain, descending from the sky to obscure, to cover, to fold over and upon. Scarlet and hanging from vaulted skies. A curtain like any other, its purpose the same.

What wonderous and amazing things happen beyond your veil, you can only dream. And dream you do, though dreams are deadly for a guard of serious merit and stature. No, you're barely a guard at all. You stare and dream of scarlet fabric. Of textiles unsung, of threads weaving themselves into more perfect selves. Into communities of perfection.

You care nothing for your brother beside you.

You greet the day and say,
"We'll live forever,
and move together,
like stars in the sky.

We'll sing together,
and dance forever,
like flames licking licking licking."

Your brothers are guards. They hate you. You sing and they do not. They do not notice the curtain. The curtain is only yours.

experiment 8

collected! doomsday devices, lol. explosions of joy.
will it make father sad?

we can only hope it won't
he can be an angry man.

hurling lightning is so cliche now days.
fear of judgement is worse than judgement

___


so we wait, shackled to our bodies
and when we escape, father waits

and there he sits, a throne like a podium
laughs at our meager souls

we explain in refrain
"we lost our bodies lord. you should of seem them"

he laughs at our meager souls.
laughs until he rolls. lmao he rolls.

upon this matter, the masses mutter
lmao? is all they muster

except for some,
the chosen ones

who only smile at their father
with teeth not lighter and eyegleam brighter

and they roll too, lmao
their father has made a funny.

on this accord,
their just reward
wings of white and gold and blue

and thus the father beat the masses
we the chaff did rise with laughter


lol! without, disaster.

experiment 7

deal. i'll eat the pickles, you eat the bread. together we'll vomit sandwiches.

tuna please. you're not going to throw up again are you?

no.

alright. here you go. one tunafish supersuprise with pretty mayo.

ok.

thanks.

pickles. now.

experiment 6

satan has a trident of silver purple glee.
he goes around and stabs shit.

it all bleeds, but satan doesnt care.
he is satan.

more than a name, a meaning.
merely a meaning maybe.

poor satan must stab shit.
its his name.

break your trident sweet fallen godling.
and swear no more.

because the loss of something known
is a sight of something new.

learn from plastic and plastic and plastic
elastic trident superstar.

spare us your bullshit em
brace what you werent

god only judges
the weak

and we shackled ourselves to rainbows and killed the night with dancing so frenzied.


was a bright moon.
but a dead night

do nothing, watch and believe

i drank a 5th of whiskey. I threw myself into a bottle and swam around inside. god, disappointment is an expensive emotion.

i managed to get my trunk open. i haven't been able to do that. i opened it up, and retreived my punching bag. i figure i'll sleep with it from here on out. maybe for the rest of my life. it's big and red, like an indian. a big red motherfucking indian punching bag lover. i don't question his undying love, despite my hatred of his ridiculous shape and joyous color. I don't even have to pay attention to him, he's always there. waiting. waiting. I say to him, "Hey. I'm glad you're here." and he stares in all directions at once. i carass him, he accepts it.

then i fucking beat the shit out him, i pound and pound and pound. i don't brace my wrists right, they start to hurt more and more with each frenzied blow. i continue. slam, slam. the dry resonant sound of a clean hit turns into the wet splat of a monster. my knuckles are bleeding, and everytime i throw back my arm for another painful attack, blood flies off, splattering bright red on the floor. little bits of shredded skin are in every brush stroke. i imagine he's the one whose bleeding, he's the one whose falling apart. but its my blood. i start to get tired, my blows get sloppy. every third strike smears blood and sweat on the side of my face as i hit myself. eventually, my face bleeds its own blood. it stings. i think my left wrist is broken. splat! splat! splat! 3 splats. three more. no pause. my indian lover shows no sign of letting up. I WILL BREAK HIM. my arms burn. their weight becomes hard to lift, and i twist my torso more than I should have to to add more force to each blow. my arms are dying, they protest. they give up. I just flail at my giant indian now. i throw my arm on his chest, dig in and twist my body to tear off his canvas skin. it doesn't work. it will never work. my lover is invincible. that's why i love him like I do. now i can only pound my head aganist his body. i do so, 65 dubious attacks. i break my nose on attack #24. I almost stop at #39. My brain feels loose and mistaken. i have a hard time remembering the reason for this bloodshed. I continue to #64. I cough up blood. I spit on him. A bit of my tounge. The gooey mixture lands on him and rolls off his side. This is attack #65. I stare in disbelief. I get frustrated and step back a few steps. I circle around twice, i imagine my feet cutting a 2 meter wide circle. exactly 2 meters. All along this circle, intermittant drops of blood. if you connected the dots, you would have a saw blade, not a circle. and then i kick him. the first kick, i break my largest toe, it snaps under my foot, i lose my balance and immediatly have to put the broken foot down to avoid falling over. I slam it to the ground. It snaps more vividly. the skin isn't broken, but i can see blood pouring out underneath. brighter than it should be, under all that skin. I collapse in my bed with my indian beside me. i take my time and thrust my knee at him. it doesn't cause me any pain. 108 more attacks. my leg refuses to move anymore. it's already swelling. i just lie there.

"So this is self destruction." I address him.
"Yes it is." He responds. There's enough of my blood on him, he's become me. I realize I'm talking to myself.

I move enough to let my right arm fall off the edge of the bed. I fish methodically for a cigarette. I find one. I manage to get it to my mouth. I realize I dont have anything to light it with. He reaches over and lights it for me. Cigarette smoke and blood, merged in my laboring lungs, create a suculent taste. I exhale and smile.

"Thank you."

another one to top the last one, i should start an emo band like yellowcard and join the fucking cunts

times dies.

i'm sorry.
you're sorry.

you for action.
me for words.

i will lure you into homosexual activities
because women are fucked.

coffee fuel

its just one of those awesome days. like everything falls into place with predetermined ease. today was destined to be fantastic, it was, it is. how happy I am to have lived it.

and now the sun sets, and i lay my head down, curl my legs, and pray for destruction. for surely two awesome days is one too many.

i don't know if i understand balance, maybe its just a imprint of something i read or something i heard. but i try to. and this imprint lives on. it moves and the mind crys, the ice creaks, the wind howls. portents. doom to those who have all the luck, or all the failings.

so i hope tomorrow is the worst day of my life, because I want to see it. I want to see the worst possible shit thrown in my path and gleefully hop over it. I want to survive hell. for those who are happy in hell have no use for heaven.

that should be the goal of all this world, filled to the brim with fell-marked sinners. to survive, to exist, and to fucking love it.

time stopped, woot, lets fucking calculate

help me light the fuse



help me blow us up


help me destroy
help me create.


help me die trying

help me collect the crumbs.

help me glue them together.



help me fall
help me with a push

if this were a bucket, i would fill it up and then have to empty it again. and then attempt to fill it. and that's really what i'm doing, filling a bucket but it can only hold so much, you know? we are the sorry who spend our whole lives watching our bucket fill with the piss of generations and then too late notice our bucket is blessed with a hole and our feet are fucking soaked.

and i think my feet are dry, but i'm not sure.

help me dry my feet.

why it happened, i don't know

here comes the rabble, straight from you and I.
i guess I've always understand what makes me tick
a subtlety to hide and a life, BLINK

I'm standing here wondering what I should do with the alarm clock
it doesnt blink really, only sifts
sometimes it goes blank, so i hit it

and i've always hated both coercion and corrosion, for their simple devouring.
and i dont know what it is about watching things being lept upon and destroyed
but rust makes me cry out.

some weird spacey techno shitpile emerged from the doors of an airport
it wore with it a suit, a tie, and sneakers, it snuck for sure
the footprints it left were crimson with life and gore

i could follow those footprints for the rest of my stupid life.
what does one find at the end of that path?
besides a mindless fuck? who knows.

i have a hard time focusing my eyes. i'm not blind.
they swerved and curved into lameness long ago.
but i learned to see without them by reading minds.

when i read your mind, all i see is chaos with the occasional wire.
the wires are the best part, all laden and sparkling with electricity
but the chaos confounds and thats the manifest of the whole.

you shouldn't hide such a beautiful mind behind so thick a skull
i display this pill bottle proudly and claim its because i haven't forgotten.
but i forgot everything there was to know about love and mystery.

gluedoctorsamurai

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not from a man or woman, but between 33 wooden planks and November.
ColwellRitaR1996GlobalClimateandInfectiousDiseaseTheCholeraParadigm
Dear Monsieur, I'm sorry I haven't responded sooner.
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Please drop this joke. Its still funny.

And more expensive then your innocence.

And thus, we must! Experiment number four!!! wooo woo

i barely breathe.
all of this talk of licking assholes has left me despondent.
alone and abused.

i realize now the travesty
i've realized it before.
the shit pours from my font, the mouth of something.

if i enter this race, the cost. oh god, the cost.
life without rapture.
death without dying.

yours is mine, mine is yours
i care to live.
please left me live.

headphones into the jack, bring to me celebration.
desperation.
dearest desperation.

nothing of a hatred for you now, slip me into bliss.
bliss and desperation, doom and hate.
these words i use are catch phrases.

horrible horrible words
caught phrases, caught phrases.
i think they've lost their meaning

I came into a room with a cigar and a match
the match said yes and i said yes
and together we wrought the flame

but i stood transfixed in shadows,
transfixed in life too shallow
i watched the match collapse

there in that blessed study,
i wanted neither the smoke
nor the gore of a simple saturday whore.

i slammed my fist upon the timber and struck a spark all light, the tinder.

smoked until i fell less limber,

there oh there upon the timber.

damn you fire escape, damn our fathers.

rock the palace you fucking paupers

tear it down with estatic glee

rise o rise anarchy

burn this shit to nothing sunder

build your shit to lavish wonder.

to the sky, fear not collapse

forget forget the match o match.

but i can predict the fell, your ivory tower

built forever, sky devoured

doom and desperation forgot!

and with empathsis for wonder naught

your stupid tower crack and crumble.

ocean lap and wave this rubble

sand remains. and sand's no trouble.

the smoke stopped and i stood.
i should go to bed and drink again...
when i feel ready.

these grand thoughts inside my head
are nothing.
lavish dreams of a leftist fool.

Oh, you call that baroque?

dance with me you fucking fools
YOU'RE BLEEDING FROM YOUR GODDAMNED EYES MARIA!

time is last to this, the first
AND THEN AND THEN WE LIVE TO BURST

Untitled - An experiment

cliche. these fans spin.
and all i needed were problems, all i got were circles.
trainwreak problems, pulsing problems.
everything is blood and food.
we must lie to live.

Yes.

Another day, typical as any other, but there's a catch. Today is the only June 27, 2005 that will ever exist. In around 34 minutes, this day will be wiped clean, and open only to discussion by those who experienced it. There's nothing concrete, physical or even true about what is left of June 27 save that June 28 will soon follow. People are fools, our memory imperfect, our fingers imprecise, and tomorrow, oh sweet tomorrow, we celebrate the death of June 27. But we have to know there's nothing there.

To mark June 27 would be monitor the things that changed during that day. We acknowledge change in every way, in everything, it surrounds and shapes us. And because of this, and because we cannot fathom every particle that change has eroded, our record is imperfect. Without knowledge of the full extent of change, we cannot know what is constant. The sun still hangs in the air, but is it closer or farther, brighter or hotter? We don't know. And without any trace of any constant, history is deemed false, simply by omition.

Thus, June 27, I wish you a silent doom, that you may slip beneath us and around us, and disappear to nothing. The present demands your death. The present is your executioner. And the present isn't wrong. But this is.

i will swallow you.

oh andi born and i'm born and i'm born and i di and ie die, and i live and i ldie and its ally, iyt all fo you and me. loool

Words.

Man, a COMPLEX, mendacious, artful, and inscrutable animal,
 uncanny to the other animals by his artifice and sagacity,
 rather than by his strength, has invented the good conscience
 in order finally to enjoy his soul as something SIMPLE;
 and the whole of morality is a long, audacious falsification,
 by virtue of which generally enjoyment at the sight of the
 soul becomes possible. From this point of view there is
 perhaps much more in the conception of "art" than is
 generally believed.

-- Nietzsche

neighborhoods

Oh oh oh.

Time to wonder and time to dream of the amazement of nations. this is nothing of a lie. camels in kansas, losers in washington. firing klaxons, red and red, explosion. where have all the precious pearls gone? lost to forever, they disappear. pearls are false now, pearls are nothing. win cash, win money, win your retirement in the beautiful alps. climbing the erosion of centuries, you will find yourself. long among death, thats the snow that you seek. everybody will be there. correcting your lies and righting your mistakes. it will be unto heaven.

smog, nonexistant. air, free. water, free. life, free. cellphones will result in you getting eaten by a bear. nearly. unless you carry a gun. guns are allowed in heaven. thank god.

Judas: You are on your way to destruction.
Jesus: What you say?!
Judas: You have no chance to survive, make your time.

direct deposit

a man walked around for days. his head was like an aquarium full of violence, but mostly indecision. the water a simply subtle grey. the denizens of his aquatic mind were creatures designed for destruction the all, chiten blades extended from every possible surface. they roamed, they fought.

his days took him to all sorts of people. he met a new one every not so often, and immediatly drained them for all they were worth. to him, casual aquaintances were of no use. he loved like a stripmine.

he took everything he could, feeding the predators in his head. not that it was what he wanted, it was just an apparatus of his world, the way things worked. he wished to stop it, but could not.

the women didnt see it much differently. a terrible process. the wise evaded, the unlucky fell victim. stripped of their love for him. that was all he was taking. the demands, oh those incessant demands. and the life they must lead after, or without.

but the man was forced to observe the process, watching the destruction of himself, unable to stop it. the water churned and churned, vicious, vicious beasts. they would not be sated. they refused to offer the answers to the questions he proposed, this mind of his. the words didn't come, the man didn't speak, the world tumbled by, and he was lost.

so began the war to win himself. a trip to the department store furnished all he would need: a hammer. the end came swiftly. the glass cracked around the fracture, immediatly came the water, rushing into the air and forever down, down, down. as the water rushed, the glass gave way, piece by piece, jagged and sharp, and joined its late prisoner in the descent. the water was gone, except for a few drops, and there were no fish. the man dropped the hammer to the ground. disbelief. there was no process, there was only him. he was the process, he was the destruction. he loved like a stripmine.

ive acheived an ambililent drunk. one that cannot be surpassed.

unfortunatly, i spent the best couple hours of my life watching mtv cribs, where upon i had to ask, ok so you have an enormous house, you don't have to cook for yourself, you have nice cars with fucking umbrellas that pop out of the doors but are you happy?

i dont see how money equates happiness, afterall, my own life goal would be to sit and think for 50 more years, until I die, writing down everything I can for the benefit of someone. anyone really. is that a unique thought? I dont know, everyone is a communist when they're 20, so i don't really see the correlation to genius.

I went to work today, soon my hands will be iron and my skin bronze, but that won't make me happy. I have to be up in 9 hours, after i recuperate from all this rum, and i'll go to work, making me unhappy. to thrive on what you do, that would be the best. but I have nothing that amounts to ambition. I dont want to make money, because i see money as just a avenue to furthering what I do now. Which is nothing. The perfect solace, to sit and wonder, how many have lost the feat to be amazed, destroyed by too many hours of labor. i guess perfect stillness is my point in life, and that seems childish. perfect thought, unmarred by the stupidity of time. goals like these are unattainable. I want to spent all my time thinking of goals that are unachievable.

so, I've thought as much and now I dunno what to do. I've faced pure blind hedonism. I must do what makes me happy.

money - its nothing short of amazing how much time people spend worrying about worrying. if this sentence bothers you and seems completely asinine, i urge you to continue on your path. it is a noble one, the pursuit of money, but not for me.

love - obscure, obscene. loving girls to death will kill you. maybe this is my goal? i love loving girls to death. doom.

god - i've forsaken you, and I think the bible is bullshit. Only religions clear of any definitive text hold any merit. i was a buddhist once, but forgot soon. theres nothing here for me.

death - death is everyone's goal, but its opposed to lying around doing nothing forever. eventually, you die. death is my enemy. fuck death.

the breakdown of everything, lacking. what am i to do?

loooooooooooooool!

to create that moment, above all else, leaps and bounds, that is kinda the goal isn't it? we don't know the moment or how it could feel, slightly less than usual, more than anything. i've trapped an insect between two bottle caps, smelling like beer and sex, he's so fucked. the last light seen, creeping through jagged chevrons of his metal coffin. i feel like saying a prayer, but i cannot release him. its what must be done, to ensure my dominance. to assert it. to win my fate. the choice was already made and i cant change it now. i chose to let him die in this makeshift hourglass. nay, i demanded his death, fuel for my own dying.
---
the carcass remains. i tossed him out on the desk with not so much as a toll for his boatride. i find myself musing as to how skilled of craftsmen or slick of speaker my kill was. could he find his way, tossing away instinct to build some sea worthy vessel. i doubt it, he wasnt much of a thinker. but I never asked him any questions except one, "do you deserve to live?" his answer still echoes on my desk.
---
today, i met a man. he introduced himself as howard. a dead name, i thought. some social function, with many equals, scattered about in non rhyming shapes over a cityscape asleep. howard pressed the function, he embodied it. the usual introductions and something about war. my ears found the violence amusing, sitting here with howard, we were so removed we shouldnt of said anything at all. persisted. howard. again and again, the questions and the inane answers, it all fell short of entertainment, not to howards credit. i realized why howard was here. a minor trivialance of three nights prior, death had come knocking, covered in shadow, a scythe of astonishing ennui. there in that filthy dredge of a more social society, i had found death. i was shocked. vomited everywhere. the silence never started.
---
i woke. i thrashed, the echo of thin plastic, liquid. immediatly i felt like i was drowning in carpet, the ground was covered with it. i needed air. i looked around only to see a shattered lampshade, bits of broken glass, a light snow. i remembered death. they scattered me out on the desk.

zwei

i couldn't sleep in a blanket of glass. i couldn't read the lines that were written to glass like holes in the ground. i can't read those fucking things either. plus, they're dangerous as all hell, and fuck the other guy, i'm not going first. not into a god damned hole. so i can't read what you've written, scribbled on dice and rolled, unlucky us, masters of circustry. all kinds of colors too. nothing worth noting. 33 ways to record a flash of light and we've found this one and agreed it was the best. we held a vote, it was elected the finest. the most brilliant and simple. simple thoughts. simple decision. but soon we realized that the best wasn't good enough. the light disappeared, no remorse or return, gone. our records revealed it had been there, but it wasn't there now. perplexed, we could only shake our heads. we were lost and it was lost with us.

spring time, yay

do i please thee, sister of death?
do my eyes carry that gleam that has been robbed
stolen and dead.

do i caress the same living that brought about the nothing that we've seen.

does it matter enough to stand in the spring and be washed clean?
does the spring matter at all?

... is there a spring?

collected, we will be crushed neath iceland timbers
we cannot hold them back, they've been cut too soon
we're watching the tree fall upon our standing.
nothing can stop it now, nothing will hold it.

to dive for you, to save you.
snapped legs. theres no time.
to live, you must die
or stop the tree.
i don't know. you can't.

fucking tree. live the blade, become the ice, shatter the bone, correct the soul, live the life to die the death. stop the words. heal the ears. doom the mark. fall the drive. collect your things. this is war.

old shit vol 1

I found this in a manilla envelope, packed away with old stuff. A crumbled heap of papers, scribbled on in black ink. I guess I wrote it years ago now. Its not good, but I have to preserve it for posterity. I guess that's the reason. High school, i salute you.

sl-ow motion sacrifice, gods of drama

the cry of anguish barely heard,
crushed neath noise and lured,
out to die again in bloody fields of ivory.

I tryed and i tryed twice
to stop what was becoming.
I tryed and I tryed thrice
to stop what you'd become.

Shook off like steam in rain,
destroyed to nothing, I remain.
And you watched the last disappear,
hoping for something to exist again.

nothing can exist now,
the ground is cracked and weak.
nothing will ever exist again.
weak again, my friend?

i tryed affection, to no avail.
ruinious struggle was all I found.
Lost and withered now,
shameful
distraught
wishing to bend back time and continue the
struggle.
to no avail.

Like warriors of the wind,
we rode off to battle, searching for enemies non-existing.
And we charged their flank with vicious fervor,
but found them non-resisting.

So we'd lost but we'd won,
and by the setting sun,
We watched the grass grow greener
as the blood ran cleaner.

so we'd trampled them over
and set their corpses to fire?
WE CALLED THEM FOOLS TO OPPOSE US
(but we found them non-resisting)

existing is the great drama
lost are we to its purpose.
i found it once and all along the walls
we continued that circus.

maybe the walls would crumble like ash,
crumble like leaves and dirt.
All things crumble, crumble like ash.
crumble like leaves and dirt.

So i thought, you thought not.
the walls held firm and steady.

walls must crumble on their own.
i thought they would fall by will alone.

but if they fell,
we couldn't be ready.

frustrated i attacked the wall
with fire and flame and ash.
stymied, i fell back,
burned black and charred.

I ALMOST HAD IT! i thought i didn't.
the wall was firm, still undented.
But wait! I had it! the smoke had cleared,
and revealed a passage agape and clear.

i stepped through to find you,
waiting,
arms outstretched and warm.

it was then i recalled all of the wrongs
that had been committed,
romantic attrocities gone unpunished
while we submitted ourselves to...

Forgetting this instantly in your eye,
i walked into your embrace.
I was happy. Happy enough.
Then this...

blind.
shameful wretched man.
blind.
stumbling.
blind still.

not likely.
she was bored.
wind warriors can have no wars.
nothing fights anymore.

the war was over, the men returned to their stead.
But what when their stead was the war now gone to sleep?

warriors with no enemies turn upon themselves.
and i watched myself
from inside myself
turn upon itself.

so what then weary? no longer content.
so who then Leary? no longer content.

searching for a drink to sate my thirst for combat.
I came upon a tune with sung of my caveat.

long i listened,
and thought i heard,
what was being sung and said.

but foolish ears will believe anything
that's being sung and said.

I almost lost! it would be welcome,
to greet death at last.
but drawn i did, drawn to boredom
drawn on and on and on.

combat and conflict, though horrible things,
retain their luster still.
and fighting on through glorious days
is all i wish for now.

swords to plowshares? a fools gambit.
we'd starve than die to nothing.
So we thought, we thought long.
but we didn't die to nothing.

nothing would of been better in fact.
we died of something else.
or perhaps we were reborn again
to drink from the ivory chalice.

and we rose from so called death
but dropped to our knees and wept.
the ground was soft, the air was clear.
the war had come and left.

once again i was free.
freedom.
I grabbed my pole, i brought my lures,
and took a walk into the past.

the past was heavy, it weighed too much.
I struggled, stumbled and fell.
But in that blessed water's reflection,
I saw that all was well.

your face shown out,
framed in waves
with locks of doubled greenery displayed.

A reflection? All it took?
The facade crumbled quickly.
The reason came back and crushed the levy
that had leveled the odds so neatly.

floods of the old began again
and nothing would stop it this time.
The war was over, but had been lost.
no excuses this time.

i could of drowned, and should of drowned,
but drowning wasn't for me.
I dropped to the bottom of that flooded plain
in quiet reverie.

All was silent, all was still.
these waters knew no wars.
everything here fought against nothing,
that was all they lived for.

the reverie continued, I stayed for years,
my mind had lost its body.
I wandered far and wide for many tides
and learned much from what was taught to me.

but all i learned was for naught.
the seas hold horrible thoughts
and soon i knew all the truths
of the deepest darkest blue, for naught.

there lay a rose, crushed neath ocean depth,
crumbled and ugly it lay.
there lay a rose, crushed neath ocean depth.
it had been cast away.

i looked near, only to see
the rose had once been a part of me.
I'd cast it off in my epic struggle,
and forgot it existed eventually.

And i looked around my hollow feet
and gazed upon my standing.
thousands on thousands of crushed and ugly fates
were scattered about the landing.



fin

Sing the static, preach the silence

sing the static, preach the silence. quit your jobs. fall unto me. fall onto me. fall with me.

if great ideas made ripples, most of us would spend our years in peaceful tranquility. tranquil from the past and better from the future. we've nine lives left to live men, sea legs about, heads up, this is OUR voyage, and the better we are for it. victory is assured.

The Life Enchanted

We live the life enchanted.
They call us godless heathens,
starring at the void,
starring at the chains,
like the condemned stare at their remorse.

But we are not godless and our faith lends us direction.

What would do without its guidance?

Left to drown in a careless world, is that a greater fate?

No, static is our only chaos now. Controlled, imprisioned, cast away.

The glow brings us perfect blue order,
a field guide for our time.
To fuck, to fight, and to die, these are the tenets of our glorious new canon.

It is perfect because it breeds its own perfection.
Who are we to judge the machinations of Heaven?

Yet, they call us godless, but can only watch our salvation.

As we peel back the clouds and stare into the shadow of the sky.

WE WILL TRANSCEND.

Hail St. Cosby! The glow triumphant!
Hail St. Akira! The glow now dominant!
Hail St. Anderson! The glow ascendent!

merging traffic

I will write a ballad to be screamed from rooftops overlooking a grey street on the apex of a summer brink. When the clouds have died and darkened to a subtle red and orange, you will hear my voice glistening and gliding through the air. And the subtle vibration all along your skin, the side of your face, your neck, your breasts, your hair, tingling, will at once entice you, but later simply anger you. The epicenter of the issued scream will be impossible to determine, lost in the sprawl and the cooling, heavy air of a impending night. Madness will follow. Nights drenched in sweat, grasping and tearing sheets, knuckles torn, nails snapped. With much rigor, you can tear yourself away, you can make the dreams stop. And you will. The nights will once again be peaceful, but underneath that subtle lie, a minor truth remains. A truth hidden well, for it is truly inconsequental. You never found me, elevated on rooftops screaming.

collection assignment number 5

wind. ready. light. lights i hear them, but i can't explain them, something inside. bots, a boom. the end. here, stand. Me, scattered and staggered. The hill, strewn. 74 thousand americans die to the bomb, one swoop, 20 insurgents and this is the end. Death brings them sweet solace. Clad in robes of red and blue, they ascend. to wrap themselves in grey irony in the heavens. we will not be forgotten. we cannot smoke in restaurants, but our lives remain the same exact replica of existance as the ones who cannot see the ground for their bellies. can anyone see the ground that awaits unless they plummet? with the simple walk, we discover nothing. nothing, nothing, nothing. i cant stop the word, it enters into every equation, thing and place. Have i become such a nihlist that i cannot think in a full spectrum of emotion like a human? Gummo sucks.

and this marks the end of the stories about god

knife

transcribed from typewriten. written early sunday morning.

he was finally clear in his path. he had done all h could and must wait. the vestments lay in a small pile, drowned in kerosene and ready for the torch that would follow. all of this time, he had wished for something to believe in and now, staring into a flame on the brink of a terrible decision, he still had nothing. he dropped the match into the waiting bundle of nothing and sat transfixed as the flames grew. you never really realize how much your life amounts to until you collect it in a small burnable pile and set fire to it. the realization of it all hit him like a book thrown from the clouds. a heavy book. the thought occured to our hero: my wallet is amongst the pile. fuck. he couldn't do it. he couldn't squelch the flame, even for the highest of man's virtues. he was still doomed to watch. the glow lit up his face and the close observer could see a face beneath the obvious one. the flame melted the outer, revealing an inner being of absolute. anarchy. red. blood. silence. hatred?

"what are you doing here?? get out before..."

"correction: i am simply burning a large pile of everything i've ever known, please, let me be"

"GET THE FUCK OFF M... wait, are you a fucking priest? what are you doing here?"

"god guided my feet to this place and now, he has planted them here"

"god. hmph."

"of course. god. i am a priest."

"i should go back, the others are waiting"

"they already left."

"if you are a priest, you should help me fin..."

"i am a priest"

"what?"

"priest. me. huh?"

"oh right. listen man, i didn't know they were going to do it. the bac..."

"don't worry. i am no longer a priest, see the pile?"

"what?"

the man drew a knife, a small curved thing, worthless against a man of god. the knife entered his abdomen. the pain was incredible. the blood worse. all he saw were orange lights and a cloud hanging with uncertain but certainly ill intentions above a neighborhood 711. he could feel the pain taking over his thoughts. until he was completely elevated to a state of perfect pain. the moment before death. the cloud still hung and became larger, an ochre cloud of indeterminate size and shape. it spiraled into manifesations of what a large ochre cloud should be and than disappeared. but not altogether. it disappeared into another lunatic manifestation of a cloud. worse yet simpler than the once previous cloud. it was all becoming worse. the last moments of your life spent contemplating a fucking puff of smoke. no, definatly a cloud. there was no trancendence, except he seemed to know everything about this ochre entity now swooping over the 711. 8.33. the number. cloud. nothing. black. he lost all hope of returning to normal thought. the cloud was all he was now and all that he could remain. he loved it.

godsperm

root this into the subconscience of genetics gone mad. lost yet purposeful, we are the contradiction that won't allow envelopes to seal. i cant shake the feeling that we are but steak to the cosmos. thick juicy and full of purpose. i bought into all that but i haven't even taken it out of the box, still closed. it really is better that way.

if thats the way it is, than thats the way it is

reading the holy word of god into a tape recorder for 12 hours at a time will make you at once dizzy and forgetful. you'll find yourself blinded by the words and lost to the meaning, the meaning already purposely obscured. oh how the path glistens, ascending and than falling off into a celestial pot of gold. but why bother the ascent or the fall, if the shortest distance is a straight line. why not just hire a band of thugs and go plunder the glowing pot of salvation? transcendent pirates, shown the utmost deference in heaven and hell, but allowed in neither. firmly grounded philosoph warriors, never to be buried or rudely snuffed out in a spurt of flame as the illfated moth.

moments

now is the moment of my discontent. and yours too. god this blog is nothing. but i attempt to make it something and in these attempts while not looking i think i have created something that is wholely unique. i could be wrong but tonight i am not. the fall may be upon us but the vomit could rain down like absolution from the worst of sins. and it does, oh how it does. over and over, we throw into the bucket of our remorse. the feral ascendent is a magnificent manifestation of the worst thoughts imaginatible. nothing but morose sympathy for the fallen. pink cups and grey nothing, romantic fallacies. i'm sorry for ever believing that a pop song from 00 engaged my every notion of love. posters and celefane. koros. baka. words. warning; suffocation risk. i've suffocated. we've fallen from nothing and hopefully the pillows give us something to believe in.

i crushed a potato. without remorse. it had no choice. neither did i. it needed to be crushed, it bled everywhere. like nothing i've ever seen. blood everywhere.

to them we are certainly something

i need a job writing shit on empty walls, burdening people with epitaphs they dont care to read. if everyone inhaled and exhaled darkness and light, we could solve pollution by killing moral ambiguity. grey thought would not be fit for consumption, and therefore frowned upon. Everyone and everything would be alive or dead, right or wrong, ugly or beautiful, happy or despairing. is that a world we would want to live in? the would-be revolutionaries would be those that dared to be average, to not care, to express apathy as an emotion. but if it were not simply an idealogical principle, if physics itself restricted grey thought, than we would have to interpret this as the plan of g-d. there is no substitute for the will of g-d when actions contrary kill your countrymen. if morals existed, there would be no room for failure. there would be consequences of the death sort to all that infringe. a celestial prison state. what would be the purpose though? of killing free thought? the death of the feral ascendent. stand and be counted wolves of nothing.

friend and patriot

i cant help but notice that the carpet has grown 20 inches high. i lost my shoes in its folds and ripples. its not so different now, not seeing my feet everywhere i go. but i made a collapse to walk on and its treating me well. i really hope everything is going well in oklahoma. theres nothing here but rusted beer cans, lamenting their discardment, moaning in the wind on a patio i've seen. they speak like they know the greatest of secrets and have commited the worst of sins to learn them. i know the cans are full of bullshit because i've never trusted them. lunatics. nothing they could ever emit from their metal carcasses will change my mind. i'll pave my roads with their crushed and broken souls.

Haircuts go opensource

i've decided to reject 3rd party haircuts. from now on, i'll do all my own haircuts. my haircuts will be semi professional in nature, and open to the marvel and emulation of my peers.

collapse.

carthage as a summer resort

I just read this article on wired. all i can say is wtf. even if i have had dreams about pickpocketing someone's head from them.

collapse.

laughs to 4am

carpet. god i hate orange koolaid. my car is dying. the trashcan is fun of ramen packages. the sink covered in rice. I can't believe we actually went ahead and built the temple. its breathtaking.

i tacked a sheet to the wall with thumbtacks. it stayed there and i will reward it eventually.

hardly the event!

I spilled coffee on my pants and your picture is in my living room. next to a picture of my hamster with a graham cracker in his mouth. music is alive. falling away. your case is cracked and slightly shattered, though the shattered is not so much as the cracked. it's just crackled. it looks like a keychain, all dangling by 10,000 hopeless threads. oh you dislike the hate and like the false? ha. i'm sorry, again with the melodrama.

i once wrote a letter to a girl. it was meant to be a giant, "fuck you, i hope you understand that now, i'm not the idiot here!!!!" but it turned into something more. I ran into her once, but I lacked the balls to place the letter on her windshield. i wrote it, and held it in my wallet. GOD DAMNIT! i wish i would of simply put it there, without a word, when she wasn't there. she would of discovered it, and read it. what would she of done? i'll never know. Wait, it is not too late. i could do it now. that would be the epitome of hilarious. but it will never happen. after all, i forsake her. THREE TIMES. ha. she's never seen it.

gah, the coffee is kicking in. i'm regaining sanity and all of this looks like shit. I know that this isn't true deeply though. It is the truth.



TRUTH

drunk again, i can write again

everclear. whoever came up with the name of the worlds greatest alcohol was a genius. because he was right. everclear. i ate some everclear and drank some cookie dough like it was water. the truth resonant. my friend mark reminded me of the jocund. he was wrong. but i can't deny the light now, at this moment. the light is bright and it comes for me. jackson five were never so happy. life transcendent!!!! the feral ascendent!!!! wolves from your past and jackels from your future. a man with a brow ridge more pronounced than the words he speaks. the feral ascendent. i can say no more of the life that i read and the ramifications it brings. drank from the ivory chalice, so grotesque, so comforting. love. it comforts me. UNFORTUNATE BALLEDS OF LOATHING AND LOSS! ha!!! the words meant more than the song. and for that, i'm sorry. the song should of come first. I cant imagine now, the time that brought that about. the words that were spoken were but shadows. but the shadows can only exist with the light and with the death of the light, the shadows burn too. gone and forgotten. i live from clementcy. I swore by it. but it wasn't accepted. it wasn't granted. the loss was unbearable. collapse. and then collapse again. until there is nothing left. the materials that spawned the original have gone their seperate ways. deconstruction. desolation. a postmodern dilemia. all has disappeared!!!! ah. until i find myself in servitude to something that never existed. never existed. how can this be. I KNOW HOW THEY FEEL! the countless multitude, watching their passions dry in the setting sun. Only the lucky scrape by.

HA. but who am i to worry! sleater kinney! fucking slut. she claims to know what i know like it's a fucking miracle that everyone doesn't experience the full glory of worthlessness. hahha, worthless to your lover. she seeks a better cock to please her. you should get student driver tattooed on your balls.

rambling of a saint

we don't have much left. there is nothing we can do. the speakers have spoken and we are cast out. vampires!!! what can i say about vampires that hasn't already been said about afghanistan. i never thought it would be like this. the line is so cliche but I seriously never considered the fact that it would be like this. until of course it was like this, then i had cause to worry. smoking cigarettes in the garage. smoking cigarettes on the porch. getting drunk so i can understand myself with the forlorn hope that one day, perhaps, one day, i will be able to understand others. i wonder what doyle brunson thinks of all this. fuck that, the guy is old. but i've always thought that those with an innate knowledge for anything at all are blessed with the fruit of humanity. an innate knowledge of games or sport, an innate knowledge of humans themselves. these are things to consider. perhaps people can rise from their upbringing, but perhaps not. i think that their upbringing makes them everything that they will become. my own upbringing was infinitly desolate, but i suppose everyones is desolate somewhat. infinitly so is a little superlative. and then, perhaps i am making nothing into something with my constant thought about nothing. the tides of time are like playdoh to me, i make them into whatever the fuck i please. this isn't healthy. and perhaps a bit on the arrogant side. for this blog itself is simply a rendition of loneliness and despair. and so the tides of time shift to form a destiny of woe for me. i cannot defeat it, it is in itself self defeating. and to think that i actually hate melodrama. i like to think i hate it, but the fact is that i revel in its simplicity. it is easy to simply hate everything and everyone that you see. to only see sadness and hatred is so very simple. to see love and joy is harder. to feel love and joy is perhaps just a delusion of the heart.

god, i always hated that. how people refer to their soul or their being as their heart. it is not your heart. your heart is an organ. it beats blood. it will kill you when you least expect it. you should make up a name for the quickened pace that you feel when anxious or drugged. your soul. your being. everything that you are. don't degrade it with the crass falacies of a worthless existence. imagine that the things that make your heart quicken and beat out of your chest are intermediaries to a greater existence. to transcend! that is the goal. not to simply to describe. to say nothing is better. it is the best. to say something is to open yourself to critisism of the worst kind. the kind that is very very true.

and to you, the imagininary audience, i open myself. with all my heart.

memorable movie quotes 101

Childhood's over the minute you realize that you're going to die.

rampage

omfg this is the coolest shit. no. the lives we are living are nothing but cables connected to a great work of art. lies and deceit the whole. you wish that time would forsake you so that you'd have a story to relate to everyone you've ever known, but time never forgets and the path you've chosen is riddled with the discarded hopes of those that have taken your path before. because your path is not special, it is merely an anecdote describing your eventual destruction. merry we three join the great hope as it stretches from ocean to ocean to land and to ocean. false prophets, the lot of them. but even in the lies that spill from the mouths of fools, we can find vindication if that is indeed what we're seeking. release from all that plagues you can be yours if you'd pick up the pace and stop laughing at the seriousness of the whole affair. the dusty road isn't new, its been there for all eternity waiting for the feet that you have, the feet that even your friends, family and other contemporaries have. they told us we were special and then showed to us the well worn divoted road on which we were supposed to carry their proffered burden. god damn i'm sick of emotion, and god help us all if its sick of me.

String Theory

Today, I watched the largest branch of a large tree break and fall. It fell through the air and splintered on impact with a loud crash. No reason. Just mystery.

Quarters with Teeth

A man walks into a tollbooth to make a call to his wife. He searches his pocket for a quarter, to his dismay, finding only gum wrapers and a bit of lint. His blue jeans are too tight for a truly through search and it takes much effort to simply reach the bottom of his pocket. He curses politly under his breath, but then feels something against his hand. A warm wet sensation on the ends of his fingers. Startled, he draws back his fingers only to see normal, healthy, uninjured, dry fingers. A sigh, revoking his childish apprehension, and the fingers go into the pocket again, right into the waiting fangs of the unseen. The man issues a scream, but it is cut short as his shoulder enters his pocket. Soon there is nothing left.

Beginning

Yeah, so I've gained honesty and lost tact. That sucks.