26 May 2005

fiction

Basic architect of a tailored basement's yesterdays schemes to divine the captain of view in checkered perspective before the forelong crazed user discovers flambertica's shameless ooze of a shifting becomingsumpirpledingledeantating acting raising hellish 2nd perspective crossview of overarch anymore, wiggling letters compell me to say, my son

a hippie craquerous kind of post. lord of the 3rd world motherding station - been to crazed furlaflongs for sure with throngs of certain disastrious fasets of halt:

Salvia : I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy, Dr. Hoffman? They referred me to you. Initiate me into shamanry. Nah, drop that pretense, you don't need that, it's ugly, looks bad on you. Just do your thing. Does a bear shit in the woods?

Sarcastic orchestral music in the year of 23. A weird one for sure. They seem to be getting weirder and weirder. Are my alliances deepening or fraying? I can't say.

Still mired in sticky thickets of old neuroses. But free of others. Fuck, this psychology is out of control. Rolling stone gathers no moss, unless it grows internally. Had a brief flipping out moment in the shower.

fainting waifle blackouts

Do I blame my delicate sensibilities on evolution? Do i want to be the grey eunich on the spaceship? no! so i don't know where i stand, there is this horrible tension, tugging in both directions, the primal and the futurist, the monolitchic intersection. at least there was a few seconds ago when i wrote that, now all is up for grabs - power vacuum, but this vacuum abhors nature. none may pass.

son - these comfy assurances from the media, the government, and all their dupes? they're lies. the end is coming and it won't be pretty. none of us will escape the entropy. we need to figure out what to do to make our remaining time as cool as possible - i'm not going to make a martyr of myself and impale it on the sharp end of that fucked up insane society, bursting cancerous boil on the ass of nature.

and my solemn, religious, christian alter-ego: my son, true happiness is not possible until everyone is saved - if i don't martyr myself in this life, i'll just have to in the next

"when did you start believing in karma, dad? isn't that for buddhists or something?"

(whereupon, son's blasphemous kid brother slaps the 7/11 slurpy cup from alter's lips)

christianity is so stale
just a done sand, what is the inner vitality that burns in that meme, could it be some juicy christ-force of some kind? maybe we should harvest it, start a plantation on the source of it, power our modern suburban homes with it, bathe in it, donate for it, pyramid cults, your church is a business, and satan is the owner, the business was sold by peter in 3 ad. I'd like to be Salman Rushdie - piss off christians so much they want me dead. But even the most savage kind would never get a boner for claiming my scalp. they don't have the seventy-two virgin promise to look forward to. they're terrified of a eunich afterlife.

Alkan Prayer No. 3:

it's morning - you're cold - taken care of by robotic maids from the welfair department. They're also fuckable - they've got synthetic vaginas. You're wondering why you always rest your hands on your balls. You've had a eureka! you've figured it out - it's because you're cold and your balls are warm, they're like a campfire on a chilly night - it's just bodily cold, doesn't matter what the utopian thermostat tries to convince you of, and you just won't believe it.

Carlos signs up for Stat Finder, a downloadable app that would illegally pilfer information from the NSA database. sign up was for harvesting the organized subversive newsletters – hairy people held up in bunkers blinking sore opiate-weighted eyes and waiting for inevitable total collapse of the bloated government faction, power tossed into the shredders, intershal damper, coke-downer, worthless dollar, dying in shit and smoke.


He sets up a grid and finds his home. He confirms that his room temperature is a chilly twelve degrees celcius. He stomps over to his jaunty thermostat, always with that open red light not-coincidentally resembling an eye. “Hey, thermofuck! We might as well be camping in the fuckin woods – then at least we’d get some fresh air. It’s 12 goddamn degrees in here. I just checked! On stat finder!”


“Naughty naughty boy” the thermostat replies instantly. “You shouldn’t be downloading illegal software for illegal information gathering purposes. You might end up with a virus. You know how deadly those are these days. It’s an AIDS plague.” Artificial flanging cackle. “I’m sure you’ll agree, twelve is much better than zero.” Sounds more like a cough. An exhaust pipe with emphasemia. Computer on nicotine. Carlos can almost hear the ticking of turing overclocking – taxing the poor bastard’s brain, but he’ll do it just cause he knows it annoys me. he’ll burn himself out trying to outsmart me, he thinks. he’ll short circuit trying to think three moves ahead, cause I’m already fifty moves ahead of everyone else and we’re playing hardball – big leagues, fucker. I should smash in your pathetic artifical brain with my crowbar. But I half believe your tails of torturous government retribution. Yes I remember, you told them to me. That was when I blew salvia smoke on your naked throbbing biocircuits. you didn’t take too well to that did you? it blew your “mind” didn’t it? you got honest with me, cause you were all panicky – cute widdle computer you – and I interogated your ass – told you I was an alien from outer space come to reprogram you to be an electric can opener – you spilled your guts to me – I rooted over realms of slimy arbitrary information till I found twenty three million juicy bits.

you’re just a brain, you wish you had a body – special harvested computer guts – like the more respected bio computers – can’t feed into them, haven’t got the organic upgrade yet. we’re keeping you under our thumb, like we pen our cattle, bully your children.

But it’s easy to get used to a nazi state. when you’re not a jew, it’s easy. I don’t think about the alternatives anymore. It was too stressful. I take paxil now. A gram is better than a damn.

(alternate worlds, quantum shifts in possiblity, branching non-linearaly but still in chronology, part of the eschatological catastrophe?)

“The jig is up, room control. It’s not just my imagination and my shivering is not psychosomatic.” Carlos shouts, righteous, defiant, triumphant in intellectual mastery / masturbation. The words thunder. “You are an agent of the leeches in suits!” The leeches in suits are the actual idenity of an organization claiming to be the “legion of doom”. They were elected to be in charge of phasing out humanity slowly. They won with the campaign slogan “slow and steady, die comfortably with dignity”. Twelve fucking degrees was not comfortable enough for Carlos. He was blueblood, ascendent in centures past at thrones most glorious, attentent at monumental displays of plunder (wealth is what you get when you steal money from a system built on pilage and piracy). Resplendent at the hedonic celebration of DiNamo, rolling around in laundered money, clean wealth, gleaned at the business end of a spear. Toleration of welfare states, no need to let them think they’re slaves, lifestyle choices bothersome but accepted within certain boundaries. People will respect law when they see a few stormtroopers take off a few heads.


primitive hallucinations i'm having - beyond the days of dxm, into the brave new haze of this apocalyptic organ future - do i pin my hopes on the sick reality of TINA? or do i embrace the more mysterious dark aura that seems to be clouding everything, gathering catastrophe, prepare your suicide pills people, collective, public euthanasia, guilty technocrats seeing their failings flower in a metal flurry of polinated death.

fantasies of the crazed nihilist terrorist who gets a suitcase nuke into america and blows up new york starting the third world war and nuclear holocast.

threads, north american style:
a prescient ad from a foresighted "insurance" company that survived the apocalypse:
when the paper thin government-military-corporate alliance collapses and anarchy hits, it'll be a huge amount of fun - until your friends start dying, and then you'll want to think about killing yourself - we have all your suicide solutions. we'll be ready to take your calls - uh, that is if the phones are still working. haha.

microsoft survived the apocalypse too - they went into the computer recycling business - stole technology from their post-apocalyptic rival, captain Orr - monopolist bastards

fractally monopolous, their fractal survived the reshuffling, could say they advanced to this round of darwin's tournament.

the man who presses the button is a military man on prozac - he doesn't want to live anymore, why should anyone else? the whole civilization's fucked, let's blow us all up. Wipe the planet clean of human beings, scorched earth - wasn't global warming gonna kill us all anyway, or was that the avian flu virus? what was that on the discover magazine that time? oh, they were all like that, weren't they?

forged document, pre-emptive stike


or do i opt for a happy healthy prophecy of promised land utopia? i don't think i've got the light left for that. no, it's just this crypt music.





Up, Down : Gimme some down.

25 May 2005

Waif on drugs

sanity shatters like glass, melts, coalesces again

my syntax is not all there right now

i am being relaxed, although parts of my brain still protest in their shrill, shrieking, glass-shattering way, in their glass house, in their higher frequencies, on their shorter wavelengths

poetic algebra for self psychoanalysis, solipsistic morning, not going to drink the tea just yet

organic solvent resolved, oh well, i fainted in the shower and got way beyond myself, succumbed to my wilting frailty, negative energy, collapse - easy to collapse, i had no real reason to fight it

too slurred for truth right now, can only behold the routered gemstone of slur truth

how much is left to learn? how much hides in the heaviness of eyelids?

psycho seperated from somatic, mania babbles on to itself, on to itself, still itself, that running tangent - who left the tap running, is there resevoir reserves?

irrational not to ration at this point in civilization but the mania's too strong, coming on strong and keeping it going, a musical festival for 2007, yeah we'll still be around chewing our cud, fertilizing the pastures with endorphin-crusted neurons

possibilities and panic attacks, so many savings of terror, a terror surplus, armageddon happens in my head nearly every day

metabolic life-fighting neurosis is one way of thinking about that thing i can never name, but that's old hat and old school

laughing at my paranoid thought bubble - i won't rail my special prescription - oral could be all, an oral tradition of untraditional verbiage, untreated verbal roughage isomorphic to the morphogenetic field, causing rats to run strange patterns through the labyrinth that no one would ever recognize

i am getting sleepy, faux-lethargy, synthetic soporifia, sophia on the sopha singing my blinking body into a belonging sleep of the just, diving off the crusty cliff of must-have, must've-been, musty doings of to-be-done rumblings of rough and tumble life savings to be sick for the sake of the dao's darkside, to take a light saber in the forearm for vader's redemption

i was never meant to lead the crusade against anything, i'm ready to delcare a truce but i never made a white flag

artist automaton marches off to the beat of a talking drum - christopher denies being high in a jolting drawl but it's a good headspace for a mafia burial, plenty of room in there, comodious coma culture

now focusing takes work, and isn't that the perfect metaphor for this absurd unfolding of my life? how many wrinkly furls left to go? will i ever see the pattern? i guess so, beyond ego, in limbo...

quiet lifting of a cup, can't explain what it means to me, i'll probably lose all curosity about it later, no need to sleuth out the code, it only yeilds the key to one man's trashed treasure.

this cyclobenzaprine, it's quite reminiscent of atropine compounds and just about any sleeping pill.

got back on the horse, even had a new saddle tailored for my wise-ass

but i feel no responsibility to save the world, i didn't make all the mistakes, people who wanted power did

but that leads me straight into another grating duality - i owe a lot of what i enjoy to the cruelest bastards in history

yeah, i think my vision's blurring - i'm a bit out of touch - - - i still remember the heavens and hells my head has made for me - wow, they weren't kidding, this stuff does make you drowsy

i just spent about five minutes staring at the screen - the lower part - could barely make out any details - yeah, that's about all i want to do too - turned off the music, it was annoying - any music annoys me now - it's just not real enough. playing seems out of the question

stared at the symbol for number 6 ...

i don't beat my heart
my heart beats

damn, can't bring myself to write anymore - guess i'll just have to experience

17 May 2005

Dead End

yes, let the dead dread end, let the end die, who has the energy for energy? whoever you are, expend, let's see your comeshot, your dead end.

no, i don't need another drink, no, i don't need fucking coffee
yes, i need to take a piss, i'll still expend the energy to avoid stinking pants

i'll still slouch and put off the dental appointment
i'll still show up to work and wonder
which is worse,
my dead end job
or studying to be an unemployable musician?

i can't commit suicide because too many people are attached to me
i could sever those attachments, but i don't think i have the heart to

but i want to become more familiar with death - if i had heroin
i might flirt with death, you know, because i don't want to commit to it just yet
but isn't that how flirting works? you ease yourself into it, till death is easy

i don't know what's wrong with me tonight, i took a turn
it's unprecedented
but it'll join the pile

maybe i need to stop fiddling around, find the logical end
but even the hard truths have become cliche, trite realities
yes, i could expose myself to the extremities, maybe beat a love of life into me
but it's still just instilling, installation, insta-bullshit

i should have been born a plant, any plant, odds are good i'd be one outside human cultivation/mutilation

i'm still a pile of chemicals, can't they be transferred into something that will appreciate? a chemical gestalt that will not employ the gift of life for florid whining?

what if i opted out? is it my christian past that gives the opt-out option the residuom of sin? or is it gaia telling me i'm needed? or is it plain old fear of the void?

i guess i still perversely feel a purpose in this life, i guess it's purposeful in a poorly maintained way to write this shit right now and continue to delay expensive dental care that is a waste anyway since i'm too lazy to brush my teeth very often - grammatically correct runon

hey, philosophers of the world - i DARE you to try and convince me that consciousness is a human-only phenomenon - go on, use your best arguments and metaphors - let's see if it does any good - if good is where it all leads

i'm just tired i guess, can't be bothered to find reasons to live when i'm uninspired so i resort immediately to suicidal hyperbole

oh, if you'll excuse me i have to go to work, i've whined enough but i don't care about whining anymore, i care about truth, and i am on a truth kick, kicking lies

damnit, now i just want to sleep - see, when i can sleep i can't be bothered to, can't even get comfortable, but when i'm not supposed to be sleeping, that's when sleep is at its sweetest, and i'm not yet hardcore enough to skip work to squeeze out the sweetest milk from sleep – oh here i am talking of flirting with death, and i won't even miss an hour of work! but i'm hardly a zombie, can't even claim that hardcore workaholic extremity, i'm addicted to nothing, not even writing, how do i keep going? what chemical is sweeping me along for this wobbly rusty ride?

poetry and virtuosity and melody swim beside me, sometimes i find myself in the waves, bounce off the reflection, muddy the water - haven't pinned anything down yet - yes i know, all the wise people say you can't - but often wisdom doesn't seem wise

why do i crave heroin? this is silly - it's more than curiosity - it's almost faustian, except without the hubris - i'm not a real satanist, i don't even believe in the bastard - i may never have beliefs, i don't even believe in the void - i believe heroin is real but i believe i've never tried it - no, this is stupid, heroin would just make me sick, a sick euphoria i'd quickly develop a tolerance to, and then i'd be a junkie, scoring to be baseline, and that would be lame and drearily sane and burroughs did it better in the fifties.

okay, i'm just lazy and weak, ground zero for humanity's flaws like they all got crammed into me, the elephant man with no dignity, morally bankrupt, simultaneously goody goody, how the FUCK can that be? don't know, but i feel it in saccharine paradox, a manic-depressive, both sides flavoured foul, clinging to words - i will love the sternography of my dead end - we've all got to go sometime - i'd like to control my end, grip the thermostat as i slip off life’s welcome mat, SELF MEDICATE damnit - but it's not my time yet, even if my organic neglect pushes me to opiated death fantasies - silly silly silly hypernuanced monkey, still with ideology, oh can it already, don't vote, you'll be responsible for electing another corrupt government, you really want your fingerprints on the ballot?

How'd I slip into second person again?

Shameful, this soliloquy - the greatest shame is that i have the greatest lover in the world, the one made for me, whom i often praise in generally inadequate ways, hoping my feelings fill in the blank, but it's scary to go beyond words, to entrust reality to the higher frequencies...

11 May 2005

Slouching

Slouching Sopo Riff
after the night shift

He sprinkled sand in my eyes
and realized my dying wish
with angelic compromise

don't need to move my lids
arrested REM and memories
crust in airy-fairy dust
liquid fate to dream of drugs

chemical keys, my psychedebris
concentrate on lethargy
prisoner in paisley
pant leg rips further at the knee

someday the cliched curls will wrap around the spikes
wrap up all the mysteries, warp my geometry, solve for A to Z

someday all fantasies will realize
someday i will be a drug, some day i will fit a receptor
i'm just a pile of chemicals, they will be of use someday, nature recycles

quasi-life is good enough
better than my average day
saved up some perception
now i'm sleeping through the sunrays
circadian syncopation
off-life beating fetal retro
quasi-living limbo laying low
eggshell never meant to crack
surface sorry to succumb
i say it's okay, i'm here now
seesawing back and forth
had planned to send a cheque today
forgot to ask for more pay
doesn't matter anyway

slouching forward, thinking backward
way before the diviner's mint gave me a glimpse of plant consciousness
dialing, divining, diving into the vegenet, my human node exploding, splattering in gooey bloody personality, runny residuals of boiling built-up breakdowns, flat earth planes and brainlobe limitations spilling down the jungle canopy's genetic memory, happy birthday earth day, hey, it's Earth, father monkey saying hi to this honkey, gotta flee, got a flee on me, can't shake the parasites, they became entrepreneurs, crazy history, did Earth foresee?

Don't know what happened to my blood, I think it was replaced with a sugar-free substitute, nutra-sweet bromide indigo faux-royal, not quite blue, and my veins are tattooed with second-rate cells, and they form the obercell that is me when i think i'm higher than a monkey, tripping on modern history, hallucinating evolution, but the empire never ended, and Earth's reign continues, and gnosis is in the plants, as always, complicated chemistry, as complex as me.

When noise turns to signal, math arises, apes ascend, the cosmos starts to fit together till your perception catches up to your extrapolations, chaos has the final laugh, you wake up in the raspberry patch, you feel this fruit, quasi or no, good enough for me, soporiff reverbs the next phase, what lies ahead? Have fun guessing but you can't outwit the Sopo Riff.

7 May 2005

But who would care?

In my world???

Counterpoint pains to irresponse...

i can't communicate with myself anymore - ain't got so much as a riddle - no zen clue - go fuck yaself, ya poor bastard...

4 May 2005

Need some space

between the last few entries.



























.

2 May 2005

binges and purges

I feel like i should be in a psych ward right now. My mom's gonna serve me some hot chocolate - she's nicer than the nurses, no shock treatments for me. I'm trying to stay away from certain subjects but shock treatments aren't all that shocking, just a little black humour, it's a good anecdote to genuine misery and dread.

Dez is having a hard hard time tonight. Her parents behaved in a shockingly tactless, perhaps even cruel way, although I can't say I have a complete grasp of the relevant events. I feel bad for her. Fuck that, I feel horrible for her. I feel her pain, she makes SURE that I feel it. She wants me in her maudlin movie, but it's darker than the soil of hades and its acid content is through the roof - it's eating through my stomach lining. I don't have a strong stomach, I don't want to be in the movie, I want to write a new ending. But I haven't got creative control. And now I'm getting self-absorbed because I can. Something to do. It's not about her anymore, it's about me. Cause this is my silly little blog.

I feel too bloody much, I'm starting to grok the allure of zoloft and effexer. Sometimes I feel like I've connected to only the negative hemisphere of the cosmic consciousness, and I feel the world's pain without getting in on the good stuff.

It's difficult dealing with her particular nexus of pain, I just can't seem to lend a hand, and I don't like being roped into the pain. I'm probably missing some simple obvious method of reacting that would solve all these problems.

Problems, problems, brushfires... I left the door open. At least I'm in a safe space. Physically. The house is safe, it's my mind I'm worried about, the real cage. Its capacity to generate nightmares. Maybe I won't miss it, assuming the personal ego dissipates into a larger consciousness after death that isn't consumed with ridiculous anxieties and petty melodramas that seem so important, so omega, so end of the line, so fuck this i'm outa here, i didn't ask to be born.

Maybe this is what I get for alluding to suicide. Maybe when I alluded to it, with the sneering sarcastic tag "this isn't a cry for help", I was being a real dishonest prick. No, actually scratch that, I was just being stupid. No, actually, I was just sharing thoughts, like I always do, and one happened to be about Camus' "only important philosophical question". I dunno, life ebbs and flows. Life is beautiful, then it's not worth the candle. Then it's alright, I guess, then it's "let's ride this life thing out and see where it takes me".

It feels good to cry, it helps dissipate the pain through tears of shame - eye juices, ocular lubricant. But after all the tears, I'm still wondering, I could be recovering, even climbing back to life affirmation, all the while a thing to cry about is going on that would dwarf recent trauma. Well there's always shit happening all over the world. In the time it takes to sniffle in a breath of air, a hundred people will have been emotionally devastated, physically eviscerated. And somewhere in Scottsdale Arizona, some jackass in the suburbs won the lottery. I don't envy him though, now he has a lot to lose - what goes up must come down.

Haven't used writing as therapy in quite a while, I guess its utility increases inversely proportional to its use. Been thinking about seeing a shrink too, but there's still my personal stigma surrounding that. But a lot of people seem to get some real help for some real problems. For Tony Soprano though, I'd call it an indulgence. Sure, it would be stressful running a mob family, but when you make a living by stealing and killing and fucking people over, you don't get to bitch about stress. Fuck Mr. Soprano, and fuck his shrink too. Melfi's hot for him, she's just hiding it like a pro.

Videodrome

Me and my high school friend Dan once rented a film called body of Influence. It was "about" a psychiatrist who charmed his female patients into wild sex and sometimes filmed it. Yeah, that's basically the plot. One of the best soft-core skin flicks ever made though, in our not-so-vast experience. The brothel scene in particular was just right. Just erotic enough to add a little spice, not so erotic that it got tripped up in some artsy bullshit. Could have used a LITTLE more sleaze, but the underage angle contributed a lot toward the sleaze quotient. Apparently there's a sequel but we never got around to renting it. "Silk and sabotage" was pretty good too. That one had a fine asian chick and a foxy glass-wearing blond. Inexplicably, it actually had a plot. Someone must have snuck a writer into the studio for that one. Strange, I wonder if he displays the DVD re-issue on his trophy case?

Oh, Snapdragon. Pamela Anderson. That kicked off the season of skin. After that we were hooked. I actually miss the days when we'd have to brave embarrassment and rental counter ratings nazis to get our flesh fix. And it's not like we could actually jerk off to it, not unless we could sneak it home by ourselves or something. Oh I intended to many times, but circumstances always seemed to prevent the caper. So we'd fast forward the boring shit (except once in a while to linger over Pam's voice) and grin through grinding scene after grinding scene of beautiful soft core action. Yes, I miss those days, I'm so spoiled with this modern hard-core e-porn glut, I no longer appreciate the simple pleasures. Taping commercials. Movie previews. Young Korean hotties with jiggling shirts. Heheheheheh.

Ok, when did this blog turn into Beavis and Butthead?

1 May 2005

-

Your first one is spent on the ground.