23 May 2013

irony is dead, long live irony

i don't quite remember how to write, or what it was for, but my heart still beats - medulla keeps meddling - i don't remember what it was for, cause everything seems to be past tense now - i've been in a downward spiral of diminishing returns trying to recapture old feelings - they're the only feelings i know

there's a scary asshole self who is negative, like mephistopheles, who carves a lumpen proletariat into a renaissance man - it's interesting to note that i know this man, that can summon words from the driest desert, who always has something to say - the mileage i get from liquor combusts memory efficiently, in equal measure

please

pleasure

i don't quite remember what writing is, or what it was for, but it pleases me, or did in the past - it's pleasing to plant seeds by just typing and feel that something is taking root even after i'm done typing, and simply lying in bed, drifting off to sleep - the words remain like a lineage - at least in my hippocampal torus network, so solo... so many lonely people - suffering alone

i wonder if i could foment a personal apocalypse or two with words... i used to have that hubris, now i just wonder - but maybe i'll be driven to try it, is it still possible to drive this hurtin' unit? make a play for the something or other, fuck some shit up? pain pain and gain? i ain't talkin' bout no revolution, i'm talking about love, but what a bizarre word that is today, i'm so defeatist, i don't deserve anything, do i?  that's what got me into this most recent mess in the first place, was aiming higher, aiming for love, like as if i would have any business operating on that stata

please

9 May 2013

honeycough ' " ?

it's a package of noodles, but not just any noodles, they're kraft with the alfredo cheese mix and they've got a crinkle shape, and they're not emblematic of anything, and awww... they're even a source of iron! that's so cute, that they take the time to let you know, the people who make those noodles - just fyi, you wouldn't think so, but this stuff has a bit of iron it it, you know? there's a little kick of iron to it, what you do what that information is your own business, but hey, just fyi, it's in there, just so you know, just putting it out there

oh, honeycough, you were always so good to me, you made my throat numb even when it didn't need numbing for the conventional reasons but you aren't biased against my reasons when they circumvent convention, and the numbing of the throat was a not-unwanted side effect of a much broader spectrum of effects - it was touching to notice the lack of sensitivity in my throat when i would induce a cough for a lark, between inside vistas brought on through stimulation of imagination via sense-deprived dissociation - yes, i certainly wouldn't have been inclined to cough with that many mg/kg alright! - anesthesia remains underrated - not that it's not highly rated by many people for many reasons, but even so, it's not thought of fondly enough, it could stand yet more fondness of thought - and i don't think i got done chatting with the devil, there were some loose ends, and there's still living to be done in getting to them, to, if not tie them up, at least play with their ends a bit more, like a twenty year old cat that's got some spring still in her when she gets 'nipped up and sees some loose string dangling there, but the string needs a flip to get dangling, there needs to be a helping hand, some kinetic energy

honeycough, you were good to my body and even better to my mind, i always felt a bond with you, your graphics, your adorable name, the people who manufactured and sold you, their trusting naivete, or maybe there were some knowing winks i didn't know about - i can't make this any harder than it needs to be, mister, cause it's the best of all possible worlds, and what a sad fact that is, although some rare times it feels just fine, that this is the best we can do, because that is a beautiful reflection of this music i'm moving through now

My Account for Individuals


oh, my account... they set up an account for me, how lovely, i know it was a page of a page of a page created from web code, automated scripts, but the result is personal - it's a story that will make you believe in god - cause there's nothing to be done with this but to ascribe some meaning that we prefer, as opposed to an impersonal randomness



Cooler temperatures outside. Best to keep a hat and mitts handy




knuckle tile
bait space
trying to cultivate vaccuphilia
-
people tell stories at meetings, oh god, how they tell stories
and i could tell stories too, but i'm stymied, cause
where to begin? the second i've got an idea of where to delve into it
the guy next to me goes on a bragging jag about how he used to be
such a baaaaaaad mutha fucka, but infuriatingly, in the guise of
how i was so sick, so sickly sick, but thank god, i've recovered
and my life's so much better, but he mostly just wants you to know
how baaaaaad he was, and you wouldn't have wanted to mess with him back then
cause back then he was gettin into all sorts of brawls, and who knows
what mighta happened to you, if you'd messed with him back then,
cause he was so sick, but lucky him, he found a god
so he gets to have his plague cake and eat it too


skid row give'n'take
faxx-ache
good god, 'twas the best bad beer in this whole bad ol' lil' world


so then, i remember when, cause those remember when stories
make me think of the most fucked up shit from my daze, and
the most fucked up shit makes me crave the most, cause that was
always the attraction, the more twisted the better, the tawdriest was the best
and the needles were perfection, and then the other guy steals my thunder
and i don't know where to begin, cause what i hate in the others the most
is what i'm so deeply ashamed of in myself, maybe cause they get away
with being the reformed dope-fiend raconteurs
whereas i'm left merely craving white powder goodies i haven't tasted in years
you'd think years away would bring some serenity, but even more than booze
for me, the real drugs, the ones that radically rearrange the dopamine
and kappa-opioid receptors, are the ones that have really stuck
in my memory





SOUR coffee, notes, country, constitution, sour taste, foul-weather friend, i'll call to complain, but i won't ever kill the carefully cultivated vibe by copping to any good feeling, ever - or, well, i'll mention it once in a while, i do try to mention it, it's one of those chores i grunt through when enough downtime has passed, i guess i'd better say something positive at this point, maybe if i do, it'll create jobs, cause god knows, people keep creating people, so we gotta create jobs for them, otherwise, they'll kill each other in armed conflict over dwindling supplies of kraft dinner

i did hear a good thing, that resonated with me at the meeting today, it really did, it resonated, even though i have to italicize the word to emphasize how it turns my stomach how trite it is, and how it's used in trite ways by trite people to express trite things, like the lil bite of trite i felt today, about how we used to pray in desperate ways to the porcelain god, is something that you lose in recovery, and need to be reminded of now and then to keep you grounded - and i remember that, and now that the desperation is gone, and the sides of the toilet bowl are dry, there's just a vast flat crater whose cliffs i can't see, and would that it were tranquil like the lunar sea, or numberwang abstraction, a more realistic hope, that, but it's a parade of irritation following me home - here's a positive note though, it doesn't follow into my dreams, my dreams are still a sacred space of happy horror vacuii

the hand i was dealt.... he asked me how i felt about it, a year and change ago now, and back then i answered, earnestly, that i would have to say, it was pretty good luck in the parental lottery, and geographically, i made a killing, and i was forced to admit this, objectively - and i really didn't feel a lot of resentment, i had plenty of other issues, cravings, hopelessness, iron chains of shame, tight loops of self-sabotage, but i didn't seem to have a lot to work with regarding the supposedly all important resentment issue, i actually felt bad for not having enough of it, like it would have made the step-work more intense and profound instead of a breeze

and now i'm as bitter as strychnine - or is it arsenic? As33? And fuck the chem cooks. nux vomica, poison nut, semen strychnos and quaker buttons - anger, so much anger these days, and bitterness, and envy and jealousy and discontent, and petty emotions, oh my god, i would just dyeee if anyone knew about them, so, what'll i do? i'll type them into the blogger window, cause that's safe as soy milk and scientology bashing

i meant every note, or what i meant to say was, i meant those tiles, meaning cleaning tiles, meaning in gleaming tiles - and while cleaning tiles, why do i get nervous and feel like i need to finish quick, or something? it's the fear of being seen actually getting satisfaction out of the menial labour of cleaning floors and getting manic with it, and having it laid bare that i don't do it out of some heroic self-abnegation or even work ethic exactly, except insofar as work ethic is tied up with an obsessive compulsive need to carry some task to a state of what i deem completion according to a set of arbitrary rules i've drafted and revised a hundred times in my head conforming to the evolving contours of my neurotic architecture - and the insanity of the impossible task of keeping grime at bay being an aesthetic unto itself

maybe there's some purpose in finally facing truths head on, especially the truths about those most sacred cows of the most serious and sombre procedure of arranging words and tones into pretty patterns, or ugly patterns that are pretty in their pointed rejection of what would be the "pretty" choice at every vertex like a film-negative - maybe there's a vital need to face up to the farce, rather than grazing the truth of its ridiculousness in a not-so-graceful shuffle - maybe that'll feel good in a strange vital way, while enduring pain i forgot existed, that i hadn't known since dark days of juvenile halls, and might take on new forms at the same or greater intensity... i do feel i'm still so full of lies, the worst of them artistic lies

lies like i'm ever writing just for myself, as you would if the word journal had any meaning - certainly not since blogger, or even before that - since boards - there's been a yearning to share, and yet, the stunt of sharing has proven to be so sick-making, if not contagious

maybe i can rewrite this to disguise some intent, heh, but i won't - good god, how disgusting... i'm so bitter and ungrateful, blessed and hateful, and i'm so sorry about the things i say, and even sorrier about the things i don't say, but maybe i need to accumulate some more sins, need more blatant material for the next confession - maybe i need some, heh, ORIGINAL sins, haha, get it? like it's a play on the biblical idea of original sin and also a brilliantly original piece of comedic wit that no one ever could have possibly thought up before me just now? and i have to write that with extra sarcastic inflection just to be absolutely certain that you know i meant that sarcastically, and was not seriously proposing that my comedic usage of original sin was somehow original

And Thank You, Blogger - most sincerely and non-sarcastically, the most earnest feeling I have among the many earnest feelings I have for inanimate objects and institutions, which are the only feelings of earnestness I have for anything, and the only objects worthy of earnestness, I feel - thank you blogger, for aligning my text to the left, like I asked - it's amazing how much stuff works, in the digital world, amid my myriad mouse clicks and impatient banging away at hotkeys - by all rights, blogger, you would have choked, the user errors would have compounded, but your code is so streamlined, that you pretty much grasped what i was trying to get done, and after a few format stutters, eventually got down to doing my bidding - i'll call that justified

7 May 2013

you got me comin' back

song by hectorthecrow and Luc Forget
words by Luc Forget
(he's supposed to sing the lead and play the guitar parts too, but long distance collaboration can slow things down a bit...)


listen


now you got me all wrapped up
and i can't even do anything about it
now you know me inside out, outside in, and i don't
wanna think about it, don't wanna talk about it

now you got me thinking it all over
you got me thinking about smoking cigarettes
oh my heart, and my brain, are at a smoky table
vodka and russian roulette

oh you got me coming back, i'm such a hack
but you just played it, you played it oh so cool
you saw me coming and you set, you set me up
you knew that i would play
you knew that i would play the fool

now you got me thinking it over
and i don't even smoke them cigarettes
oh my heart, and my brain
are at a smoky table
vodka and russian roulette