17 Apr 2016

recognizing loving and love pumps

first improv on my new keyboard:

instinct


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Feeling empty, the only thing that nudges me to write anymore, so, voila, something like this, when empty's overflowing and i'm heaving nothing into a porcelain blog, tickling lil' lines in the dust on the surface of the semicircle, poking a node, stroking vectors, transcriptions of a casual chat with satan's collection agent from the pact we made back in the day, me and satan, in the company of an agent as witness and middleman - satan's agent's still trying to collect, sent an angel to bribe me into looking back for love, i played it pretty aloof, shook my hair like a pretty boy, with almost enough cell-death, biological distinguishment to pretend to be adult far advanced in decrepitude

wit drained - plumbing was a good thing once upon a time, the visions of plumbing, infinite variation on flowing visions through conduits, on themes that were important in ways i couldn't explain, maybe nothing could, not even math - and plumbing was a good thing because there was an analog spectrum between non-horniness and orgasm, a nice wide spectrum to work up to almost unbearable physical gratification before release - then there came a bottleneck, maybe medication, maybe leach of psychological nutrients, rigid neurochemical management, serotonin austerity regime - or maybe giving up, love lust and everything in between being not worth another try, yet again, too disappointing - maybe i should write one of those songs from the male perspective about wanting someone to do all the work for me, to come to me, to make me come

plumbing proved problematic, had to prime the pump to blood pressure redline, velocity straining tendons, to get to a point where it should start to build like a good solid chunk of empty man's bliss, and once finally there, for all that effort, almost instant flip to spasmodic and sterile ejac like a hairtrigger switch - very little satisfaction, no afterglow to speak of - yes, there are mediocre orgasms, and i've had some great ones with porn

but searching these days is a lot of "not my porno", took so long to find the right one - then i did, something i should have appreciated, nothing i would have even conceived in more innocent days, not dirty, just expertly hot for my subtype, enough sophistication to deserve a critique, a clip really accomplishing something with the art of porno, making the girl seem smart and in on production and able to articulate the strategy, of maximizing horny-making effect, beyond anybody's convention of sexy but deeper, pushing buttons and telling you about it

i can run toward empty, past the slash, and then write like this again, hear this voice, if i want, if i can stop nursing the burn spot on my finger, dunno how i got it, got too stoned i guess, to even notice pain, any real tactile pain, drowned out by thousands of imagined pains in a sensory connection state bounded, when i can really MEAN a note when i play it, but it doesn't matter later, the meaning is completely lost, feeling residue baked into Fourier transformation trails.

Better than con trail theories. They're a con. Confidently-told stories that people would love to believe, because paranoia is optimism for certain kinds, when out of control, inhuman is too threatening, too pessimistic, because you're alone and afraid in a world you never made. Hey, I'm there too, most of the time. Can get a flash of feeling I'm out of it, but it's been decades since DMT flashes. They were bright, but terribly state bounded, there's a mere smear of words condensed from an energy that apparently killed me if i'm to be believed by what i wrote as it wore off... now i can only write it off as digscrawls of a feeling I meant to mean something, but it's like a stoned piano improv that may as well be the "even worse" hell of that Event Horizon movie, or the tesseract from a novel that seemed a lot more mind-blowing when I read it at age ten than it did four years ago. I'm in the world I never made, and afraid in it, and alone in it, but friends come to mean enough, not exponentially more and more, but in an ebb and flow, more random than pulse, but 0.003% predictable over a 30% spread, people I expect to hang out with but don't expect to be directed to a poet/philosopher/biologist with a take on everything is waiting for you, put down your loneliness, let go of the self and engage in the conversation of everything communicating with everything, a meeting - and not even being on acid! See, I'm friendly but rarely seem so, so I exclaim sometimes, to set up a prison phone conversation through plexiglass between an incarcerated bundle of loving fun and an insular misanthropic self-indulgent writer.

And then, later, following american politics, eating popcorn. Too long an interval between goof proofs of the incompleteness theorem. Am I gonna mention dimensions now or are there too many dimensions to mention? I think the latter, but look at me, doing the former. But there are real monsters, aren't there? And there's still enough coke in columbia to kill me, but not enough in Nelson to fuel me. My superpower is sobriety. Drugs are my kryptonite. But I let my subscription to kryptonite weekly lapse. Because I just connect by listening to someone describe what it's like to grow, process, and insufflate kryptonite crystals through an oculus rift device. On youtube. As a balm to graze edony, and lie down and try and sink into a hospice premonition, but only really squirm about in an unsatisfying medicated slide into subpar sleep.

damn, out of lighters too - this must be - when one gets kicked out of the loop of playing language