15.12.16
Update
All of the poetry and rambling dated as published today have been recovered from the archives of my old facebook account. That's why they're so much worse than the stuff dated earlier. Enjoy
Untitled
I
am the bacterial residue that exploded moments ago upon the grime of
two lovers under the hot night of an August War. I have covered this
mass of sweat and love in a growth of a unique sort of beauty that will
never be felt again. All the universe began then for us down here. And
we’re all unique. The ones on the chin and the ones on the mouth and
the ones in the ears and the back of the neck. The ones that work down
in the central heating post of this waxing and waning and booming and
shaking and tickling. Some of us live in all the kisses left like little
outposts that creep upon every inch of their bodies. Some of these were
dropped like raindrops gently pattering every sensitive surface. And
some were floods and earthquakes sculpting life into its mystical frame.
Crowds of us came from there and built million dollar multiplexes to
watch the size of it. We laughed and cried and giggled and nodded at the
badass after he did something cool. And we drank a shitload of that
sweat and poured out little babies like we were real fucking hipsters
with infinite resources. And we farted out a steamy load of festering
and stinky ooze so sacred and beautiful it must have come from out Dark
Jesus. Good news came that day and we had a parade as we marched to our
first holiday. We didn’t know when it was, some of us live months but
most of us celebrate early when we get cleaned from our partying lives
and the negative of an irreplaceable photo disappears. We did it! We
proclaim. And it was so worthlessly terrific that every mistake couldn’t
be missed. The angels all died the same way. Each one melted like
Icarus and flooded the moon with the wastes of their corpses and wax
perfections. We died just like the unsacred filth. We were a perfect
filth, not the ones that don’t count like the interracial or atheist or
gay. We did it all right but we died the same fucking way. We didn’t
make any of the same mistakes as those other jackasses, we paddled right
through until we lost our membranes and oozed all over the floor just
like the soppy as shit ending to a soap opera. Just like the splash of a
diver with his neck on a noose. Just like the brown bags that burn to
start a fire in a filthy abandoned building. Just like the star than
meths into a black hole fishing for another ride on the heaviest
gravity. Just like the taxi that crashes into the school bus and starts
an awesome fire, exploding into the worst sort of terror. But we were so
sacred when we did it. We were the last of the most beautiful
endangered animal that was only beautiful because it was endangered. We
told stories around tables and built cities so we could invade and kill
each other. We snapped photos and then burned them away into
oscillations on an endless grid. And you ask us why the fuck should you
try it? How could that awful mess be so amazing? But don't knock it till
you try it.
Untitled
My mind died yesterday.
It was a slow death.
First it’d just go missing from time to time.
Little pieces fell off and I tried glue and tape and sutures and sometimes I’d try to just smash them back together like hardened clay.
It was a slow death.
First it’d just go missing from time to time.
Little pieces fell off and I tried glue and tape and sutures and sometimes I’d try to just smash them back together like hardened clay.
I’d
crumble more and more until I’d just give up and leave the lost pieces
to soak up the dirt in some memory of a place I’d never see again.
Sometimes, though, sometimes I’d just grab hold of it and throw it just to see how far it would reach before it hit the asphalt and crack apart like an old tree in a heavy wind.
And sometimes I’d squeeze it until it popped, grabbing onto to bits of air and stretching rubber ribbons around it
If I could only stick enough back in to make it float.
Sometimes I would kick it after it took a shit on the carpet.
Because the only way I knew to love it was to show it how much bigger I was.
Sometimes I’d try to just hold it but it kept squirming so I’d hold it a little tighter.
Just enough to keep it still in my hand.
And then I’d get distracted until it suffocated.
I’d try to revive it but I knew there was no chance
So I'd bury it but I’d dig a tiny hole and throw down a thread tied to a bell
I couldn't let it stink up the place but if it woke up I'd want to know so I could dig it out
And I'd listen for that bell to ring, and jump from my seat every time the wind teased it.
I'd ask myself if I should dig it up just to make sure
But I never did.
Sometimes I'd toss it like a speed ball at an empty plate.
Thinking I’ve got to make it strong enough so never again would I have to feel it break.
Or at least numb enough I'd never know the difference.
But eventually I realized it’s probably better off dead.
I didn’t want to see it go but I spent so much time writing the epitaph and more than that I just didn’t want to see it suffer anymore.
Like an insect that circled the fire until its wings burned off, leaving it to writhe upon the ground and try to walk it off but all the onlookers would say you shouldn't let it suffer anymore.
We excused our blood lust for pity though deep down we just wanted to hear that sweet sound when it crunches and we know it was us that did it.
After all death must be better than to leave it drowning in a pit until its lungs were full of mud.
I’d steal hope away from every possible mistake though I swear I’d never let it die in me.
My mind died a slow death like that.
Everyone wanted to end its misery but I said its better it die slow and painfully than to steal away it's chance.
I said feel free to try and kill it but hope twitches hours after it's dead
Sometimes, though, sometimes I’d just grab hold of it and throw it just to see how far it would reach before it hit the asphalt and crack apart like an old tree in a heavy wind.
And sometimes I’d squeeze it until it popped, grabbing onto to bits of air and stretching rubber ribbons around it
If I could only stick enough back in to make it float.
Sometimes I would kick it after it took a shit on the carpet.
Because the only way I knew to love it was to show it how much bigger I was.
Sometimes I’d try to just hold it but it kept squirming so I’d hold it a little tighter.
Just enough to keep it still in my hand.
And then I’d get distracted until it suffocated.
I’d try to revive it but I knew there was no chance
So I'd bury it but I’d dig a tiny hole and throw down a thread tied to a bell
I couldn't let it stink up the place but if it woke up I'd want to know so I could dig it out
And I'd listen for that bell to ring, and jump from my seat every time the wind teased it.
I'd ask myself if I should dig it up just to make sure
But I never did.
Sometimes I'd toss it like a speed ball at an empty plate.
Thinking I’ve got to make it strong enough so never again would I have to feel it break.
Or at least numb enough I'd never know the difference.
But eventually I realized it’s probably better off dead.
I didn’t want to see it go but I spent so much time writing the epitaph and more than that I just didn’t want to see it suffer anymore.
Like an insect that circled the fire until its wings burned off, leaving it to writhe upon the ground and try to walk it off but all the onlookers would say you shouldn't let it suffer anymore.
We excused our blood lust for pity though deep down we just wanted to hear that sweet sound when it crunches and we know it was us that did it.
After all death must be better than to leave it drowning in a pit until its lungs were full of mud.
I’d steal hope away from every possible mistake though I swear I’d never let it die in me.
My mind died a slow death like that.
Everyone wanted to end its misery but I said its better it die slow and painfully than to steal away it's chance.
I said feel free to try and kill it but hope twitches hours after it's dead
Untitled
I caught a glimmer of light and it told me I’d spent all my
memories bathing in shit. I caught a glimmer in the middle of mealtime
devouring darkness. It was an accident. My head poked through the edge
of a shadow and there it all was. Fire. Stars. Parades stampeding music
into my bones and mainlining beauty straight to my soul and my eyes were
gluing themselves to the fabric. Then,
with the flick of a wisp full of wind I found myself drowning again in
the shit and the shadows. And as I look around my dark home I bleed
dissatisfaction. I was broken by the world outside of here, cursed to
find no solace until that music comes back and my heart fills once more
with whatever that was that spilled into it. Happiness once assumed like
background noise has become a worthless attribute without the colors
that I used to know. And I stink like lust now worse than the shit I’m
surrounded with. I reek of sweat from digging for fallen shards of those
stars I can only imagine exist the way my memories claim that they do. I
reek of hope and it rots like maggots consuming the husk of complacency
I used to consider my skin. I dream that my dreams will swallow me up
and I’ll never know the pain of waking again.
Because I caught a glimmer of light and that light caught me in its eyes and it changed me forever. And my heart was caught in the jaws of this world and when I receded the thing began bleeding and ached to be swallowed, breathlessly screaming for this place that it saw. With the taste still in its mouth it led me like a lantern through mazes and tunnels and all those scary places I’d never willingly go and when those waves of pain came I’d try to protect it and close it and keep it safe but it always stayed open even when plastered with rains of falling glass fragments or haunted by the burdensome weight of old ghosts like rejection, regret and early goodbyes. And I’d try to protect it and close it and keep it safe from those things but I couldn’t stop it because I realized what I fear more than being killed by my passion is that I would kill it. So my heart goes forward, much braver than I, still with the taste in its mouth and the music in its ears.
Because I caught a glimmer of light and that light caught me in its eyes and it changed me forever. And my heart was caught in the jaws of this world and when I receded the thing began bleeding and ached to be swallowed, breathlessly screaming for this place that it saw. With the taste still in its mouth it led me like a lantern through mazes and tunnels and all those scary places I’d never willingly go and when those waves of pain came I’d try to protect it and close it and keep it safe but it always stayed open even when plastered with rains of falling glass fragments or haunted by the burdensome weight of old ghosts like rejection, regret and early goodbyes. And I’d try to protect it and close it and keep it safe from those things but I couldn’t stop it because I realized what I fear more than being killed by my passion is that I would kill it. So my heart goes forward, much braver than I, still with the taste in its mouth and the music in its ears.
Space Station Diaries 2
Expectations come from shadows and claw my flesh from bone and
tell me with fear of disappointment tenderizing every flaccid hope. Am I
so fixated on the end I can’t appreciate the passage there? Worrisome
knots bubbling up to boiling gobs of poisonous doubt rising to my skull
and spilling out I don’t want it broken! I don’t want it broken! So I refuse
to touch it. It's got me trapped inside my head because I can’t stand
the loss of it or even a hint of a threat. I get glimpses through it
sometimes but today I need surgery to remove the screaming little bitch
nibbling on the back of my spine. I need canons to launch an assault
and break every wall that separates me from all of you. I need a
parachute to send me safely from the space station where I sit paralyzed
watching the world I want break apart and be replaced by the one that
is. My brain wants like sewage waste and I want to give up so bad
sometimes I can’t stand it. But I’m still stuck in that paradox that if
I can kill my expectations I can finally have them all. And I’m still
stuck between fear and love, and god I wish I wasn’t because then you
would have known how loved you were. But you never did because we all
hid it.
For one day let me escape the race to build evidence on facebook that I’m happy and prop up cardboard cut-out smiles faster than the world can take them down and then maybe you’d know you weren’t alone because I feel alone sometimes, too. But we’re such proud fucking shits we cover up our soft spots and bury our hearts in bottles until we can’t hear them begging for each other.
For one day let me escape the race to build evidence on facebook that I’m happy and prop up cardboard cut-out smiles faster than the world can take them down and then maybe you’d know you weren’t alone because I feel alone sometimes, too. But we’re such proud fucking shits we cover up our soft spots and bury our hearts in bottles until we can’t hear them begging for each other.
Ode to the Hipster
I’m
growing a mustache that will curl like the toes of the girl I tie to
train tracks. I’m building a float for the parade celebrating the
completion of a thin plastic membrane to cover the natural darkness of
creation, the blackness bleeding from the soul in the ground, and this float will
have treads pounding sizzling sharp spikes into the asphalt and this float
will spray burning defiance into the audience to steal their twisted
grins off and this float will spill kilos of candy along all sides to
call the clueless heaps of hungry kids.
I’m thinking of ways to form an identity that will destroy all of yours. I’m raping murder and stealing treason. I hunted wolves when I was raised by chickens. I mate with angels that give birth to demons with evil pride and drinking problems. I lick the bones of every talented artist I can collect, living life just like my cannibal ancestors did when they killed off the giants so they could feel big. I sit in a river with my head plunged firmly looking for a clue of Jesus and when I don’t find it I seek the Devil and trade a little more of my soul to falsify the feeling. I ambush Caravans heading West of Fame and circle round them until they settle down into a littered pilgrimage of trailer park towns. I’m eating the fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil and finding anyone who hasn’t so I can clothe them in my assumptions about life until they learn Science is separate from Poetry, the way to be happy is by collecting more stuff, we’re all going to live in space some day and people on TV never die.
I let the Earth shatter too busy saving its misled creatures but curtains are closing for the play that hides the audience from their shadow of lies and blistering lackfuls of excuses for lives, and now every God we've loved has demanded human sacrifice. Dawn is coming to smash apocalyptic beams of truth on all the dark little cracks where we buried broken promises. Miracles are soothing the dead to waking but we’re grabbing shotguns to blow their heads off like we were taught in training. Death to the parasites in our brains that suck our identities into a vacuum of not enough. Laundry Day is here to purify the stains and colors from our clothes and shrink them down so they don’t fit anymore. Ladders are being sent to collect the poor souls drowning in possessions, astronauts suffocate in flying clay prisons, science is humping poetry in secret under the bleachers and the ambulance has been called for the last celebrity alive.
The Yin is making the Yang erupt buckets of purple sweat and sounds spill out the wrinkles breaking beats before Punk Music Remixes as the two wage a thumb wrestling battle over which one gets to be the Fresh Prince of the Assholes. I’m the world’s first Hipster and I’m driving a scooter into the sunset, smoking bent and flattened cigarettes with Wes Anderson behind the camera and a bloodstain drying on my leather jacket from poking a hole in a thin piece of plastic and watching my insides come out.
I’m thinking of ways to form an identity that will destroy all of yours. I’m raping murder and stealing treason. I hunted wolves when I was raised by chickens. I mate with angels that give birth to demons with evil pride and drinking problems. I lick the bones of every talented artist I can collect, living life just like my cannibal ancestors did when they killed off the giants so they could feel big. I sit in a river with my head plunged firmly looking for a clue of Jesus and when I don’t find it I seek the Devil and trade a little more of my soul to falsify the feeling. I ambush Caravans heading West of Fame and circle round them until they settle down into a littered pilgrimage of trailer park towns. I’m eating the fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil and finding anyone who hasn’t so I can clothe them in my assumptions about life until they learn Science is separate from Poetry, the way to be happy is by collecting more stuff, we’re all going to live in space some day and people on TV never die.
I let the Earth shatter too busy saving its misled creatures but curtains are closing for the play that hides the audience from their shadow of lies and blistering lackfuls of excuses for lives, and now every God we've loved has demanded human sacrifice. Dawn is coming to smash apocalyptic beams of truth on all the dark little cracks where we buried broken promises. Miracles are soothing the dead to waking but we’re grabbing shotguns to blow their heads off like we were taught in training. Death to the parasites in our brains that suck our identities into a vacuum of not enough. Laundry Day is here to purify the stains and colors from our clothes and shrink them down so they don’t fit anymore. Ladders are being sent to collect the poor souls drowning in possessions, astronauts suffocate in flying clay prisons, science is humping poetry in secret under the bleachers and the ambulance has been called for the last celebrity alive.
The Yin is making the Yang erupt buckets of purple sweat and sounds spill out the wrinkles breaking beats before Punk Music Remixes as the two wage a thumb wrestling battle over which one gets to be the Fresh Prince of the Assholes. I’m the world’s first Hipster and I’m driving a scooter into the sunset, smoking bent and flattened cigarettes with Wes Anderson behind the camera and a bloodstain drying on my leather jacket from poking a hole in a thin piece of plastic and watching my insides come out.
Menstrual Cunnilingus
Call
me a Vampire but I see nothing wrong with a bloody vagina. All that
gleefully nutritious, succulent sweetness goes to waste if you're
unwilling to assault the main gates and plaster your snout against the
coppery wetness leaking from those happy drapes. Sometimes if she's
bleeding I'll go down simply because I'm out of granola bars and don't feel like ramen. I can survive off her pussy for weeks and if I'm careful enough she won't even stain the sheets.
Don't you dare look disgusted. Have you ever tried it? Do you even know what it tastes like? Sure it's pungent and stings the throat and leaves a bloody mess on your chin but there's a rich and sugary undercoat like raspberry syruped over flavorful olives or a mucus of honey and cherry and bubbly soda pop. Alright I'm embellishing now it's more like salmon brunch or a nice tuna melt. Except covered in vagina blood. You know I'm failing to really capture the taste with words and I apologize. I suppose it's an acquired taste like oysters or artichokes. And each one different from the next. Some similar to delicious blush or a two buck chuck and others more like habanero gasoline. A few come pickled, usually the ladies in triple digits whose curtains you feel tickle your voice box.
So come friends and join me! Let us dance all night in vagina blood and play and splash about and wrestle, holding each others faces down in menstrual puddles until somebody calls uncle. And when we're done we'll shower in it and scrub each other thoroughly dirty until we fall asleep and when we awake it will have crusted over night and we'll find little snacks caught in our hair and behind our ears, tasty treats too delicious not to eat. I like to add it to my coffee. You can snort it off the floor but if you do make sure to mop, you don't want germs in your menstrual snot. You can hoard it in all in jars, you can leave them in a drawer then sneak it into soup and serve it to the poor. How dare you tell me I'm being improper? I say let them eat caviar!
So come friends and join me! Won't you have some with your toast? You've heard of a Southwest Omelette, but have tried the Cannibal Coast? You can even have it on your sushi if your soy sauce lacks in flavor, or throw it on a hotdog because you're already eating a fucking a hotdog so--Look, don't take my word for it, try it for yourself but heed my warning, you may come to love it. I'm just kidding. You'll probably get sick and throw up.
Don't you dare look disgusted. Have you ever tried it? Do you even know what it tastes like? Sure it's pungent and stings the throat and leaves a bloody mess on your chin but there's a rich and sugary undercoat like raspberry syruped over flavorful olives or a mucus of honey and cherry and bubbly soda pop. Alright I'm embellishing now it's more like salmon brunch or a nice tuna melt. Except covered in vagina blood. You know I'm failing to really capture the taste with words and I apologize. I suppose it's an acquired taste like oysters or artichokes. And each one different from the next. Some similar to delicious blush or a two buck chuck and others more like habanero gasoline. A few come pickled, usually the ladies in triple digits whose curtains you feel tickle your voice box.
So come friends and join me! Let us dance all night in vagina blood and play and splash about and wrestle, holding each others faces down in menstrual puddles until somebody calls uncle. And when we're done we'll shower in it and scrub each other thoroughly dirty until we fall asleep and when we awake it will have crusted over night and we'll find little snacks caught in our hair and behind our ears, tasty treats too delicious not to eat. I like to add it to my coffee. You can snort it off the floor but if you do make sure to mop, you don't want germs in your menstrual snot. You can hoard it in all in jars, you can leave them in a drawer then sneak it into soup and serve it to the poor. How dare you tell me I'm being improper? I say let them eat caviar!
So come friends and join me! Won't you have some with your toast? You've heard of a Southwest Omelette, but have tried the Cannibal Coast? You can even have it on your sushi if your soy sauce lacks in flavor, or throw it on a hotdog because you're already eating a fucking a hotdog so--Look, don't take my word for it, try it for yourself but heed my warning, you may come to love it. I'm just kidding. You'll probably get sick and throw up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)