and just as the new wine touches your lips,
you are more powerful that you remembered.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
the process
when you want so badly to help things, but know that the most powerful form of education you have received has come from within you. from your own self reflections. your own manipulation of what has been shown to you. because everything that has been shown to you has been incorrect. or at least you have benefitted from seeing it that way. its the wrong content. the wrong medium, the wrong audience, an incorrect assumption, or something left untouched, or that higher level of self critique. Something is always lacking.
and so to accept the lacking of my own bits. to see the flaws so glaring. so there, and present and true. to see them and to declare them. because you think they must be declared. almost more important than the content is the self exposure. the awareness.
it doesn't matter what i do as long as i am aware of it.
because the awareness is so profound it is an end in itself, or you think it could be, if you could just find a way to take it there. But you cannot, because as far as you can take it. as far as you can lead, if you can show someone the way, they can take that next step... and betray the whole process. and its retched and bad, and bleak.
and so to accept the lacking of my own bits. to see the flaws so glaring. so there, and present and true. to see them and to declare them. because you think they must be declared. almost more important than the content is the self exposure. the awareness.
it doesn't matter what i do as long as i am aware of it.
because the awareness is so profound it is an end in itself, or you think it could be, if you could just find a way to take it there. But you cannot, because as far as you can take it. as far as you can lead, if you can show someone the way, they can take that next step... and betray the whole process. and its retched and bad, and bleak.
Friday, October 26, 2007
RANCID
we're just normal and distant persons to people.
coming from somewhere, but its not important. people are slapped, or secure, and the only approach worth batting is to bash those fat faces in.
Raw, and it hurts so bad, they'll love you.
Because, they live off of pain. The more pain, they can triumph the small obstacles, and smile as they clear the hurdle.
ah fresh ballet,
down as i clear it, all the while knowing i am only ten humans, and 20 of them could lick me no problem. Although when you are one, or a few, you really get the lights and lightning.
and keep it's electronic force.
Because you can concentrate, and twist others.
like a firm grip; its good, and true.
and pathetically, i am pleased.
coming from somewhere, but its not important. people are slapped, or secure, and the only approach worth batting is to bash those fat faces in.
Raw, and it hurts so bad, they'll love you.
Because, they live off of pain. The more pain, they can triumph the small obstacles, and smile as they clear the hurdle.
ah fresh ballet,
down as i clear it, all the while knowing i am only ten humans, and 20 of them could lick me no problem. Although when you are one, or a few, you really get the lights and lightning.
and keep it's electronic force.
Because you can concentrate, and twist others.
like a firm grip; its good, and true.
and pathetically, i am pleased.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Outside Myself?
Whats crackin yo.
IT was around a quarter past midnight on a brisk Tuesday in the homely college town of Lund, Sweden. Andrew Coles, world renowned cyklist, self-described Huguenot, and one hell of a model american, sat at his desk contemplating the activities of the night. Having recently imbibed the gaseous emittance of a gently lit hash pipe, his mood was relaxed and somber, focusing on the lighter sides of life and the inanity of the modern world. Sweden, a world of wonder and delight, where beautiful women, intriguing bike rides, disastrous deity's, incredible kebabs, and beautiful women stalked the landscape. To live and learn in the audacity of its modern everyday life became his desire, a trance like stalking through the jungles of introspection and wild tomfoolery. As his thoughts digressed, they stumbled fondly into his past, recollecting the trials and tribulations of years long past and TBT's long forgotten. An old acquaintance emerged from the fog and haze, accompanied by the obscure presence of an older, glasses laden lass with the odd desire of filing books in dark and dreary libraries of the world. They called him Charlie "Wild Cat" Jones, and oh what a tale he wove. As Andrew chuckled silently to himself at the triteness of it all, questions loomed into his forlorn thoughts. How was his dear friend Gregor? Was life with Wild Cat an adventure in selflessness or a journey through companionship? Was the Wood still as West as it had been months past? And were TBT's being properly dispersed throughout the fulfilment of his life duties? But alas, these questions would live unanswered, laying dormant, 7347 kilometers away across the ocean, leaving Andrew the lone hope that sometime, someday, his thoughts could be transcribed via some electronic means.
ANNNNNDDDDDDDDD Scene.
IT was around a quarter past midnight on a brisk Tuesday in the homely college town of Lund, Sweden. Andrew Coles, world renowned cyklist, self-described Huguenot, and one hell of a model american, sat at his desk contemplating the activities of the night. Having recently imbibed the gaseous emittance of a gently lit hash pipe, his mood was relaxed and somber, focusing on the lighter sides of life and the inanity of the modern world. Sweden, a world of wonder and delight, where beautiful women, intriguing bike rides, disastrous deity's, incredible kebabs, and beautiful women stalked the landscape. To live and learn in the audacity of its modern everyday life became his desire, a trance like stalking through the jungles of introspection and wild tomfoolery. As his thoughts digressed, they stumbled fondly into his past, recollecting the trials and tribulations of years long past and TBT's long forgotten. An old acquaintance emerged from the fog and haze, accompanied by the obscure presence of an older, glasses laden lass with the odd desire of filing books in dark and dreary libraries of the world. They called him Charlie "Wild Cat" Jones, and oh what a tale he wove. As Andrew chuckled silently to himself at the triteness of it all, questions loomed into his forlorn thoughts. How was his dear friend Gregor? Was life with Wild Cat an adventure in selflessness or a journey through companionship? Was the Wood still as West as it had been months past? And were TBT's being properly dispersed throughout the fulfilment of his life duties? But alas, these questions would live unanswered, laying dormant, 7347 kilometers away across the ocean, leaving Andrew the lone hope that sometime, someday, his thoughts could be transcribed via some electronic means.
ANNNNNDDDDDDDDD Scene.
Sleep
but the paper writing is going. and i am definitely very intelligent.
i have a candle lit.
and the screen, this tiny little box sorta thing. it looks quite nice. i haven't turned it off for days. it downloads, and works while i sleep.
they will be able to do anything.
either a peaceful world or complete destruction.
by our own hands,
mine and yours,
spoon feeding the primitive ones.
fucking animals
i have a candle lit.
and the screen, this tiny little box sorta thing. it looks quite nice. i haven't turned it off for days. it downloads, and works while i sleep.
they will be able to do anything.
either a peaceful world or complete destruction.
by our own hands,
mine and yours,
spoon feeding the primitive ones.
fucking animals
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
some nights
post to be accompanied by this recording:
and some nights alone in your apartment,
you begin to draw.
and you use black pen on white paper.
or sometimes pencil.
and when you draw lines, you watch them appear.
Flowing out of the tip of your black ballpoint pen.
and the lines make you happy.
because they are smooth, and you have control, and the contrast is high.
and you can go for hours without looking up.
and this is the only thing you've ever done which engages you in this way.
and you are alone, and the lights are turned up,
so they illuminate the room.
and the window curtains are drawn wide open.
and you are in front of the window.
and it's a saturday night.
and you could be doing so many other different things.
But you watch the black lines flow.
and the lines make you happy.
so you dont feel the need to do anything else.
and you can either go slow or fast. or somewhere in the middle.
or sometimes you close your eyes and scribble.
and you can feel the lines through the vibrations of the pen in your hands
and you can see them all around your head.
and you know they are there.
blazing on the clean white sheet of large paper.
and your see other things besides the lines.
people's faces.
strangers and friends, lovers and family. conveying attitudes.
warm smiles, and looks of foxy distrust.
and words come, as if said by these faces.
or from your own lips.
And the words are fragmented, and conveying senseless connective meanings.
Describing acts, or abstract scenery.
and you get focused in on one sound, or a wave of light piercing your eyelids.
which are still pulled down.
and you could have been imagining for minutes. or it could have been a blink,
but the lines are still flowing.
and you are still holding the pen.
And when you are ready, you can pick up a new tool.
and make color.
you have blue and red,
and light turquoise-blue and orange.
and you might make new overlapping lines.
or you may fill in spaces between the black.
and you thought you liked to use black,
and you did, but now you are making color.
and the layers start to come out.
and as time passes,
you are content and warm.
then at some point, your phone might ring,
or you might put on a music recording.
or you might get hungry, and make spinach,
or rice.
and your night might end. because it is late.
and you know if you go to sleep, you can wake up in the morning when the sun is out.
and you can go for a ride into town.
or take a train to the coast.
and you smile at the possibility,
and this human experience is good.
you can download the recording by right-clicking here and saving the linked file.
and some nights alone in your apartment,
you begin to draw.
and you use black pen on white paper.
or sometimes pencil.
and when you draw lines, you watch them appear.
Flowing out of the tip of your black ballpoint pen.
and the lines make you happy.
because they are smooth, and you have control, and the contrast is high.
and you can go for hours without looking up.
and this is the only thing you've ever done which engages you in this way.
and you are alone, and the lights are turned up,
so they illuminate the room.
and the window curtains are drawn wide open.
and you are in front of the window.
and it's a saturday night.
and you could be doing so many other different things.
But you watch the black lines flow.
and the lines make you happy.
so you dont feel the need to do anything else.
and you can either go slow or fast. or somewhere in the middle.
or sometimes you close your eyes and scribble.
and you can feel the lines through the vibrations of the pen in your hands
and you can see them all around your head.
and you know they are there.
blazing on the clean white sheet of large paper.
and your see other things besides the lines.
people's faces.
strangers and friends, lovers and family. conveying attitudes.
warm smiles, and looks of foxy distrust.
and words come, as if said by these faces.
or from your own lips.
And the words are fragmented, and conveying senseless connective meanings.
Describing acts, or abstract scenery.
and you get focused in on one sound, or a wave of light piercing your eyelids.
which are still pulled down.
and you could have been imagining for minutes. or it could have been a blink,
but the lines are still flowing.
and you are still holding the pen.
And when you are ready, you can pick up a new tool.
and make color.
you have blue and red,
and light turquoise-blue and orange.
and you might make new overlapping lines.
or you may fill in spaces between the black.
and you thought you liked to use black,
and you did, but now you are making color.
and the layers start to come out.
and as time passes,
you are content and warm.
then at some point, your phone might ring,
or you might put on a music recording.
or you might get hungry, and make spinach,
or rice.
and your night might end. because it is late.
and you know if you go to sleep, you can wake up in the morning when the sun is out.
and you can go for a ride into town.
or take a train to the coast.
and you smile at the possibility,
and this human experience is good.
you can download the recording by right-clicking here and saving the linked file.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Always inAction?
Losers are everywhere. Why would you expect them to be anywhere else?
In a nonlinear timeframe I will have responded before you.
Expatriotism is not created by absence, but rather from presence of thought or ideas.
So what are we here? Apparently losers.
but that is all in the Eye of the beholder.
Magic now calls to me with its visual discourse.
Can you really say more with less?
I guess not.
its just how you perceive it.
In a nonlinear timeframe I will have responded before you.
Expatriotism is not created by absence, but rather from presence of thought or ideas.
So what are we here? Apparently losers.
but that is all in the Eye of the beholder.
Magic now calls to me with its visual discourse.
Can you really say more with less?
I guess not.
its just how you perceive it.
Was it?
and keeping myself from thinking one thing, while talking thought and walking away only to bed in unfamiliar places.
in the center of town, with a woman who speaks some other language, with a strange woman, and i;m touching her crotch, with women whispering in my ears, steady to argue in whispers, and whispering play into their naked bodies, which are around me close.
put soft you here.
put soft wounds, you herald.
heresy, i thought was nothing more.
and the woman i had, again, in the middle of the road. on the freeway, as cars passed through our bodies. because the pleasure had made our souls so large that they began to lack any tangible density.
or was that death?
so long ago?
death as i lay naked in the road, with some woman i had only met.
seconds ago, as our cars collided. and our bodies faint only to remember the look of her eyes as we matched stares. dying and screaming for mercy. moaning as i understood such full bodied desire. i could hear it in the rain as i flew through the windshield.
but the stare held me like it did so violently wicked, as we caressed pavement and bare skin. Her warmth met my solid body and we gasped in ecstasy, or were they pills of death?
in my hands and hair, the warmth of headlamps, and cigarettes exploding as sparking hail, as if this were the bible in egyptian desert, and the drivers are gods, dropping heavenly plagues in return for this sinful adultery.
oh! what fore this sin? was there anything else? surely lies have been around since the birth of woman and man.
deceptive games of give and take as the sun rises to the street.
It meets us, our bodies still, thrusts of compulsion and voiding presence.
moments are enveloping and underlapping.
this sex is a life before, but life someone else, my time is only here with hours and minutes, or was it death?
as fingers explore deep landscape; i can feel her body reacting, or was it him, or death like me, and my blood dripping lifted stretcher or coffin?
in the center of town, with a woman who speaks some other language, with a strange woman, and i;m touching her crotch, with women whispering in my ears, steady to argue in whispers, and whispering play into their naked bodies, which are around me close.
put soft you here.
put soft wounds, you herald.
heresy, i thought was nothing more.
and the woman i had, again, in the middle of the road. on the freeway, as cars passed through our bodies. because the pleasure had made our souls so large that they began to lack any tangible density.
or was that death?
so long ago?
death as i lay naked in the road, with some woman i had only met.
seconds ago, as our cars collided. and our bodies faint only to remember the look of her eyes as we matched stares. dying and screaming for mercy. moaning as i understood such full bodied desire. i could hear it in the rain as i flew through the windshield.
but the stare held me like it did so violently wicked, as we caressed pavement and bare skin. Her warmth met my solid body and we gasped in ecstasy, or were they pills of death?
in my hands and hair, the warmth of headlamps, and cigarettes exploding as sparking hail, as if this were the bible in egyptian desert, and the drivers are gods, dropping heavenly plagues in return for this sinful adultery.
oh! what fore this sin? was there anything else? surely lies have been around since the birth of woman and man.
deceptive games of give and take as the sun rises to the street.
It meets us, our bodies still, thrusts of compulsion and voiding presence.
moments are enveloping and underlapping.
this sex is a life before, but life someone else, my time is only here with hours and minutes, or was it death?
as fingers explore deep landscape; i can feel her body reacting, or was it him, or death like me, and my blood dripping lifted stretcher or coffin?
shit morning
not in good.
the day is bright with clouds. but lay around and let the day pass.
Have you heard of the 'strong, silent type'...?
I started thinking about it. And then hit a wall, too much to think. to think about myself.
i ate a grapefruit this morning. eggs, red onions, potatoes, three cups of coffee. late night run last night with unknown sloser. and kitchen talk
the weekend just killed me.
mission success friday and my body feels it.
the day is bright with clouds. but lay around and let the day pass.
Have you heard of the 'strong, silent type'...?
I started thinking about it. And then hit a wall, too much to think. to think about myself.
i ate a grapefruit this morning. eggs, red onions, potatoes, three cups of coffee. late night run last night with unknown sloser. and kitchen talk
the weekend just killed me.
mission success friday and my body feels it.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
travel
travel, i thought i understood, that i remembered what it is like, but i realized when i got here that i did not. the important thing is not to care about where you are, about where you are going. just to move around and see. or stay in one place and see. the important thing is that you are in a different sort of surrounding. and new thoughts come. as they must.
because so much of what i learn, is that so much of what we think is defined by our immediate environment.
sure our past plays a role. that is surely part of our environment... our past is a collection of environments/situations/ contexts..... and we have some sort of memory capacity which comes because some of our neurons have this nice tendency to form stronger connections where connections happen more often. so our past environments are with us. and affect the way our brain experiences new environments.
however, the neural lattice still gets a bit fucked up when it find new input it has not dealt with before, and it must adapt,
and we want it to get fucked up.
travel is a good way to mind fuck yourself. because it's easy. you just go to other places. and it happens naturally.
so just go. and thats enough.
because so much of what i learn, is that so much of what we think is defined by our immediate environment.
sure our past plays a role. that is surely part of our environment... our past is a collection of environments/situations/ contexts..... and we have some sort of memory capacity which comes because some of our neurons have this nice tendency to form stronger connections where connections happen more often. so our past environments are with us. and affect the way our brain experiences new environments.
however, the neural lattice still gets a bit fucked up when it find new input it has not dealt with before, and it must adapt,
and we want it to get fucked up.
travel is a good way to mind fuck yourself. because it's easy. you just go to other places. and it happens naturally.
so just go. and thats enough.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Writing
There is an aspect of life that can never be accurately captured in writing, nor in any other medium for that matter. such an aspect is Human. Human does not take place during writing, because when one is engaged in this tiresome act, one is never Human. This is sad, but good and true. When one writes, one is barely alive, like a fragmented word call idea, it is tedious and naughty.
i am here:
alone
i am here:
alone
Thursday, October 18, 2007
i love you
so disgusting
and sad
When you say everything matters
can't you see
that nothing matters too?
can't you?
isn't it...easy?
isn't it?
oh sweden
oh fuck
You!
a kind of exchange on issues
i mean obviously my initial impulse is gonna be to get you to trust me because i want you to believe the things i say or realize certain things that i want you to realize which is gonna come down to trust in some fashion but im thinking that maybe trust is not such an important thing and you just verified this on the phone but it was a sort of nothing really matters response which is totally fine cus obviously im down with that and it always makes me happy when we can communicate in that sort of manner cus usually people dont get that aspect of life and its too exhausting of a thing to have to explain mostly i think because you cant explain it at all you just have to live it and experience it and than you just understand that that aspect exists even though its hard or perhaps impossible to actually LIVE it but nevertheless we are able to add that dimension to our communication which i feel gives us an automatic bonus level up one in our existence like when mario eats the mushrooms to grow bigger and stronger in the game and once he eats one mushroom he gets to one size and even if he eats more he cant get any bigger even though you want him to reallllllly really bad so that you can protect against future forces of evil but it just doesnt happen that way and at some point you get hit and you shrink back to this little child which is the same as all of us going back and forth between adulthood and childhood and even tho were older we think like children sometimes which is probably one of the better things that canhappen to us JESUS i feel like im thinking in the best possible way right now and all the crazy billions of paths and sequences in life that usually seem so overwhelming and daunting just come together and click at any point that i stumble across and EVERYTHING makes SENSE although i know at the same time that it doesnt but i think this is actually different than sense its more like understanding the sense and the nonsense because seeing the patterns and all that doesn't necessarily mean that they make sense OK enough of this back to trust briefly before i go i want to make clear that im unsure about the importance of trust because really you can only trust to a certain extent and i think that it is completely instinctual or subconscious so it is never something we should really think about and if we do were only gonna second guess which probably happens to us more than it should but regardless our guts are gonna pull and squeeze to whatever extent they need to to make their point and were just gonna be little slaves EVEN if our minds try to tell us something different BUT at the same time it seems that the questioning that goes on is the only thing that pushes us further and makes us stronger because how fuckin difficult it is to go AGAINST that trust or that instinct or whatever it is to CONSCIOUSLY go against it and do battle it is what pushes us beyond the beyond beyond
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE FOLLOWING IS NOT THIS SLOSER----------------Rather, it is AnOTHER
--------------------
we commit to a life of chaos with no time to slow down, just going very fast and things happening, and letting the madness take hold.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE FOLLOWING IS NOT THIS SLOSER----------------Rather, it is AnOTHER
--------------------
we commit to a life of chaos with no time to slow down, just going very fast and things happening, and letting the madness take hold.
but at the same time we talk of concrete things we want to do.
these things take time, effort, and specialization to some degree, and new understandings of the madness.
i have done some mad living and rejected lots of people who focus. but i feel that i have not seen the other side. and so for a time, i must explore the madness of concentration. and for it to truly be madness i cannot compromise, and i must go at it wholeheartedly.
it is certainly a different form of madness from what i have seen...
there is little peace in what i have found.
i am just compelled by different frameworks.
also, there is a difference in how we see our time here.
i really dont see it as that special. its just time, its just whats happening, and its just now. life has always been special and transient. and i always want things to last forever, which means its always sort of continuously happening well, and there is no room for time in which things will be any less how they were.
i will always be in sweden. i will always be surrounded by the most fascinating people who are ripe for mind fucking.
these things are all continuous.
people walking around like they have things to experience and take advantage of is sickening.
its the continuous sort of trip.
and it never ends.
even death is not an ending, because we never perceive ourself dying.
just like we never perceive ourself falling asleep.
you might not wake up tomorrow.
but you'll never know the difference.
you might not wake up tomorrow.
but you'll never wake up.
a night in denmark i sorta remember
It's as much as if, say, we were there that night.
Or I mean, I was.
And Copenhagen was rusty and swarming. Leaving at 12am after getting rejected from a club because 'YOU LOOK LIKE YOU ARE ON DRUGS. YOUR EYES!' If only. I pulled the big dude aside and explained smoothly/sloppily that "I have done a lot of drugs. this is not one of those times." And then all the sudden we were on the train. One hour ride. Up and down the aisles asking for beer. Copenhagen. The arrival was a quick To A Bar with tequila shots and drinking contests. Then off to the streets to roam. I jumped on a big elephant statue outside a museum next to one of the big, wide roads and yelled while my picture was taken. At some point I will find that picture. I must've looked a fool. Which is so nice sometimes. The city was bursting. 2am explosions. The night was clear-cut, cold, but burning with curiosity and we made our way through a long park pathway up a little hill, lots of green and alongside a river near the bridge, onto the 'otherside' - Christianiahaven. This is where Christiania is. Where I knew I would come when my mind caught a scent of Denmark. It's the hash mostly, the liberation, the darkness and playful flirt with imagined danger. Two people sat outside the commune, one man with a beer and a bloody hand. "A dog bit me in there." But they were happy and we walked in, me in my leather jacket with a cigarette blowing smoke, hanging on my bottom lip. I heard Lennon blasting in the distance - "Cold Turkey." That rawness dripping through the place. We walked up into a club, a little hesitant, but it turned out to be... Electronic music, good beats, good thoughts. Leaned on the bar and finished my cigarette, crushing it on some ash tray. But I had no Danish money. So we left. Without Danish money I could not get what I wanted. You need money to get what you want. I walked to a long table outside, we passed the area where everything was usually sold, where the big bins full of fire tell you where you can get what you want. At the table sat three Swedish guys. They were smoking. I asked if we could have some. They said yes. They asked where I was from. I told them. And they went crazy and told me to smoke as much as I wanted and on and on about all this great getting high business and whatever, whatever, whatever. I was just smoking hard and letting it sit in my lungs. It had been weeks. All the sudden that whole feeling covered me up, slid down my eyes, and knocked me back. My shoulders rolled, i became water-like and leaned against this pole and talked to this Swedish dude in French. I remember thinking, fuck, i didn't know i knew this much French. We must've talked for 10 or 15 minutes. about 5 minutes. But, it was good. We understood each other. I also remember saying something that shut everyone up, that shot negativity through each body. And I stood there, a little tense, and then decided that I couldn't just sit and think about these things, that I must do things and act. So, I said, let's go, and we left, saying thank you with genuine sincerity. I was blown away. I couldn't believe i was here. We walked, goodbye Lennon, through the streets into another bar.
Or I mean, I was.
And Copenhagen was rusty and swarming. Leaving at 12am after getting rejected from a club because 'YOU LOOK LIKE YOU ARE ON DRUGS. YOUR EYES!' If only. I pulled the big dude aside and explained smoothly/sloppily that "I have done a lot of drugs. this is not one of those times." And then all the sudden we were on the train. One hour ride. Up and down the aisles asking for beer. Copenhagen. The arrival was a quick To A Bar with tequila shots and drinking contests. Then off to the streets to roam. I jumped on a big elephant statue outside a museum next to one of the big, wide roads and yelled while my picture was taken. At some point I will find that picture. I must've looked a fool. Which is so nice sometimes. The city was bursting. 2am explosions. The night was clear-cut, cold, but burning with curiosity and we made our way through a long park pathway up a little hill, lots of green and alongside a river near the bridge, onto the 'otherside' - Christianiahaven. This is where Christiania is. Where I knew I would come when my mind caught a scent of Denmark. It's the hash mostly, the liberation, the darkness and playful flirt with imagined danger. Two people sat outside the commune, one man with a beer and a bloody hand. "A dog bit me in there." But they were happy and we walked in, me in my leather jacket with a cigarette blowing smoke, hanging on my bottom lip. I heard Lennon blasting in the distance - "Cold Turkey." That rawness dripping through the place. We walked up into a club, a little hesitant, but it turned out to be... Electronic music, good beats, good thoughts. Leaned on the bar and finished my cigarette, crushing it on some ash tray. But I had no Danish money. So we left. Without Danish money I could not get what I wanted. You need money to get what you want. I walked to a long table outside, we passed the area where everything was usually sold, where the big bins full of fire tell you where you can get what you want. At the table sat three Swedish guys. They were smoking. I asked if we could have some. They said yes. They asked where I was from. I told them. And they went crazy and told me to smoke as much as I wanted and on and on about all this great getting high business and whatever, whatever, whatever. I was just smoking hard and letting it sit in my lungs. It had been weeks. All the sudden that whole feeling covered me up, slid down my eyes, and knocked me back. My shoulders rolled, i became water-like and leaned against this pole and talked to this Swedish dude in French. I remember thinking, fuck, i didn't know i knew this much French. We must've talked for 10 or 15 minutes. about 5 minutes. But, it was good. We understood each other. I also remember saying something that shut everyone up, that shot negativity through each body. And I stood there, a little tense, and then decided that I couldn't just sit and think about these things, that I must do things and act. So, I said, let's go, and we left, saying thank you with genuine sincerity. I was blown away. I couldn't believe i was here. We walked, goodbye Lennon, through the streets into another bar.
22
such
~~~when green titles.
{end]
ten_fight. to dutcth
mingling from, eastern
hasting, to make dutch
end=22
*}[i]
dusty masterpiece candles
I'm troubled. The sort of way that a candle drips, melting wax, covered and reaching. The way it dances. The way a burn nearly chokes freedom, throwing it to the ground.
This is it, simply - right now (and yes, I can't speak for later. But, all of you with your hope and dream world bullshit, drown your heads) I just want.
I sat at the long wooden table, bare besides my elbows and my tired body sprawling. A glass of red wine. On the couch sat my mate sipping the wine I poured. And in between she sat on the arm rest, all smiles. She said she sleeps on her tummy and that she has sinus issues. I gulped my wine and grabbed two beers. I set one on the table in front of my mate. My back was turned to her. I felt her eyes. She watched me drink my beer. No satisfaction. This is the trouble.
There are times when it pulls and she's there for you. But the physical is gone and the only way to cope is to drown. So, you drink. You smoke. You just cover it all up. I honestly don't know where the root lies. And why this is a means of handling the situation. Perhaps it is a sign, a scream of pain. An "i want you" and "I'm lonely."...because I am. And there are lots of women. I know this. But for everyone it always comes down to simplicity. Not wanting to deal with it. The tiresome escapades. The wandering nights, lost and alive with the nearly unbearable. So quiet too. Just alone. Nothing needs to be said.
I can remember where i sat when I wrote a poem. And that it was not about 'her'...But, i know this is a mistake now. because it is about her.
The writing is not your own, one must understand. Foolish.
you fool.
I think that, my time is limited here ("here") so I want to talk with you and pull the hair from your eyes, and she smiled yesterday at the refrigerator when I thought that just now.
it is so quiet and lonely to think this way. I wonder if I love it more than anything else. just wanting more.
I love it.
i can make her into such a fucking masterpiece.
This is it, simply - right now (and yes, I can't speak for later. But, all of you with your hope and dream world bullshit, drown your heads) I just want.
I sat at the long wooden table, bare besides my elbows and my tired body sprawling. A glass of red wine. On the couch sat my mate sipping the wine I poured. And in between she sat on the arm rest, all smiles. She said she sleeps on her tummy and that she has sinus issues. I gulped my wine and grabbed two beers. I set one on the table in front of my mate. My back was turned to her. I felt her eyes. She watched me drink my beer. No satisfaction. This is the trouble.
There are times when it pulls and she's there for you. But the physical is gone and the only way to cope is to drown. So, you drink. You smoke. You just cover it all up. I honestly don't know where the root lies. And why this is a means of handling the situation. Perhaps it is a sign, a scream of pain. An "i want you" and "I'm lonely."...because I am. And there are lots of women. I know this. But for everyone it always comes down to simplicity. Not wanting to deal with it. The tiresome escapades. The wandering nights, lost and alive with the nearly unbearable. So quiet too. Just alone. Nothing needs to be said.
I can remember where i sat when I wrote a poem. And that it was not about 'her'...But, i know this is a mistake now. because it is about her.
The writing is not your own, one must understand. Foolish.
you fool.
I think that, my time is limited here ("here") so I want to talk with you and pull the hair from your eyes, and she smiled yesterday at the refrigerator when I thought that just now.
it is so quiet and lonely to think this way. I wonder if I love it more than anything else. just wanting more.
I love it.
i can make her into such a fucking masterpiece.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Fire
I do take speed, i do take speed, you know? I take it at night and it makes my heart beat fast. and though i just showered and it is cool, i begin to sweat. and i;m close to my computer, working on a program that will unite the world.
It smells in here, and i need food. or nourishment. it's the vegetables. I load them up at this time. They tell me five servings in a day; I take five in a sitting and call it a night. And those carrots which help me to survive, and they tell me the vitamins orange inside will help me to see, meaning i can spend another night in front of the computer machine, uniting the world.
I take a walk outside to take out the trash. it's the second time i have left the apartment today, and the air feels nice. I am wearing my rainbows which are a throwback to the damn california culture. Such trends are leather thongs. and that little tag with a rainbow picture can bring such joy to so many. Can an innovation like this be harvested elsewhere, perhaps in Bangladesh?
Steady now as i make my way upstairs where those vegetables are steaming. These thongs; they are like using my feet to carry the floor with me, so i always have it right where i need it; every time. It's good. though they make a flapping noise on the stairs. because i am hurrying.
I caught fright for a moment. I pictured fire in my room, smoke billowing as i open the door. Stove left on. and its true as i open the door, the flames are small, i throw my jacket over them, and grab my computer as the fire alarm sounds. I need this, more than anything i need this.
I need this because it will unite the world. and that is good. and nothing else will do.
here is some guy in california who decided to make the above into something a bit different... you can download the song by right-clickinghereand saving the linked file.
It smells in here, and i need food. or nourishment. it's the vegetables. I load them up at this time. They tell me five servings in a day; I take five in a sitting and call it a night. And those carrots which help me to survive, and they tell me the vitamins orange inside will help me to see, meaning i can spend another night in front of the computer machine, uniting the world.
I take a walk outside to take out the trash. it's the second time i have left the apartment today, and the air feels nice. I am wearing my rainbows which are a throwback to the damn california culture. Such trends are leather thongs. and that little tag with a rainbow picture can bring such joy to so many. Can an innovation like this be harvested elsewhere, perhaps in Bangladesh?
Steady now as i make my way upstairs where those vegetables are steaming. These thongs; they are like using my feet to carry the floor with me, so i always have it right where i need it; every time. It's good. though they make a flapping noise on the stairs. because i am hurrying.
I caught fright for a moment. I pictured fire in my room, smoke billowing as i open the door. Stove left on. and its true as i open the door, the flames are small, i throw my jacket over them, and grab my computer as the fire alarm sounds. I need this, more than anything i need this.
I need this because it will unite the world. and that is good. and nothing else will do.
here is some guy in california who decided to make the above into something a bit different... you can download the song by right-clickinghereand saving the linked file.
rainy night
in the morning at midnight i stay quiet because noise is on my window like paint.
some sexed princess with bangs tiptoes in my room. I love it when she's there.
I eat peanut butter and dream in electric blue.
rain drops.
I quite quietly wash my dish and drink more water. I drink lots of water to keep balance.
I think in secrets and it is very dangerous. and I cannot stop listening. i can't
i can't stop listening.
i want to roll.
i want to be water.
i want fluid
i want sex
i want i want.
all of this to fall through my sand hands. But it is nothing. it isn't even happening. can't you see that?
can't you breathe in that kind of world? nothing is here. I just kept thinking rotten thoughts, handing over the reigns.
this is a new song i'm writing. and when i finish, i will be close to being done
not just for sweden, but for the princess tiptoe walker who haunts me on rainy nights. and smiles wicked smiles.
some sexed princess with bangs tiptoes in my room. I love it when she's there.
I eat peanut butter and dream in electric blue.
rain drops.
I quite quietly wash my dish and drink more water. I drink lots of water to keep balance.
I think in secrets and it is very dangerous. and I cannot stop listening. i can't
i can't stop listening.
i want to roll.
i want to be water.
i want fluid
i want sex
i want i want.
all of this to fall through my sand hands. But it is nothing. it isn't even happening. can't you see that?
can't you breathe in that kind of world? nothing is here. I just kept thinking rotten thoughts, handing over the reigns.
this is a new song i'm writing. and when i finish, i will be close to being done
not just for sweden, but for the princess tiptoe walker who haunts me on rainy nights. and smiles wicked smiles.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Japan
Slosher: ; P-Barnum
that yellow one went to japan.
Slosher: ; P-Barnum
I do take speed, i do take speed:;'
transaction: slosher-
end
Going Out
You spend most of your time alone. but sometimes you go out when you can bear it. even if there are things you want to do, you would rather be left alone. Even if there are people you want to see, you would rather stay at home. it would be easier. because the torture you feel alone is not as bad; you are closer to things than you are when you are out with drink in hand and people at bay.
and that drunk torture, makes you look, and makes you think about getting them naked.
and you are alone in the bedroom of some young girl. She invited you in, which you believe means you have a chance with her. she showed some interest in you, and when you are this ugly its easier for you to understand. because they are ugly too, and such natural coalitions form easily; as the fat may bond with the lifeless.
and you smile at the ripped magazine clippings on the wall. taped together in the shape of a sailboat, but the proportions are far off. you smile because it makes you happy to see that people do these sort of things, and are not too ashamed to hide them. its funny, somehow, because you know that these things are so similar to what you make on your own, but their own understanding of their work is different. While they know its bad and protect themselves by doing everything not to be an artist, you know your work is terrible, but protect yourself by thinking you are getting better, and feel pride for knowing its bad.
you know that being good is not important, you are a hero because of how much time it will take.
and you turn around and the girl is there next to you. she smiles at your smile as you turn from her sailboat trash. You tell her you like it. and you do. though she could never guess at what you just told yourself. God, shes so far below you, and though this is false, it is true because you know how wrong you are, and she could never know how wrong she is.
Its a matter of depth, and you think things through an extra time before you let them pass as complete thoughts. though you know that there is infinite depth and a few make more no difference, again, you are happy to know that.
you validate yourself, as you touch her discolored scars, god it must be hard to be a woman. the way men think of you. and the way you try to account for it. and the way you get it all wrong, but think its important to try, so you can no longer be like a woman.
I want to sleep in this room tonight. to crawl beneath the sheets and curl up beside her warm body. I want to squeeze her body with mine, and for her to feel intense pleasure of psychology.
I turn back to her wall and ask her about the pictures taped to it.
She tells me things i don't hear. I think of her flat-mate who lives across the hall. my jacket is in her room, on her bed. If i sleep here for the night, she would know.
I look around the room again, but it is useless, this girl is uncalled for. she has no business living the life she does here in Scandinavia. She has no business in california, or having babies with a future man, and raising children in new england. I don't know her, and she doesn't deserve to breathe.
such thoughts come to replace my dignity, which has lost to ignorance, or was it fear? I do not sleep in this room tonight.
Back in the kitchen i finish off that carton of wine, and a girl from lithuania. and the way she talks i know not interested in me, but she could be. Its easier for us to pretend we are not wanted than to confront our self doubt.
I quickly jump back into the supremacist and wish i had stayed home, where i could cure my hunger quickly, wipe up with tissues, take speed and fulfill my destiny.
but these games are never won. I have never slept with a whore, i have never tasted come, never gone home with her, or sealed the deal or gotten a blow-job, never tasted pussy, never had my hair pulled, or finger-bang asshole tongue in mouth, cunt-licker titty-fucking pearl necklace, doggy-style virginal clit pink shocker sixty-nine, crotch-less brothels cocaine tits.
they feel good, and hurt hard when you finish. all of them.
when You get into the bedroom, and You lock the door, alone with another human, but i never am, and it hurts but we cant change it.
I am not alone, with a woman or man. I cannot be locked behind a door, something that has no gender, or sense of the meaning.
stigmata my mind; its good.
and that drunk torture, makes you look, and makes you think about getting them naked.
and you are alone in the bedroom of some young girl. She invited you in, which you believe means you have a chance with her. she showed some interest in you, and when you are this ugly its easier for you to understand. because they are ugly too, and such natural coalitions form easily; as the fat may bond with the lifeless.
and you smile at the ripped magazine clippings on the wall. taped together in the shape of a sailboat, but the proportions are far off. you smile because it makes you happy to see that people do these sort of things, and are not too ashamed to hide them. its funny, somehow, because you know that these things are so similar to what you make on your own, but their own understanding of their work is different. While they know its bad and protect themselves by doing everything not to be an artist, you know your work is terrible, but protect yourself by thinking you are getting better, and feel pride for knowing its bad.
you know that being good is not important, you are a hero because of how much time it will take.
and you turn around and the girl is there next to you. she smiles at your smile as you turn from her sailboat trash. You tell her you like it. and you do. though she could never guess at what you just told yourself. God, shes so far below you, and though this is false, it is true because you know how wrong you are, and she could never know how wrong she is.
Its a matter of depth, and you think things through an extra time before you let them pass as complete thoughts. though you know that there is infinite depth and a few make more no difference, again, you are happy to know that.
you validate yourself, as you touch her discolored scars, god it must be hard to be a woman. the way men think of you. and the way you try to account for it. and the way you get it all wrong, but think its important to try, so you can no longer be like a woman.
I want to sleep in this room tonight. to crawl beneath the sheets and curl up beside her warm body. I want to squeeze her body with mine, and for her to feel intense pleasure of psychology.
I turn back to her wall and ask her about the pictures taped to it.
She tells me things i don't hear. I think of her flat-mate who lives across the hall. my jacket is in her room, on her bed. If i sleep here for the night, she would know.
I look around the room again, but it is useless, this girl is uncalled for. she has no business living the life she does here in Scandinavia. She has no business in california, or having babies with a future man, and raising children in new england. I don't know her, and she doesn't deserve to breathe.
such thoughts come to replace my dignity, which has lost to ignorance, or was it fear? I do not sleep in this room tonight.
Back in the kitchen i finish off that carton of wine, and a girl from lithuania. and the way she talks i know not interested in me, but she could be. Its easier for us to pretend we are not wanted than to confront our self doubt.
I quickly jump back into the supremacist and wish i had stayed home, where i could cure my hunger quickly, wipe up with tissues, take speed and fulfill my destiny.
but these games are never won. I have never slept with a whore, i have never tasted come, never gone home with her, or sealed the deal or gotten a blow-job, never tasted pussy, never had my hair pulled, or finger-bang asshole tongue in mouth, cunt-licker titty-fucking pearl necklace, doggy-style virginal clit pink shocker sixty-nine, crotch-less brothels cocaine tits.
they feel good, and hurt hard when you finish. all of them.
when You get into the bedroom, and You lock the door, alone with another human, but i never am, and it hurts but we cant change it.
I am not alone, with a woman or man. I cannot be locked behind a door, something that has no gender, or sense of the meaning.
stigmata my mind; its good.
Duplais
she is whatever she wants to be.
she makes you feel good fast.
she mixes well with bubbles and big laughs.
Duplais.
she plays the game.
she tricks you with crossed smiles.
she licks desire
she is electrically sexed.
she plays the game. forever forever
I play cool cus i'm in this too.
Duplais has many faces.
color changes.
i met her at a bar and bought her a beer and she drank it and left me.
i see her in the kitchen everyday and just smile.
Duplais is Old Wanting. This time, too many.
She is there
go
ing rocky with
cradle eyes
desire pebbles and bubbling wavy things
on crash dummy wetsuit floaters
dancing on boards pointed
towards walker lands
away from swimmer, darkened territory
I'm bottled
Duplais is bottle.
"don't get any big ideas,
they're not gonna happen"
she makes you feel good fast.
she mixes well with bubbles and big laughs.
Duplais.
she plays the game.
she tricks you with crossed smiles.
she licks desire
she is electrically sexed.
she plays the game. forever forever
I play cool cus i'm in this too.
Duplais has many faces.
color changes.
i met her at a bar and bought her a beer and she drank it and left me.
i see her in the kitchen everyday and just smile.
Duplais is Old Wanting. This time, too many.
She is there
go
ing rocky with
cradle eyes
desire pebbles and bubbling wavy things
on crash dummy wetsuit floaters
dancing on boards pointed
towards walker lands
away from swimmer, darkened territory
I'm bottled
Duplais is bottle.
"don't get any big ideas,
they're not gonna happen"
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Biking Home From Class
i took this video coming home from class the other day to give the family a taste of daily life, which would be riding these parts in this sort of weather.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Monday, October 1, 2007
desire
i create fantasy worlds for us to play and touch one another. I wish you could join me.
i'm not too creative, The worlds aren't much different than ones we have experienced: your dorm room, my bedroom, your future apartment, familiar and comfortable places like these.
i wish you could join me, though in some way i know you do.
When i am with you we touch each other, and hold each other's bodies.
And i penetrate you. and there is lots of movement.
and we both moan in pleasure.
today, you were on top of me, your head was thrown back, and my eyes were closed.
then i opened my eyes and saw you, and it had been so long since i had seen you, and so long since we touched, and i grabbed you and pulled you down so our chests were together. and i could feel you.
and in this swedish world, I stopped touching myself. And kept you in my grasp held still.
for as long as i could imagine.
and thinking about it now makes me so heavy with desire.
and its real and tangible, but not.
and my breathing changes rhythm. and my eyes get watery.
and its real and tangible.
but i am alone.
or nearly so, because i can almost feel you breath.
i'm not too creative, The worlds aren't much different than ones we have experienced: your dorm room, my bedroom, your future apartment, familiar and comfortable places like these.
i wish you could join me, though in some way i know you do.
When i am with you we touch each other, and hold each other's bodies.
And i penetrate you. and there is lots of movement.
and we both moan in pleasure.
today, you were on top of me, your head was thrown back, and my eyes were closed.
then i opened my eyes and saw you, and it had been so long since i had seen you, and so long since we touched, and i grabbed you and pulled you down so our chests were together. and i could feel you.
and in this swedish world, I stopped touching myself. And kept you in my grasp held still.
for as long as i could imagine.
and thinking about it now makes me so heavy with desire.
and its real and tangible, but not.
and my breathing changes rhythm. and my eyes get watery.
and its real and tangible.
but i am alone.
or nearly so, because i can almost feel you breath.
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