He's back in the meat truck again.
The kids are trading hickeys
like baseball cards
I'm in a field
picking and chewing the seeds
from a sunflower's womb.
Wondering:
when are you back
when will I be next
and when the hell
are we
going to grow
up?
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
Dec. 6th, re: Nov. 28th
One year of delirious madness
cursing the name of woman kind
loving, forgiving, using and being used.
I found myself staring
at the shadow of last year's
broken ideals.
The same colours of shame and regret
but seeping in from other people.
I laugh it off like a word
repeated excessively.
It loses definition,
a gross bodilly function
and the simplest joke.
Finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger,
finger,
finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger.
cursing the name of woman kind
loving, forgiving, using and being used.
I found myself staring
at the shadow of last year's
broken ideals.
The same colours of shame and regret
but seeping in from other people.
I laugh it off like a word
repeated excessively.
It loses definition,
a gross bodilly function
and the simplest joke.
Finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger,
finger,
finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Mark's Birthday
It was 5am and I was walking around downtown looking for a place to sleep. The Park seemed nice. I saw a friend walking around high on acid with no way of getting home. We were both pretty indifferent.
We walked by a dumpster, there was a junkie digging there. He said, "I found God." I walked over to see what the fuss was about. He was sitting in a pile of rot, smelling like a dead cunt, staring at a moldy pizza crust. There were letters strewn around, from lovers far gone.
He said, "I found God."
There he was.
I rode a bus down sleep street until they started yelling at me to get off. I walked into a school and laid down. There was a hunk of green slime where my head was. "I found God."
I woke up and studied the vanity in human knowledge, tried to find him in some words carved by crumbling bones buried far away. I left feeling frustrated. "I found God."
I was walking through the quiet villages of scorn and pity and there in the bloodshot eyes of hate, "I found God". I went to a bar alone and talked lovely with a young bird who felt like she deserved too much, an older woman who was there looking for some money and attention with bad skin. There I saw Him again. I hugged the toilet with blood mixing into my tears and could clearly see the face of God, smiling and shining and shading on me.There was all black except for the fire in a single white-red point where I could feel the engine of like stoked by the endless burning of souls.
"I found God." He was the answer to the bad dreams we live through. All the violence, pain and shame. There he sits and feels you.
We walked by a dumpster, there was a junkie digging there. He said, "I found God." I walked over to see what the fuss was about. He was sitting in a pile of rot, smelling like a dead cunt, staring at a moldy pizza crust. There were letters strewn around, from lovers far gone.
He said, "I found God."
There he was.
I rode a bus down sleep street until they started yelling at me to get off. I walked into a school and laid down. There was a hunk of green slime where my head was. "I found God."
I woke up and studied the vanity in human knowledge, tried to find him in some words carved by crumbling bones buried far away. I left feeling frustrated. "I found God."
I was walking through the quiet villages of scorn and pity and there in the bloodshot eyes of hate, "I found God". I went to a bar alone and talked lovely with a young bird who felt like she deserved too much, an older woman who was there looking for some money and attention with bad skin. There I saw Him again. I hugged the toilet with blood mixing into my tears and could clearly see the face of God, smiling and shining and shading on me.There was all black except for the fire in a single white-red point where I could feel the engine of like stoked by the endless burning of souls.
"I found God." He was the answer to the bad dreams we live through. All the violence, pain and shame. There he sits and feels you.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
If thoughts were a thing that happened.
Feb 20th, 12:50 p.m.
I am laying in a pool of cold water, the sky is dark and I can feel warm stagnation lifting off my belly and creep endlessly into that great void between me. Next to me is the only thing I could ever count as a possession: a floating plank of cedar. Now, as sometimes happens, the wind comes and brings all the smells of life I know but can't remember: hard sweat, genitals, perfume, smoke, alcohol, library pages, and always the cedar. The wind makes the stagnation lift a little more off my belly, and sometimes I try and catch some of it back. I lift one arm and it gets a little cold. It feels different. I let little beads of my own vapour and wind saturated smells get caught on my vestigial hair. I let the smells soak in on my skin and then drop them onto the cedar. I can keep them longer like this before they fade away. On the luckiest days, comin' in on the tail end of short zephyrs are these little birds of light. You can almost touch these little sparks sometimes, but mostly you just try and squint and see what you can make of the shapes in those lines and feathers. They bring just enough warmth to quickly dry my skin, and the little beads of water I sometimes leave on the wood turns into saltstains. The cracks in the dead water beads resemble the birds. At least I think so 'cause when I look at the plank it's all I see: those smells and the birds in the passing shapes of life so far away, written out in my dim, salty cracks. So far, I am happy just like this. There are days, though, with no birds, and no wind; days where I just feel the immeasurable cold blackness underneath, and I find myself, in the slowest touch, sink.
I am laying in a pool of cold water, the sky is dark and I can feel warm stagnation lifting off my belly and creep endlessly into that great void between me. Next to me is the only thing I could ever count as a possession: a floating plank of cedar. Now, as sometimes happens, the wind comes and brings all the smells of life I know but can't remember: hard sweat, genitals, perfume, smoke, alcohol, library pages, and always the cedar. The wind makes the stagnation lift a little more off my belly, and sometimes I try and catch some of it back. I lift one arm and it gets a little cold. It feels different. I let little beads of my own vapour and wind saturated smells get caught on my vestigial hair. I let the smells soak in on my skin and then drop them onto the cedar. I can keep them longer like this before they fade away. On the luckiest days, comin' in on the tail end of short zephyrs are these little birds of light. You can almost touch these little sparks sometimes, but mostly you just try and squint and see what you can make of the shapes in those lines and feathers. They bring just enough warmth to quickly dry my skin, and the little beads of water I sometimes leave on the wood turns into saltstains. The cracks in the dead water beads resemble the birds. At least I think so 'cause when I look at the plank it's all I see: those smells and the birds in the passing shapes of life so far away, written out in my dim, salty cracks. So far, I am happy just like this. There are days, though, with no birds, and no wind; days where I just feel the immeasurable cold blackness underneath, and I find myself, in the slowest touch, sink.
This is what a thought looks like.
Half baked, still pink on the inside, hardly edible. A mess all over the plate. OTC Stimulated thoughts sold for $7 a bottle. Stolen, returned, with a few more tokens within than before. Unfocussed thoughts. Thoughts about nothing. About people looking at themselves too seriously or not seriously enough. About the status quo being entangled within itself, and always unbound too hesitantly. Bad philosophy thoughts. I don't want to feel like this anymore. Putting words out in a half a heartbeat skipped inflection about putting a part of my mind out to rest. Shut up. Shut up brain. Do what i Want you to, not what you want me to do. Stop distracting me. Stop and start again. To a hip hop beat. To the unending drum solo of reconciliation between the world in here and the world out there. To an impressive image of quarrels coming out only with winners. All the losers forgotten joyfully. All great things end themselves and with no help from the Gods. Temply chest wall pains. Overcognisized burns. Overstimulated meaningless drivel. On and on. Word vouch for painfull ness. I need fun but my connections are drying up. I won't be able to read this. I don't know where I am. I don't know if I'll ever care to read this. I'm on a road to destruction and it's only got one lane and i'm sharing it with everyone else while we watch some lucky ones on across the median going the other way. Or we look enviously back and see the young faces who can't see ahead. Dark weather forecasts, the weatherman's always wrong and he still gets paid day after day. There is more to life than this. We hope. When we can hear the dull roar of an infinite army of souls falling off and dying everywhere. There's gotta be more than this. As we sit and mix out drinks and share stories about nothing but what we saw on the road. Or else we'd be bored to tears and suicide. There's gotta be more than this. We write and we share books made by people far more careful and observant than us. There's gotta be more than this. And we get the best of help from world class educators whose only shame is not being able to standup to the youthful minds coming in to take their place. Not ours, but they know they're out there and so do we. There's gotta be more than this. Even now as i sit with my eyes closed hoping this all unfolds properly so I won't have to try again because I should only get one shot at and life works in ways that always lead us towards our unforgiven determinism. We are helpless and there's only us to blame. There's gotta be more than this. There is nothing now. Beyond these fingers and closed eyes and haze, there is nothing worth escaping from or to. I can feel the stagnant alcohol nerve connections holding me back. Yet pulling me forward. Spending weeks at a time doing nothing but sitting in cigarette smoke and having fun and knowing it's not enough. We go to bars and empty them with a few dollars moved and the world turns again and we grow up and people hate us where we used to sit because they looked at us the wrong way or we were too stupid to know what to say. There's gotta be more than this. We stop, just for a moment. To reflect on what's coming soon, coming ahead. We realize we don't see much, just hopes but we feel them fizzling out due to our irreparable irresponsibility and bad game. And the technological vices that help us ignore real life keep faltering or breaking down and we get disappointed at them and disappointed when they only entertain us so little. There's gotta be more than this. And we wash down the same pills of routine and here goes nothing again, knowing that slowly our little rivers of thought that we've neglected somewhere else far away have dried up. We lost the map to creativity, to youthful radiance somewhere a long time ago. There's gotta be more than this. We're crashing over and over and dying every night in our dreams. We think about death and everytime we do we get a little closer there ourselves, we get there everytime we breath, we drink water, we fuck, we dance, we scream at the world that it's too loud and it needs to shut up and you're the only one making any godamn noise and you can't stop. So you start yelling at the echoes you've created and you try to cancel them out and your whole fucking world starts to crack like crystal. It never really breaks because you're too goddamn scared to get your voice in that perfect opera tone cause the whole mystery of everything else always screws you over when you get closer to breaking through it. There's gotta be more than this. Interruptions over interruptions getting between you and some unknown ambitions. You don't know what the fuck you're doing so stop pretending. Stop putting out fruitless bullshit because it's only cramping your hands and those rivers drying up somewhere lost in the maps of childhood were probably just going to be the same anyway. You repeat: There's gotta be more than this. There's gotta be more than transitory success and shame and shame again and so much sadness and heartbreak that you even wonder why the hell they gave you these little gifts in the first place. There's gotta me more than this. And you find love: a woman and sex and the smooth, silky sin of a live snake crawling all over her neck. And it's never enough, and you find magic and think it'll break you free from all the bad spells some evil lord put on you years ago but that only lasts for a moment too. I get what's advertised but I don't get the product. There's gotta be more than this. There's gotta be more than this. Ther-
Half baked, still pink on the inside, hardly edible. A mess all over the plate. OTC Stimulated thoughts sold for $7 a bottle. Stolen, returned, with a few more tokens within than before. Unfocussed thoughts. Thoughts about nothing. About people looking at themselves too seriously or not seriously enough. About the status quo being entangled within itself, and always unbound too hesitantly. Bad philosophy thoughts. I don't want to feel like this anymore. Putting words out in a half a heartbeat skipped inflection about putting a part of my mind out to rest. Shut up. Shut up brain. Do what i Want you to, not what you want me to do. Stop distracting me. Stop and start again. To a hip hop beat. To the unending drum solo of reconciliation between the world in here and the world out there. To an impressive image of quarrels coming out only with winners. All the losers forgotten joyfully. All great things end themselves and with no help from the Gods. Temply chest wall pains. Overcognisized burns. Overstimulated meaningless drivel. On and on. Word vouch for painfull ness. I need fun but my connections are drying up. I won't be able to read this. I don't know where I am. I don't know if I'll ever care to read this. I'm on a road to destruction and it's only got one lane and i'm sharing it with everyone else while we watch some lucky ones on across the median going the other way. Or we look enviously back and see the young faces who can't see ahead. Dark weather forecasts, the weatherman's always wrong and he still gets paid day after day. There is more to life than this. We hope. When we can hear the dull roar of an infinite army of souls falling off and dying everywhere. There's gotta be more than this. As we sit and mix out drinks and share stories about nothing but what we saw on the road. Or else we'd be bored to tears and suicide. There's gotta be more than this. We write and we share books made by people far more careful and observant than us. There's gotta be more than this. And we get the best of help from world class educators whose only shame is not being able to standup to the youthful minds coming in to take their place. Not ours, but they know they're out there and so do we. There's gotta be more than this. Even now as i sit with my eyes closed hoping this all unfolds properly so I won't have to try again because I should only get one shot at and life works in ways that always lead us towards our unforgiven determinism. We are helpless and there's only us to blame. There's gotta be more than this. There is nothing now. Beyond these fingers and closed eyes and haze, there is nothing worth escaping from or to. I can feel the stagnant alcohol nerve connections holding me back. Yet pulling me forward. Spending weeks at a time doing nothing but sitting in cigarette smoke and having fun and knowing it's not enough. We go to bars and empty them with a few dollars moved and the world turns again and we grow up and people hate us where we used to sit because they looked at us the wrong way or we were too stupid to know what to say. There's gotta be more than this. We stop, just for a moment. To reflect on what's coming soon, coming ahead. We realize we don't see much, just hopes but we feel them fizzling out due to our irreparable irresponsibility and bad game. And the technological vices that help us ignore real life keep faltering or breaking down and we get disappointed at them and disappointed when they only entertain us so little. There's gotta be more than this. And we wash down the same pills of routine and here goes nothing again, knowing that slowly our little rivers of thought that we've neglected somewhere else far away have dried up. We lost the map to creativity, to youthful radiance somewhere a long time ago. There's gotta be more than this. We're crashing over and over and dying every night in our dreams. We think about death and everytime we do we get a little closer there ourselves, we get there everytime we breath, we drink water, we fuck, we dance, we scream at the world that it's too loud and it needs to shut up and you're the only one making any godamn noise and you can't stop. So you start yelling at the echoes you've created and you try to cancel them out and your whole fucking world starts to crack like crystal. It never really breaks because you're too goddamn scared to get your voice in that perfect opera tone cause the whole mystery of everything else always screws you over when you get closer to breaking through it. There's gotta be more than this. Interruptions over interruptions getting between you and some unknown ambitions. You don't know what the fuck you're doing so stop pretending. Stop putting out fruitless bullshit because it's only cramping your hands and those rivers drying up somewhere lost in the maps of childhood were probably just going to be the same anyway. You repeat: There's gotta be more than this. There's gotta be more than transitory success and shame and shame again and so much sadness and heartbreak that you even wonder why the hell they gave you these little gifts in the first place. There's gotta me more than this. And you find love: a woman and sex and the smooth, silky sin of a live snake crawling all over her neck. And it's never enough, and you find magic and think it'll break you free from all the bad spells some evil lord put on you years ago but that only lasts for a moment too. I get what's advertised but I don't get the product. There's gotta be more than this. There's gotta be more than this. Ther-
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Jan 6th, 9:49 am
I
Boarded the bus to Montreal @ 8:20, 20 minutes late. Hungry and tired with no sleep. Can't sleep. I want to make art out of life and daily living (Ken Kesey). My words are growling like my belly.
I am being driven down an endless stretch of ribbon which rips through repetitive, indescribable nature, unfolding in endless variations of God. There is no one on this road but us: the halflifes, the undeads, the sleeping saints motioning @ 100km/h through limbo. Waiting to thaw to life by the dawn of urban breath. Until then, sleep and ignore this track of life.
II
So I am left here, with the option to calm and clear and write to explore the deepest crevices of logic-cum-memory-cum-inspirations. Along endless scroll is set before. The road never ends and it never covers regretted mistakes. It only moves on leaving a thin trail of heat exhaust and rubber behind. Indiscernible beyond that left by every other. White, black, loud, sick cars, no differences. We are all encumbered by consciousness, all running here and there and sitting boredoms in between. We all murmur out our lives, loud or not, enjoyable or deafly.
Cursive is the lost art of endless road. And now in it I struggle for consistency, cohesion. If exaustion does not get the best of me I will continue, if my mortal state shall not need rest, I will fly it towards those who have no qualms with eternity. With love, on a bus, sharing two seats with inspiration: a travelling mathematician who is ready to flirt with you if you've worked hard enough on a humble temple for him to visit, to stay in.
Boarded the bus to Montreal @ 8:20, 20 minutes late. Hungry and tired with no sleep. Can't sleep. I want to make art out of life and daily living (Ken Kesey). My words are growling like my belly.
I am being driven down an endless stretch of ribbon which rips through repetitive, indescribable nature, unfolding in endless variations of God. There is no one on this road but us: the halflifes, the undeads, the sleeping saints motioning @ 100km/h through limbo. Waiting to thaw to life by the dawn of urban breath. Until then, sleep and ignore this track of life.
II
So I am left here, with the option to calm and clear and write to explore the deepest crevices of logic-cum-memory-cum-inspirations. Along endless scroll is set before. The road never ends and it never covers regretted mistakes. It only moves on leaving a thin trail of heat exhaust and rubber behind. Indiscernible beyond that left by every other. White, black, loud, sick cars, no differences. We are all encumbered by consciousness, all running here and there and sitting boredoms in between. We all murmur out our lives, loud or not, enjoyable or deafly.
Cursive is the lost art of endless road. And now in it I struggle for consistency, cohesion. If exaustion does not get the best of me I will continue, if my mortal state shall not need rest, I will fly it towards those who have no qualms with eternity. With love, on a bus, sharing two seats with inspiration: a travelling mathematician who is ready to flirt with you if you've worked hard enough on a humble temple for him to visit, to stay in.
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