Wednesday, June 11, 2008

a bunch of stuff for you dreamers.

ok ok ok ok i will update a little. here is some poems and the beginning to my short story i have been working on.


where did you go
to the sea i know
but that was just your bones
are you contented i wonder

bodies revealed.

chinese political prisoners
forever schlacked onto bicycle seats and tennis rackets.


we're all going to die four years after the bees
they will make us a dinosaur before we all lay down
you can't fight it
you can't win


i slept walked again last night
sleep awakened
I dreamt I walked into the ocean
collecting stones for my pockets along the way
eyes sweating with the sting of the spray
my mouth over zealously salvalting with
the intense sensation of revulsion
the impending feel of
asphyxiating blue enveloping me
I impart my sacrifice of salt
to the tide.

sick love.

Mind deceased by desecaration arm discarded by mutilation prevocation of a rebellious nature packaged up by exploitation.
Its a bad bad way but it's a long crawl up. Dirty rotten wasted youth spitting on your shoe looking for a kick down some shit to get er through filthy little animal scratching at your arms fever coursing through your veins eating at your heart. spreading wide and spitting lies making deals between your thighs your eyes are wide your eyes are hallow for another fix I'm sure you'd swallow. nameless corpse nameless prey another score another day, these are just the risks you're taking this is just your life you're hating. put the poison to your vein to put away your troubled brain. mind deceased by desecration arm discarded by mutilation prevocation of a rebellious nature packaged up by exploitation. It's a bad bad way but it's a long crawl up, sick love sick love I'll always be stuck.

realistic fiction.

Under the guidance of a past psychiatrist’s advice I decided to keep a diary for 30 days and to refuse to write even half truths to myself.

A sick man can tell a lie so often that in his mind it becomes a truth in his own reality, here you may be beholden to 30 days of my reality.

Diary. 04/05/08
1 a sudden attack, or intensification of the symptoms, of a disease, usually recurring periodically
2 a sudden outburst as of laughter, rage, or sneezing; fit; spasm
n. 1. [Outburst] — Syn. passion, hysterics, outbreak, frenzy, furor, fury, violence, agitation, explosion, frothing, fuming, (berserk) fit; see also anger, excitement, rage 2. — Ant. PEACE, tranquility, equanimity.
2. [A fit] — Syn. Attack, spasm, convulsion, seizure; see outbreak 1.
See hysteria, pain
Well wine drunk is common place. Enter insecurity exit insecurity. Gee whiz diary this is my first of many entries, how special you must feel diary!
How special indeed. The leftovers of a young burn out dribbled across your page, scatterings of boredom and delusions of grandeur from a real someone in her own mind; how delighted indeed. Oh how you must savor the scraps of ennui cast before you from a transitional adolescent lush.
Let me apologize diary: for your time I use, for the misuse, the abuse, the slaughter of my primary and native tongue. This is your one pardon from me, my one and only beseech of forgiveness from you; a preemptive counterstrike of apology. So deal and be grateful diary. The word of all my days is paroxysm, so chew its vowels and consonants and swallow it down like a nice dry pill. Well so much for first impressions diary, goodnight.

Diary 04/06/08

I’m not going to fix it if it’s not broken. I have begun to blend in with the walls I've built around myself. I can't seem to jump up high enough to see if I should let anyone in and I am afraid I am too weak to climb out or over them. I suppose I should just be glad that it's quiet tonight at least. I should savor the silence and concentrate on the purity of this rare absence. I wish I could fully understand why it is that my mind works the way it does, why do I see the things that I see and is it so strange that no one else can? Even if there is silence tonight, I still can't quiet my mind. The screaming has subsided as has the laughter, the whispering and all of the inaudible madness I used to spend hours trying to decode. Is there anyone in there besides me and are they trying to tell me something? No. It's just me and my walls. Did I build these walls? Was I born here? Maybe it's just an echo. Tonight, at least, there is silence. I wonder if I will ever be able to let someone close enough to me again, close enough so that they too can hear the laughter.

Diary 04/07/08

My head is full of vomit and my lips are chapped to the point of tasting like tin cans. In honor of the silence I celebrated with hasty libation. I could truly do with less self help and medication. Perhaps I ought to try drinking water and taking my meds as instructed. I figure thirty days of my undiluted time would be compensation enough. I figured I had gone past 4 pm without a single inorganic interruption. I was doing so well I thought I would celebrate. Well diary, a toast. I’ve bitten my nails down to their beds and I’ve made mine so I may as well lay in it. I cannot hold on to a single thought for more than minuets at a time. All of My teeth feel loose and I feel like I just ate a handful of someone's dirty pocket change. Christ I feel awful, I wish I didn't feel like a bag of wet laundry. I’ve got trouble and all I could muster to tell him to stay away was, “I would bite your finger nails if you let me that’s how nervous you make me.” God I am a fucking maladroit fatuous mare’s nest. I feel like I am bashing my head against a concrete wall expecting it to tell me some sort of fucking secret. I was once told by a layman that the very definition of insanity is performing the same act repeatedly and expecting the outcome to yield dissimilar results. I think who ever coined that notion was a douche hammer a real clown shoe and a cock that had never lost anything; much less their mind. I cannot decide if I am still in mourning over the whole ordeal or if I am feeling guilty about possibly even a diminutive inkling of closure to the whole martyrdom that has become this loss. Denial aside diary, I can’t shake the need to connect. I cannot look his family in the eyes. I can’t answer the phone or read my mail. It’s never for me; it’s to a girl who died months and months ago. How does this sound for the Christmas cards this year diary: “I’m not giving anyone what they want until I know exactly what I want.
Everyone take 10 steps back because you are standing on my fucking dick right now, god bless.” Perhaps you’re right, it’s much too early to be thinking about the holidays; they’ll only depress me further.
I mustn’t indulge myself. Cheers diary, to fleeting conviction.........


I was annexed by your winsome eyes

Engulfed in your mare’s nest

Willingly lovingly duped

Your countenance seemingly honest

I will refute you and your smiling lies

You guarded your intentions

While I left my heart vulnerable

Impious canting wanton capricious marauder

Vandal thief and coward

You have feasted on that which you do not deserve.

I will Shepard my constancy with undaunted reservation

Lest I be snared by another prevaricator.


brother eternal
forsworn fraternal
congenial despite contention
ardent guardian
champion of altruistic sequestration
abettor and advocate
to blood I would whisper:

heed and eye with circumspect
all those you cull into your world
brother make no favor to frenetic tenor
sojourn assiduous and wont to virtuous castigation

mind your tread brother
keep your foundation equable
master the conception of each track you leave behind
each impression is direction in tandem for when you are lost

take solace in nothingness if nothing else

Saturday, March 22, 2008