Monday, June 23, 2014
sediment builds up
over time
and again
you do the same
things i do
as do you
we're the same
so they say
so i say
i should say
goodbye, my name
say it, too,
"Goodbye, you."
Forget my name
Goodbye, shame
now i'm mine
undone time and time undone
fucked off and won
yes, dad, i'm your son
Monday, September 14, 2014
subconsciously hyperaware
too much thinking, too many thoughts
too many I don't know
can't comprehend what I understand
or vice-versa, who really cares?
never knowing the truth;
anyone else's, sure, I get it...
but mine?
really?
my own?
what happens when you don't know what you really feel?
what you really believe?
what you know,
what you enjoy
and why?
when you're not sure if you're lying -
not only to other people
but also to yourself...
what then?
I mean, really
what then?
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
worms may
at one point
infest your brain
and once they put you in the ground
i'll dance on your grave
as they finish it off
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
junebugs
wings cir-cirrussing
brown buzz white noise
remembrance of a beetle
floating in suctioned,
chlorinated water
clear and blue, through and through
six serrated legs
shredding air as
my aunt's pool
pulls us
under
insect
and i
remember
5.27.2015
5.25.2015
#71
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
She shook the feminine out of me
And I think it fucked me, for the time being
But I want her to know it's not her fault
That she's cool as fuck
And that things are okay
Really, really okay
Though I'm afraid I'd be convincing her as much as I am myself
-----
Pater Noster
Flashbacks to things that might never have happened
I really hope they didn't
...but I keep remembering more and more
And I think they did
And I worry that I want someone to blame
...or maybe just want to seem tragic
But the more I think the more I remember
Or at least I think I do
...the Law of Fives is never wrong
But I wouldn't remember
If it never happened
...yeah?
Monday, May 18, 2015
i asked the Dry Man what lie beyond his door
he said nothing but existence vdtgrf
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Miscarriages
Firstborn of the unborn
Don't put that shit on me
Your god was clearly trying to send you a message
But you ignored it
And now we're all paying for it
You selfish cunts
You sinners
Saturday, May 23, 2015
light
fly
fly towards it
giant field of light
land
taste
taste static
legs to proboscis
some flying insect i hate
because i envy
its mechanical life
She shook the feminine out of me
And I think it fucked me, for the time being
But I want her to know it's not her fault
That she's cool as fuck
And that things are okay
Really, really okay
Though I'm afraid I'd be convincing her as much as I am myself
-----
Pater Noster
Flashbacks to things that might never have happened
I really hope they didn't
...but I keep remembering more and more
And I think they did
And I worry that I want someone to blame
...or maybe just want to seem tragic
But the more I think the more I remember
Or at least I think I do
...the Law of Fives is never wrong
But I wouldn't remember
If it never happened
...yeah?
Monday, May 18, 2015
i asked the Dry Man what lie beyond his door
he said nothing but existence vdtgrf
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Miscarriages
Firstborn of the unborn
Don't put that shit on me
Your god was clearly trying to send you a message
But you ignored it
And now we're all paying for it
You selfish cunts
You sinners
Saturday, May 23, 2015
light
fly
fly towards it
giant field of light
land
taste
taste static
legs to proboscis
some flying insect i hate
because i envy
its mechanical life
5.23.2015
#70
Friday, February 6, 2015
time is so elastic
mouldered tentacles of string cheese
dripping off a pizza man o' war
snapping back
bungee-style
into the maw of the present
Monday, May 4, 2015
Spring Cleaning
Cobwebs in my head
Sick and sick and sick
You're not the next Bukowski, man
Thompson, Hemingway, or Kerouac
Anyone can drink and write in the middle of the day
Anyone can put a bullet in their brain
...then again, anyone can be sober
and do the same
So fucking be something different
Monday, May 18, 2015
i want to photograph the photographer
to capture the beauty of a being
beautifully involved in being
while capturing a being
beautifully involved in being
i want the world to see through her eyes
and her to see herself through my eyes
and the eyes of countless others
Friday, May 22, 2015
I remember, in the seventh grade
Praying for the End of Days
Because I was tired of living
time is so elastic
mouldered tentacles of string cheese
dripping off a pizza man o' war
snapping back
bungee-style
into the maw of the present
Monday, May 4, 2015
Spring Cleaning
Cobwebs in my head
Sick and sick and sick
You're not the next Bukowski, man
Thompson, Hemingway, or Kerouac
Anyone can drink and write in the middle of the day
Anyone can put a bullet in their brain
...then again, anyone can be sober
and do the same
So fucking be something different
Monday, May 18, 2015
i want to photograph the photographer
to capture the beauty of a being
beautifully involved in being
while capturing a being
beautifully involved in being
i want the world to see through her eyes
and her to see herself through my eyes
and the eyes of countless others
Friday, May 22, 2015
I remember, in the seventh grade
Praying for the End of Days
Because I was tired of living
5.22.2015
#69
Friday, May 22, 2015
Georges Perec: thanks, and fuck you
Sometimes you read something that speaks to you so deeply, moves you so tremendously, expresses so perfectly your innermost desires that it's frightening, terrifying, absolutely gutwrenching. You feel inspired to write, but any words that manifest themselves in your mind seem pale, shallow, borderline meaningless in comparison. Your breath sticks in your throat, your heart forgets to beat, your eyes well with saline, and you're left paralyzed, able only to continue turning pages and scanning text, praying that the final paragraphs will offer some insight, some answer; that this other person who has gone through exactly what you're going through, who has dreamt the same obscure dreams of disappearing, who spent agonizing weeks putting his darkest thoughts into bleak, beautiful prose - that this person might bring some clarity, some meaning, to the situation you've both found yourselves in.
Alas, the novel ends and life continues; nothing solved, nothing gained, perpetually ongoing.
It is on a day like this one, a little later, a little earlier, that you discover, without surprise, that something is wrong, that, without mincing words, you don't know how to live, that you will never know.
Something was going to break, something has broken. You no longer feel - how to put it? - held up: it is as if some thing which, it seemed to you, it seems to you, fortified you until then, gave warmth to your heart, something like the feeling of your existence, of your importance almost, the impression of belonging to you or of being in the world, is starting to slip away from you.
...
This is your life. This is yours. You can establish an exact inventory of your meagre fortune, the precise balance sheet of your first quarter-century. You are twenty-five years old, you have twenty-nine teeth, three shirts and eight socks, a few books you no longer read, a few records you no longer play. You do not want to remember anything else, be it your family or your studies, your friends and lovers, or your holidays and plans. You traveled and you brought nothing back from your travels. Here you sit, and you want only to wait, just to wait until there is nothing left to wait for: for night to fall and the passing hours to chime, for the days to slip away and the memories to fade.
...
You are not in the habit of making diagnoses, and you don't want to start now. What is worrying you, what is disturbing you, what is frightening you, but which now and then gives you a thrill, is not the suddenness of your metamorphosis, but precisely the opposite: the vague and heavy feeling that it isn't a metamorphosis at all, that nothing has changed, that you've always been like this, even though you only now realize it fully: that thing, in the cracked mirror, is not your new face, it is just that the masks have slipped, the heat in your room has melted them, your torpor has soaked them off. The masks of unswerving conviction, of the straight and narrow. Did you never have an inkling, not once in twenty-five years, of that which, today, has already become inexorable? Did you never see any cracks in what, for you, takes the place of a history? Times when nothing was happening, times when you were simply ticking over in neutral. The fleeting and poignant desire to hear no more, to see no more, to remain silent and motionless. Crazy dreams of solitude. An amnesiac wandering through the Land of the Blind: wide, empty streets, cold lights, faces without mouths that you would look at without seeing. They would never get to you.
It is as if, beneath the surface of your calm and reassuring history (the good little boy, the model pupil, the dependable pal), as if, running beneath the obvious, too obvious, signs of growth and maturity - scribbled graffiti on toilet doors, certificates, long trousers, the first cigarette, the sting of the first shave, alcohol, the key left under the mat for your Saturday night outings, losing your virginity, the baptism of air, the baptism of fire - as if another thread had always been running, ever present but always held at bay, and which is now weaving the familiar fabric of your rediscovered existence, the bare backdrop of your abandoned life, memories which suddenly resurface, veiled images of this revealed truth, of this resignation so long deferred, of this appeal for calm - hazy and lifeless images, over-exposed snapshots, almost white, almost dead, almost already fossilised: a street in a sleepy provincial town, closed shutters, dull windows, the buzzing of flies in an army post, a lounge draped in grey dustsheets, particles suspended in a ray of sunlight, bare countryside, cemeteries on a Sunday, outings in a car.
Man sitting on a narrow bed, one Thursday afternoon, a book open on his knees, eyes vacant.
...
To want nothing. Just to wait, until there is nothing left to wait for. Just to wander, and to sleep. To let yourself be carried along by the crowds, and the streets. To follow the gutters, the fences, the water’s edge. To walk the length of the embankments, to hug the walls. To waste your time. To have no projects, to feel no impatience. To be without desire, or resentment, or revolt.
Georges Perec: thanks, and fuck you
Sometimes you read something that speaks to you so deeply, moves you so tremendously, expresses so perfectly your innermost desires that it's frightening, terrifying, absolutely gutwrenching. You feel inspired to write, but any words that manifest themselves in your mind seem pale, shallow, borderline meaningless in comparison. Your breath sticks in your throat, your heart forgets to beat, your eyes well with saline, and you're left paralyzed, able only to continue turning pages and scanning text, praying that the final paragraphs will offer some insight, some answer; that this other person who has gone through exactly what you're going through, who has dreamt the same obscure dreams of disappearing, who spent agonizing weeks putting his darkest thoughts into bleak, beautiful prose - that this person might bring some clarity, some meaning, to the situation you've both found yourselves in.
Alas, the novel ends and life continues; nothing solved, nothing gained, perpetually ongoing.
It is on a day like this one, a little later, a little earlier, that you discover, without surprise, that something is wrong, that, without mincing words, you don't know how to live, that you will never know.
Something was going to break, something has broken. You no longer feel - how to put it? - held up: it is as if some thing which, it seemed to you, it seems to you, fortified you until then, gave warmth to your heart, something like the feeling of your existence, of your importance almost, the impression of belonging to you or of being in the world, is starting to slip away from you.
...
This is your life. This is yours. You can establish an exact inventory of your meagre fortune, the precise balance sheet of your first quarter-century. You are twenty-five years old, you have twenty-nine teeth, three shirts and eight socks, a few books you no longer read, a few records you no longer play. You do not want to remember anything else, be it your family or your studies, your friends and lovers, or your holidays and plans. You traveled and you brought nothing back from your travels. Here you sit, and you want only to wait, just to wait until there is nothing left to wait for: for night to fall and the passing hours to chime, for the days to slip away and the memories to fade.
...
You are not in the habit of making diagnoses, and you don't want to start now. What is worrying you, what is disturbing you, what is frightening you, but which now and then gives you a thrill, is not the suddenness of your metamorphosis, but precisely the opposite: the vague and heavy feeling that it isn't a metamorphosis at all, that nothing has changed, that you've always been like this, even though you only now realize it fully: that thing, in the cracked mirror, is not your new face, it is just that the masks have slipped, the heat in your room has melted them, your torpor has soaked them off. The masks of unswerving conviction, of the straight and narrow. Did you never have an inkling, not once in twenty-five years, of that which, today, has already become inexorable? Did you never see any cracks in what, for you, takes the place of a history? Times when nothing was happening, times when you were simply ticking over in neutral. The fleeting and poignant desire to hear no more, to see no more, to remain silent and motionless. Crazy dreams of solitude. An amnesiac wandering through the Land of the Blind: wide, empty streets, cold lights, faces without mouths that you would look at without seeing. They would never get to you.
It is as if, beneath the surface of your calm and reassuring history (the good little boy, the model pupil, the dependable pal), as if, running beneath the obvious, too obvious, signs of growth and maturity - scribbled graffiti on toilet doors, certificates, long trousers, the first cigarette, the sting of the first shave, alcohol, the key left under the mat for your Saturday night outings, losing your virginity, the baptism of air, the baptism of fire - as if another thread had always been running, ever present but always held at bay, and which is now weaving the familiar fabric of your rediscovered existence, the bare backdrop of your abandoned life, memories which suddenly resurface, veiled images of this revealed truth, of this resignation so long deferred, of this appeal for calm - hazy and lifeless images, over-exposed snapshots, almost white, almost dead, almost already fossilised: a street in a sleepy provincial town, closed shutters, dull windows, the buzzing of flies in an army post, a lounge draped in grey dustsheets, particles suspended in a ray of sunlight, bare countryside, cemeteries on a Sunday, outings in a car.
Man sitting on a narrow bed, one Thursday afternoon, a book open on his knees, eyes vacant.
...
To want nothing. Just to wait, until there is nothing left to wait for. Just to wander, and to sleep. To let yourself be carried along by the crowds, and the streets. To follow the gutters, the fences, the water’s edge. To walk the length of the embankments, to hug the walls. To waste your time. To have no projects, to feel no impatience. To be without desire, or resentment, or revolt.
5.14.2015
#68
c. July 2008
Boxer & Hedges
Sitting outside
I light a cigarette
And I hope it will help me think
Take a long, slow drag
Breathing the smoke into my lungs
Alcohol won't make things better
But I drink anyway
Because I can't find a good reason not to
And I don't know if I should
And I don't know if it's good
I'm thinking about her
Still
Like I've been doing since I met her
I listen to a sad song
And another comes on
So I light another cigarette
Inhale, then breathe out
Watch the smoke until it disappears
Thinking I shouldn't let her do the same
But I don't know if I should
But I don't know if it's good
Take another drink, take another drag
Take another thought
And try and work out its conclusion
I think too much
And don't act enough
I wonder if I can save her
I wonder if I should save her
If it's even my place
I consider my motives
Then consider my motives for considering
Trying to rationalize it all to myself
So I don't feel guilty
But that wouldn't change anything
Because I would still want to help her
Except I don't know if I should
Except I don't know if it's good
I've been transfixed on her
Since she crashed into my life
The way the dawn crashes in after too many drinks
The way she crashes when her high wears off
Three days of not feeling right
Three days of helplessness
Of not being able to change anything
Maybe I know how she feels better than I think I do
A change of songs, a change of cigarettes
But that's all that changes
My mind remains the same
As I wonder where she is
And if she'd even listen to me
And if that would even make a difference
I contemplate my cigarette as it dies
Hoping if I can focus my sight, I can focus my thoughts
Put one final filter to my lips
As the fire burns my eyes
The way the sun will tomorrow morning
The way she burns my brain right now
I think I could change things if I tried
If I did something other than thinking
And I think...
I think I'm going to
Though I don't know if I should
Though I don't know if it's good
I need a decent night's sleep for once
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Misanthropic Humanism
I love all homo sapiens
Each and every individual one
Let us do the proper thing
And all commit suicide
Boxer & Hedges
Sitting outside
I light a cigarette
And I hope it will help me think
Take a long, slow drag
Breathing the smoke into my lungs
Alcohol won't make things better
But I drink anyway
Because I can't find a good reason not to
And I don't know if I should
And I don't know if it's good
I'm thinking about her
Still
Like I've been doing since I met her
I listen to a sad song
And another comes on
So I light another cigarette
Inhale, then breathe out
Watch the smoke until it disappears
Thinking I shouldn't let her do the same
But I don't know if I should
But I don't know if it's good
Take another drink, take another drag
Take another thought
And try and work out its conclusion
I think too much
And don't act enough
I wonder if I can save her
I wonder if I should save her
If it's even my place
I consider my motives
Then consider my motives for considering
Trying to rationalize it all to myself
So I don't feel guilty
But that wouldn't change anything
Because I would still want to help her
Except I don't know if I should
Except I don't know if it's good
I've been transfixed on her
Since she crashed into my life
The way the dawn crashes in after too many drinks
The way she crashes when her high wears off
Three days of not feeling right
Three days of helplessness
Of not being able to change anything
Maybe I know how she feels better than I think I do
A change of songs, a change of cigarettes
But that's all that changes
My mind remains the same
As I wonder where she is
And if she'd even listen to me
And if that would even make a difference
I contemplate my cigarette as it dies
Hoping if I can focus my sight, I can focus my thoughts
Put one final filter to my lips
As the fire burns my eyes
The way the sun will tomorrow morning
The way she burns my brain right now
I think I could change things if I tried
If I did something other than thinking
And I think...
I think I'm going to
Though I don't know if I should
Though I don't know if it's good
I need a decent night's sleep for once
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Misanthropic Humanism
I love all homo sapiens
Each and every individual one
Let us do the proper thing
And all commit suicide
5.06.2015
#67
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
Roadblock while Crossing the Jordan
I know a guy
sweet and enthusiastic
honorable and kind
and quite possibly an actual genius
with a family,
depression,
and Crohn's.
...how the fuck can I pity me?
-----
Introverted/Road Trippin'/Trying Too Hard
It's me
It's not any of you, honestly
I need time alone or I'll lose it
But I rarely get it¹
I want to sell my record collection
Fill the trunk of my car with books and cassettes²
And drive until I break down
On some unmapped backroad
Spent and out of gas
To rust out the rest of my days³
¹I don't even have the solitary moments of driving to and from work anymore; home-dubbed punk rock loud on the stereo, cigarette or spliff burning, windows as open as I'd like to be - though truth be told, I don't get this, either
²(and a pound or two of subpar pot
...and maybe a couple handles of whiskey or brandy
something brown, so it lasts a little longer)
³If I had the guts to do anything but write
Roadblock while Crossing the Jordan
I know a guy
sweet and enthusiastic
honorable and kind
and quite possibly an actual genius
with a family,
depression,
and Crohn's.
...how the fuck can I pity me?
-----
Introverted/Road Trippin'/Trying Too Hard
It's me
It's not any of you, honestly
I need time alone or I'll lose it
But I rarely get it¹
I want to sell my record collection
Fill the trunk of my car with books and cassettes²
And drive until I break down
On some unmapped backroad
Spent and out of gas
To rust out the rest of my days³
¹I don't even have the solitary moments of driving to and from work anymore; home-dubbed punk rock loud on the stereo, cigarette or spliff burning, windows as open as I'd like to be - though truth be told, I don't get this, either
²(and a pound or two of subpar pot
...and maybe a couple handles of whiskey or brandy
something brown, so it lasts a little longer)
³If I had the guts to do anything but write
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)