Jackass,
I have no tolerance for this type of nincompoop-ery. Unprofessional in the least! How dare one must deceive in such a way as to make a mockery of my pain, discomfort, and above all, tummy-ache-y-ness! Upon reading my manuscript sent to me, with funds you acquired from me I WILL REMIND YOU, to write this…this… Twaddle! Oh sir, I am flamboyant with rage! I have put plans aside to deal with this dilemma first hand. I am so convinced of an inward spiral of sabotage set by you and your cod walloping writer illiterates that I have lost all control of sense, leaving me no choice but to trust not one of my servanttees with this debilitation, fearing you may have already gotten your smeary paws upon their hollow backstabbing hands.
How dare you try pawn-eth-ing this trite jibber jabber to me with smile and curtsey. How gay one must be in their denial to transact in such a manner as to be manner-less in their transacting! You fool! You have opened an egg already hatched in tradition! A crest going farther back than God himself! My magic powers beheld by bloodline would destroy your lame write-ery like a toothpick made of bone picking through elephant dung! Without a succeeding thought! And, it is you, sir, who is said dung.
I have paid you and your company for a job that may have been very well done myself. Weller done indeed. But instead of your reputation succeeding you with time that I myself have wasted by inquiring smarter peoples than yourself at dinner parties and expensive galas, you have failed your reputation with hooey!
Expect me to enter your Shoppe mid-afternoon upon next Wednesday to discuss this matter as civil enemies…until we become not. I will not take NO for an answer.
Sincerely,
Lord Fat Elvis
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Aspire Crossfire
An advocate of absurdity… The devotee of nonsense sits; his work is done.
When all the signs lead beyond borders. With all those transfixed on win. How pleased they seemed to be only putty in jester hands. The egg-on and false serenade of loss, sweet sorrow of boring lit and history. The advocate of fireworks sits. Yes, poised to watch the parties flash/expire in cheap spectacle… never to be remembered.
The advocate of such aforementioned nonsense learned his trade collecting mainsprings of time forgot. Watches of those Pharisees of one man empires content on greed and fairytale. To be martyrs of nothing but time.
The mainsprings are infinite, he will tell you, popping and (in true light; definition) springing randomly from nothingness. A void of empty space refilling itself with the unknown. How bitter are they, nay, retarded when devoid of ticks and tocks. How fitting to know when time is done, yet, I still stay unsatisfied in my knowledge of knowing.
Where do they go? The advocate ponders still. How funny still is nothing but. How one must be still in time; still moving, compelled, same as I, to provoke war for my own amusement.
When all the signs lead beyond borders. With all those transfixed on win. How pleased they seemed to be only putty in jester hands. The egg-on and false serenade of loss, sweet sorrow of boring lit and history. The advocate of fireworks sits. Yes, poised to watch the parties flash/expire in cheap spectacle… never to be remembered.
The advocate of such aforementioned nonsense learned his trade collecting mainsprings of time forgot. Watches of those Pharisees of one man empires content on greed and fairytale. To be martyrs of nothing but time.
The mainsprings are infinite, he will tell you, popping and (in true light; definition) springing randomly from nothingness. A void of empty space refilling itself with the unknown. How bitter are they, nay, retarded when devoid of ticks and tocks. How fitting to know when time is done, yet, I still stay unsatisfied in my knowledge of knowing.
Where do they go? The advocate ponders still. How funny still is nothing but. How one must be still in time; still moving, compelled, same as I, to provoke war for my own amusement.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Satiety Takeover
Oh, fine disgust retold within this intricate weave. The dust of forgetting without forgiveness. Blessed rejoicing by your reluctant cartilage. Those dumb receivers and pluralist senders of feedback. The backhanded compliment jossers moving up the rank and filed garbage heaps of credited manicured success. Oh, what a stench. The repetition of humdrum and baby making. The long hours of idiosyncrasies between Pop. The search for individualism tethered to hearsay. The politics of boring and child like imagination of truth. Our heart bearing sleeves of duplicity made of shining armor and daydreams. The fait accompli of a game of telephone. Of the selling of solicitude to thyself. Sneaking in tongues. Staring at freaks. Destroying all monsters. Counterfeiting the lie. Establishing oneself prominent, well versed, quantifiable, and unrehearsed. The belief that he himself has not picked sides. To say we know suffering without empathy. To gloat in the face of the sick and dying. To take no association with death out of fear, and to fear not and not not ever being known as being. Oh, the confusion of all those set free, set forth, and true.
Oh, yes…Poor you.
Those who seem deemed to pick up each task with gun at head to compartmentalize the wheel. Mouse trap. The pulley. Then, force themselves to stand straight, bold faced and dry. To be the wolf you cry for all to run away from. To lead onto nothingness and know everything under the sun. To speak in headlines, irreversible decision making, leading on history with self interest in mind. To self humbling and choosing ones own punishment. For white crimes, white lies, white deals in the dark. To the tax break pushers with rancorous blind eye on one side, all sides, and no sides. For the prostitution of misery. The sea change of friendship. The honesty of the surface. The unflinching who cares! The vineyard’s year of bitter whine of being proven wrong. The ethicalness of freedom and dumbness of domination. The jealousy of want. The lunacy of reputation. The fortitude of right. The wrongness of trust. The reducing from absurdities. The reverse of misfortune. The language of the unsung and uninteresting. Whom stay long distance in times of devastation. To commandeer at threads end. To bare the burden of hopelessness before calling it a night. To go home. To have a home. To cable television and books on politics. Rotting leftovers in the fridge. Those self-proclaimed great men and sterile women harping law driven ego. For functionless amenities gathering dust in stale arguments night after night. To the polemics of scratch people patting heads. The sun rising wherever they say it does. The lobotomized unknowingness of place or function. To cocker spaniel syndrome! To new words. To those still breathing art adulterated. Seething compassion into rust. To the eyes which never wander in the face of an enemy and give all they have to bare with tongue limply planted in cheek. To the resplendent glitter of life and the wages of sin staying death. To commercialized slavery in constitutional buried loops of equities. Concentric circulatory advice from black-eyed souls spitting up in dirty hands. The rapture of money and conformity of giving up. Staying down. Gathering fleas in a castle of sand. For the basic consumption of these necessities never running dry. The socialization of the bourgeois pointing fingers as trick. The selling of sickness turning on itself. The fly right’s and straight and narrow’s never questioning their guilt. The association of matter. The pistol packing porn closet of the moral preaching hypocrite “bound and committed by its own atrocities”. The stolen lyrics of the thought provoking pariah anguished by love. The sentimental users dumbfounded by the undead. With all sense unraveling. With all things ever known crumbling beneath their feet. The human condition solidified in amber, housing live rounds of wordless ammunitions, peered under microscope by spoiled brats. The horizon being natural course. The flit-flam of rudiment mongrels mashed-up in near life experiences for the comic relief of those who can’t help, but always understand.
THANK YOU!
Oh, yes…Poor you.
Those who seem deemed to pick up each task with gun at head to compartmentalize the wheel. Mouse trap. The pulley. Then, force themselves to stand straight, bold faced and dry. To be the wolf you cry for all to run away from. To lead onto nothingness and know everything under the sun. To speak in headlines, irreversible decision making, leading on history with self interest in mind. To self humbling and choosing ones own punishment. For white crimes, white lies, white deals in the dark. To the tax break pushers with rancorous blind eye on one side, all sides, and no sides. For the prostitution of misery. The sea change of friendship. The honesty of the surface. The unflinching who cares! The vineyard’s year of bitter whine of being proven wrong. The ethicalness of freedom and dumbness of domination. The jealousy of want. The lunacy of reputation. The fortitude of right. The wrongness of trust. The reducing from absurdities. The reverse of misfortune. The language of the unsung and uninteresting. Whom stay long distance in times of devastation. To commandeer at threads end. To bare the burden of hopelessness before calling it a night. To go home. To have a home. To cable television and books on politics. Rotting leftovers in the fridge. Those self-proclaimed great men and sterile women harping law driven ego. For functionless amenities gathering dust in stale arguments night after night. To the polemics of scratch people patting heads. The sun rising wherever they say it does. The lobotomized unknowingness of place or function. To cocker spaniel syndrome! To new words. To those still breathing art adulterated. Seething compassion into rust. To the eyes which never wander in the face of an enemy and give all they have to bare with tongue limply planted in cheek. To the resplendent glitter of life and the wages of sin staying death. To commercialized slavery in constitutional buried loops of equities. Concentric circulatory advice from black-eyed souls spitting up in dirty hands. The rapture of money and conformity of giving up. Staying down. Gathering fleas in a castle of sand. For the basic consumption of these necessities never running dry. The socialization of the bourgeois pointing fingers as trick. The selling of sickness turning on itself. The fly right’s and straight and narrow’s never questioning their guilt. The association of matter. The pistol packing porn closet of the moral preaching hypocrite “bound and committed by its own atrocities”. The stolen lyrics of the thought provoking pariah anguished by love. The sentimental users dumbfounded by the undead. With all sense unraveling. With all things ever known crumbling beneath their feet. The human condition solidified in amber, housing live rounds of wordless ammunitions, peered under microscope by spoiled brats. The horizon being natural course. The flit-flam of rudiment mongrels mashed-up in near life experiences for the comic relief of those who can’t help, but always understand.
THANK YOU!
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Quote
"Sufficiency is hard for us Americans, as is to be a good-god fearing sociopath in the information age."
-Mark Twain
-Mark Twain
The Polarized Tapestry
Maroon ridden by way of thinking, forget
-stars passed on sped up tape.
Before Beta transmogrified itself, here you were:
A cataclysmic grass root of virus.
A stable molecule inciting fear.
A nucleus of ions and white blood cells.
Your parents’ shell.
In the dark, there are still roads and forks, and
“The light at the end of the tunnel was a train.”
-before there was this it had to pass.
Don’t forget anymore…At least try;
To make mock of sleight make sense
you have to forget; Try not to think for a second.
I bet you can’t.
Just be the wind.
Just be the sails.
Just be.
Be.
Just.
Be just.
Be justifiable.
Become the thought thought once and forgot and remembered.
Justify being with nothing. Be nothing and stay nothing and sleep and dream
And remember
And wake.
These recognitions on meditation are as ancient as they sound, but
With every new generation of shell comes learning
Unless your belief is that of preprogramming;
We must talk sometime then about God.
-stars passed on sped up tape.
Before Beta transmogrified itself, here you were:
A cataclysmic grass root of virus.
A stable molecule inciting fear.
A nucleus of ions and white blood cells.
Your parents’ shell.
In the dark, there are still roads and forks, and
“The light at the end of the tunnel was a train.”
-before there was this it had to pass.
Don’t forget anymore…At least try;
To make mock of sleight make sense
you have to forget; Try not to think for a second.
I bet you can’t.
Just be the wind.
Just be the sails.
Just be.
Be.
Just.
Be just.
Be justifiable.
Become the thought thought once and forgot and remembered.
Justify being with nothing. Be nothing and stay nothing and sleep and dream
And remember
And wake.
These recognitions on meditation are as ancient as they sound, but
With every new generation of shell comes learning
Unless your belief is that of preprogramming;
We must talk sometime then about God.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
excerpt from my book on how to destroy script.
Compliments for a Cubist
Subtracted midrange from the wheel of art of factual information: delete vowels.
Extricate critic from binary collage: montage, facsimile, veil, ghost, etcetera.
Neon Buddhist simile swerving syntax in tow and Tao.
The existentialist who’s name may be Eeyore believes the assumption of written character, once broken, only exists in cliché (“…just as long as one stays French and like remains the same as love,” the jackass mumbled.
Aimer:
“Fate has her funny way of being him,” Mary Shelly once wrote to Hans Christian Anderson. “Oxymoronic only when not been given the proper digestion that thought needs to produce narrative, and considering you‘ve not been brain washed already by Western thought.” She concluded in her letter a crude stick figured drawing of what she assumed he would not put word to image as being Frankenstein’s monster…A Freudian metaphor for her love for him before its time, that only history could rewrite.
Hans left Copenhagen in his latest of years for a warmer climate for the benefits of his health. Still longing for Kierkegaard to acknowledge his relevance, undoubtedly, but more his general existence as someone whom suffered loneliness and solitude the same as he: thinking, aberrations, hallucinations, being, nothingness…
In a poem written by a then teenage test tube baby made with the DNA of Hans, a forlorn shadow of existentialism peeks through verse in a way only Hans could tell a story…and in a strange twist, predicts the ghoulish acts that happened upon a lake in Indian Territory in the months of January and February of 1847...
[excerpt]
I’ve dreamt of many things:
A little prince, an ugly duck,
and Donner flesh to eat.
Subtracted midrange from the wheel of art of factual information: delete vowels.
Extricate critic from binary collage: montage, facsimile, veil, ghost, etcetera.
Neon Buddhist simile swerving syntax in tow and Tao.
The existentialist who’s name may be Eeyore believes the assumption of written character, once broken, only exists in cliché (“…just as long as one stays French and like remains the same as love,” the jackass mumbled.
Aimer:
“Fate has her funny way of being him,” Mary Shelly once wrote to Hans Christian Anderson. “Oxymoronic only when not been given the proper digestion that thought needs to produce narrative, and considering you‘ve not been brain washed already by Western thought.” She concluded in her letter a crude stick figured drawing of what she assumed he would not put word to image as being Frankenstein’s monster…A Freudian metaphor for her love for him before its time, that only history could rewrite.
Hans left Copenhagen in his latest of years for a warmer climate for the benefits of his health. Still longing for Kierkegaard to acknowledge his relevance, undoubtedly, but more his general existence as someone whom suffered loneliness and solitude the same as he: thinking, aberrations, hallucinations, being, nothingness…
In a poem written by a then teenage test tube baby made with the DNA of Hans, a forlorn shadow of existentialism peeks through verse in a way only Hans could tell a story…and in a strange twist, predicts the ghoulish acts that happened upon a lake in Indian Territory in the months of January and February of 1847...
[excerpt]
I’ve dreamt of many things:
A little prince, an ugly duck,
and Donner flesh to eat.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Campfire Mouthpiece
Their sub-missive sent through landlocked
undertow. A burden rememberer game of
strategic triggers placed prewar memory in
fields unseen by eye.
Around the campfire mouthpiece: we slept
of better days. When once in love,
Who’s to say you’re not;
A strange pool of
Lo and op and forgetting, backward photographs
And negatives.
The Pool-loop never refreshes or calms down;
It’s soul, a vacuum of parallel, accents a user
too indiscriminately. A Wikipedic democracy
of half range. A starving child too spoiled to
eat all in front of them; Even a bone holds
influence and nourishment as any liar might
tell the truth sometimes.
undertow. A burden rememberer game of
strategic triggers placed prewar memory in
fields unseen by eye.
Around the campfire mouthpiece: we slept
of better days. When once in love,
Who’s to say you’re not;
A strange pool of
Lo and op and forgetting, backward photographs
And negatives.
The Pool-loop never refreshes or calms down;
It’s soul, a vacuum of parallel, accents a user
too indiscriminately. A Wikipedic democracy
of half range. A starving child too spoiled to
eat all in front of them; Even a bone holds
influence and nourishment as any liar might
tell the truth sometimes.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Pariah Virology (excerpt) For the Polish president, Lech Kaczynski
The placard above the archway read:
Leviathan Graver
Established February 26th 1974
Non-issues, Humbug and Brainchildren.
Millennia of inbreeding for a colony of evil germs that deemed themselves "Germans" proved detrimental to the rest of the germ colony’s that inhabited earth when a man named Adolph Hitler self proclaimed his sapient species as a master race. Long before this proclamation Hitler and his Nazis(the Germans) were a single germ that exploded from a big bang along with all the other germs.
Humbug Undergrad
Brainchild Inspector Filmmaking Enthalpy
Retrieve overlord. Ponder caricature. Encrypt splice.
Every word is a dying star
Every star a living word
Every living thing a miracle
Every miracle an image
Every image now a word.
SPD RDR
Do you still seek decadence as if this watered down bohemia wasn’t ever saturated by information and technology spoiled halfwits gargling pubertal emotion with suicidal reverence positioned in places of influential power? I lost myself at decadence.
Oh, poor you still under the influence of, “It still matters” and “I make a difference”
“like the children are our future and like, like, like, I, like, like you know what I’m saying?”
This is the future?
A dear friend, a brother, once told me it was called, death by convenience. But what happens if it’s not? What if convenience becomes normal? When people become convenience? When convenience is nothing more than a waste of time? When I or you are nothing more than the space that fills up life? When you or I become like, well, like?
Leviathan Graver
Established February 26th 1974
Non-issues, Humbug and Brainchildren.
Millennia of inbreeding for a colony of evil germs that deemed themselves "Germans" proved detrimental to the rest of the germ colony’s that inhabited earth when a man named Adolph Hitler self proclaimed his sapient species as a master race. Long before this proclamation Hitler and his Nazis(the Germans) were a single germ that exploded from a big bang along with all the other germs.
Humbug Undergrad
Brainchild Inspector Filmmaking Enthalpy
Retrieve overlord. Ponder caricature. Encrypt splice.
Every word is a dying star
Every star a living word
Every living thing a miracle
Every miracle an image
Every image now a word.
SPD RDR
Do you still seek decadence as if this watered down bohemia wasn’t ever saturated by information and technology spoiled halfwits gargling pubertal emotion with suicidal reverence positioned in places of influential power? I lost myself at decadence.
Oh, poor you still under the influence of, “It still matters” and “I make a difference”
“like the children are our future and like, like, like, I, like, like you know what I’m saying?”
This is the future?
A dear friend, a brother, once told me it was called, death by convenience. But what happens if it’s not? What if convenience becomes normal? When people become convenience? When convenience is nothing more than a waste of time? When I or you are nothing more than the space that fills up life? When you or I become like, well, like?
Friday, April 9, 2010
The Sylvan Postmaster
Conformist Spondylitis had taken over the village. Everybody was in a panic, dismembering each other with dull and rusty scrap metals found in garbage heaps as far as the world is round.
My girlfriend at the time that the panic broke out was playing two-dimensional video games from the Eighties: Asteroids, Tempest, TRON, Fucking Qbert. I tried to make her see what was happening around us, but she told me (mock girls voice) “If I look away from the screen I might lose a life”, so I left her there in the primary, and what I’ve found to be discriminatory, glow of basic shapes, in her peacock tested smeared globs of make-up caked face and clogged pores that would no doubt age here into a shriveled old bitter drag queen impersonator 40 years before her life would end, blinded by what the advertisers decided to market as beauty and sell to the masses of bitches with snuffed out skin cells that die screaming for oxygen to radiate a two-faced inner glow of a a jealous insecure know-it-all. Who the fuck want’s that?!?!?!
My girlfriend at the time that the panic broke out was playing two-dimensional video games from the Eighties: Asteroids, Tempest, TRON, Fucking Qbert. I tried to make her see what was happening around us, but she told me (mock girls voice) “If I look away from the screen I might lose a life”, so I left her there in the primary, and what I’ve found to be discriminatory, glow of basic shapes, in her peacock tested smeared globs of make-up caked face and clogged pores that would no doubt age here into a shriveled old bitter drag queen impersonator 40 years before her life would end, blinded by what the advertisers decided to market as beauty and sell to the masses of bitches with snuffed out skin cells that die screaming for oxygen to radiate a two-faced inner glow of a a jealous insecure know-it-all. Who the fuck want’s that?!?!?!
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Imitation Synonym
Hurling endearments from the disturbance colonnade of broken stride/
at the very least this structure’s sound…Seemingly; A word an EX warily used in context/ women’s intuition I suppose/Another way to examine me up and down/to drive herself paranoid, seemingly.
I think of her sometimes when I’m laying in bed with insomnia, touching myself in the dark, in all the clean places, removing her good parts in my head, picking at the bad ones as a blackbird would the bones of a dead rat in a bad crop season. I think of Autumn, not the name per se, the season, not the woman’s name, like you’re listening, the time of year that follows summer, not the girl name Summer…Summer…
I think of her in my hometown along the slow river’s sandy beach, the lazy warm sun, far off distant voices oscillating in their gaiety of family life. Barbeque smoke teasing our taste buds, occasionally stinging our eyes just enough to accentuate their true colors, giggling and cooing, exploring each others bodies with rubs and tickles, scratches, on the beach blanket, trying to think of words that rhyme with orange.
In my remembrance, Summer’s name is Spring, a pet name for something I’ve yet to conquer. She loved reality TV shows before there were any. She didn’t make much sense in her fictional world that I made up, sitting at my outdoor table of the café as she walked by, but she showed promise and the sex was great for a season with a made-up woman’s name.
at the very least this structure’s sound…Seemingly; A word an EX warily used in context/ women’s intuition I suppose/Another way to examine me up and down/to drive herself paranoid, seemingly.
I think of her sometimes when I’m laying in bed with insomnia, touching myself in the dark, in all the clean places, removing her good parts in my head, picking at the bad ones as a blackbird would the bones of a dead rat in a bad crop season. I think of Autumn, not the name per se, the season, not the woman’s name, like you’re listening, the time of year that follows summer, not the girl name Summer…Summer…
I think of her in my hometown along the slow river’s sandy beach, the lazy warm sun, far off distant voices oscillating in their gaiety of family life. Barbeque smoke teasing our taste buds, occasionally stinging our eyes just enough to accentuate their true colors, giggling and cooing, exploring each others bodies with rubs and tickles, scratches, on the beach blanket, trying to think of words that rhyme with orange.
In my remembrance, Summer’s name is Spring, a pet name for something I’ve yet to conquer. She loved reality TV shows before there were any. She didn’t make much sense in her fictional world that I made up, sitting at my outdoor table of the café as she walked by, but she showed promise and the sex was great for a season with a made-up woman’s name.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Regimen Poacher
Forbid restitution: Note: Side note: Fine Print:
In other words: And lied.
A promissory of provisional insurance to reassure lender was by any means necessary/ Shredded.//High hopes, garner grant, wished stock, undermine resolution. Forgo expectation mute. Record over information. Trade stock. Erase hard drive. Low buy sell high; simpleton economics for the new suit.
The devil chums, Waits…
The signal bursts/Schools flock to low-balled poisoned credit scheme, dimwitted negative option opportunists, and how?
The dead American dreams. They’re not even a real word. Foreclosure, ripped from all definition institutions and replaced with Fox News and a FEMA X.
To:
Has and eats cake/Our forefathers rolling upwards in their graves/Hand and fist/ tooth and nail/ bought insurance/FEAR/The shell game/pyramid scheme/ and the new Tea Party of taxation without representation bolstering 50’s values/Our veteran slaved suburbs full of manicured promise and restitution for all things lost, damaged or injured/ By any means necessary/ The lawyer dictated scribbled Helvetica of computer programmed hell-bent consumption of credit equity and the ebb of national debt from which to sue for the complete rights of the precise center of the universe and the legal rights to the phrase- “You’re Fired”.
God Bless America.
In other words: And lied.
A promissory of provisional insurance to reassure lender was by any means necessary/ Shredded.//High hopes, garner grant, wished stock, undermine resolution. Forgo expectation mute. Record over information. Trade stock. Erase hard drive. Low buy sell high; simpleton economics for the new suit.
The devil chums, Waits…
The signal bursts/Schools flock to low-balled poisoned credit scheme, dimwitted negative option opportunists, and how?
The dead American dreams. They’re not even a real word. Foreclosure, ripped from all definition institutions and replaced with Fox News and a FEMA X.
To:
Has and eats cake/Our forefathers rolling upwards in their graves/Hand and fist/ tooth and nail/ bought insurance/FEAR/The shell game/pyramid scheme/ and the new Tea Party of taxation without representation bolstering 50’s values/Our veteran slaved suburbs full of manicured promise and restitution for all things lost, damaged or injured/ By any means necessary/ The lawyer dictated scribbled Helvetica of computer programmed hell-bent consumption of credit equity and the ebb of national debt from which to sue for the complete rights of the precise center of the universe and the legal rights to the phrase- “You’re Fired”.
God Bless America.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Finalize Landline
Squash nondescript empiricism| You ha-had no friends| noteworthy, anyway.
White trash shuffled by the gossip wind in catastrophic loops of themselves/ coined archetypes of temporary intelligence| The fragile narcissists, feeling, cracking and mixing, talking events any good American might take the wrong way.
Why are you listened?
(cocking my…)
Exactly why did you come here?
(You get the picture.)
This fleet is seizing, susceptible to argument at any angle overtaken by tradition:
PAUSE and RECORD are always two different things, and rarely are they used at their most opportunistic points of launch…Electronic gossip, that’s all, from nigger trash…Shuffled by prerecorded/memorized answers: The barking dog, the smug laugh under the bad breath of the learned reality. I hope you get your fucking way. I pray you let me die unnoticed in my isolation tank.
White trash shuffled by the gossip wind in catastrophic loops of themselves/ coined archetypes of temporary intelligence| The fragile narcissists, feeling, cracking and mixing, talking events any good American might take the wrong way.
Why are you listened?
(cocking my…)
Exactly why did you come here?
(You get the picture.)
This fleet is seizing, susceptible to argument at any angle overtaken by tradition:
PAUSE and RECORD are always two different things, and rarely are they used at their most opportunistic points of launch…Electronic gossip, that’s all, from nigger trash…Shuffled by prerecorded/memorized answers: The barking dog, the smug laugh under the bad breath of the learned reality. I hope you get your fucking way. I pray you let me die unnoticed in my isolation tank.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Retold Oblique-Phenol
We gnawed through our hobbles to find, when we ran freely, a desert compounded by ghosts/ the eyes of which burned out in each one as if an old photograph had mistaken its place in our reel. The flicker of light from the unconscious projection booths compelled, most likely paid off to spread these ambiguous lies, crackled in waves of far off thunder/ these, we were told somehow, were dead memories/ sifting through themselves to be found again//Picture an ocean as far as your mind can stretch seen through the eyes of a child, any age, it doesn’t really matter, separation is the goal//Picture absolute consciousness grinning with pure evil, telling you how loved you are//Picture the end of time. In each scenario there is only you to hold yourself back/ You are the child. You are the consciousness. You are the end of time.//Picture conjoined twins separated at birth/Picture whatever it is you are picturing right now…[Narrator Pause] …your accruement has begun: The image is law as we misstep my or your misgivings, no one understands like you do; the image is retraced through words greater than any spoken vocabulary/ of course, nobody understands. Eight is not a number, it is three, or four or any rhyming scheme concocted by whim, and so on/ depending on number of guesses each piece of static conceives to be without dimension/ your rationale is survival.//You think about topography, but there is none, fiction no longer exists/ distant voices seem caught up in inward thought train trained to fuse confusion in argumentative similarities beyond any listeners comprehension/ Are you the only one here alive, and if so, what comes before two?
You, child, remember who you are? What you were? How you got here? A spindrift wind gilded in orgasm manufactured ohms/ A pretty phrase or word spoken by the most beautiful image in perfect harmony with your voice as thought, noise, all noise, beautiful, tragic, and unspoken/full of life, all life, everything alive and meaningful, unquestioned in infinite silhouette and harmonium homage to stardust reverie!
You, child, remember who you are? What you were? How you got here? A spindrift wind gilded in orgasm manufactured ohms/ A pretty phrase or word spoken by the most beautiful image in perfect harmony with your voice as thought, noise, all noise, beautiful, tragic, and unspoken/full of life, all life, everything alive and meaningful, unquestioned in infinite silhouette and harmonium homage to stardust reverie!
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