Friday, October 30, 2015

the people want to know what the meaning is. what does it mean? what does it mean? rate the intensity of meaning and the kind of meaning it is. there aren't many other guidelines given other than this.
i've found meaning before and i question not how age-old the tradition of doing so is, but the relevance. hot air. hot air from sll angles. plain jane ol' goodlookin' heck of a pisser, a chaser of optimism: hope for the nervous.
nothing but resentment. nothing watered down about this. i won't allow it. every experience reacted to with disgust does a number. so persevere. perservere, you're alive to begin with. persevere, white-feathered angel. all the archangels and their woodwinds. all the cherubim. all the seraphim. persevere, because you've got this in the bag.
no more guessing games for person number one: i like doing what i want to do- abnormal relationships with anything with which a relationship can be formed. this is called taking the shortcut, pushing away self awareness. and since i don't do this as much as i'd like, i grow jaded, green as the scales of any sea serpent.
what i want is the pathetic way out. the way everyone else takes. me and my motherfucking country. gizmos and gadgets, and these alone, so it seems. then the next second, assad and putin are best friends and the states announce a special operation: digging new formations into syria to make up for those the worst terrorist group ever destroyed, and also for the fact that this group reflects the worldwide identity crisis (bitch, you better work it).
machines don't have emotions, is the thing.
one second you're pretty sure you don't care. the next second you're not so sure but you know you have a shot at backing out of caring. and this being so, next time i won't cry for help. i will rise out of my antics on a broomstick delivering mail.
the dream, this one thing being
of the past, the far far away
long-time ago made up bullshit, the
oneday you'll look back at this andlaugh...

those poplars we were once hanged from are
paled with death now; let them turn
as white as the white oak in its shadows path; hi.

i see with feelings but not
empathy accompanying. got all sorts
of problems. i wish i may. i wish
i fucking might.

you are not me- tangible, you are a realthing,
and i have left of myself once-umbilical

now barely a thread- tracing
me back to illuminations. i don't want

to be the weakling in munch's scream
uncalmed in gravity. but you work with
what you've got.

you are not me. you are practically
not even you. you do not see how

i see-in-feel. what do you see in? what is it
that confuses you? is it all

one general big mystery? don't you know
each part's microscope-slide?

you are not me? i'm jealous of you.

it doesn't take a miracle for one
to resist shitting themselves over everything

even after receiving the cure
they were so priviledged to receive.

without the mean-streak
i would get
lost in space until
exploded still walking on water

which i could probably live without.

six to eight glasses a day, everyday,
nonetheless.

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

i believe that life is a transforming through the spectrum of colors- life is not a rainbow itself, but where you are in it in the moment. we are representative of these colors, and it's really our only responsibility.
it is difficult for me to accept. i am so sensitive to everything in my environment: sunken rock wise of sensations on the ocean floor. i know every subtlety of difference. the change can seem drastic from one nuance to the next. i might still be in red or red-orange. either way, this is all just another way of explaining my hardcore fascination with 'ROY G BIV' when i was little. i wanted to know who the freak that motherfucker was anyway- was he like captain planet?- and who is indigo? is he the ringo starr of the rainbow, or is he the brother who chose to walk out and set his indigo-colored responsibilities to rule over themselves? did he put them on halt? to this day, i want to meet indigo more than anyone else. i will know when it happens.
currently, i'm paying attention to the human capability: knowing more than that which is the present moment. can't this too be a teacher? it hit me while reading an article about therapy dogs working with people with OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder). when things get tense in group settings, the therapy dog gets up, and goes over to whoever needs to pet him. the moment demands focus. then, the tension releases itself, and moves on toward the next moment.

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

p.02.

imposture.

my heart is not invested in this. what my heart is invested in is what i wish it were not invested in- ghosts. i seem to love ghosts, no matter how deceptive they are. they do not mean to deceive. they are very out of touch with authenticity. this harms them. they do not mean to be out of touch with authenticity- they do not know they are out of touch with authenticity. they do not know they are harming authenticity.
although i am attached to ghosts, i cannot make incisions in their flesh. (only they can do this with one another). they find reflections this way. once they do, they stare both blankly and deeply into one another- soulmates.

the sun rises- the angels come alive. they are encapsulated; callused....unicellular and invertebrate, but huge. these angels are biblical.
for them, parts of life move from one to the next less like currents in oceans far from land, or far from thoughts of land. the parts of life move for one to the next like how particles in breezes do- spores finding places to land- happenstances. they are among billions of other spores.
i can talk to myself about this until i reach my own landing. however, it might be wise if i crossed the movements under the stratosphere as a movement myself- one among the spores, and the currents alike. i can get myself to move across fields of ghosts, tumbling so- barely noticing the feeling of ghosts (encapsulated, callused), very aware of my tumbling.
i can give myself to the pure air.
the fountain magic.

eden.

no. i mustn't connect into another; mustn't fully absorb (perpetuating fully means to absorb halfway). i can just as well feel my way through my own flesh. i can feel it brush against what leaves itself to the imagination in order to feel.

umbilical love.

marriage, according to the eyes of the law, is a deceptive institution. marriage is already. because of preconceptions, we do not know that. we do not know our belly buttons come from umbilical cords.

i am naked. it is irrelevant whether this is a dream sequence or not. the imagination is free-range- so much space, space that cannot be taken.
i am naked, meaning: there is nothing i leave to the imagination. i know it is cool with setting me free. impossibilities must be made possible. it is a mission. it is in my hands.

the bee.

this morning, while trimming leaves of various plants outside, and clearing leaf-litter, a stinging sensation brought my awareness to the palm of my right hand. a bee was crawling out. because i knew she was to drag her organs in a trail behind her, crawling to her death, i allowed her to crawl on my body, the safe place, until it were to become too personal for me.
i am connected to the dying bee. i am the dying bee.
she was not rejecting her sex because of its feminine functioning, but because it had function as is. the story of functioning seems remote and old: lurking- as remote and old things lurk, and lurk alone- meaning, the story of functioning is a history, pried further to history even after death. this bee is stubborn and does not want this to be the functions only chance at connection.

this scientific explanation confused us. we disliked this, and resented it greatly.
any connection inside and outside the body is a gesture suggesting discrepancy.
a discrepancy is an immediate relation.

*
to starve is to know enslavement. it is othering. because it is other, it convinces of truth, gets me to believe in it: those othered hold the secrets to survival: how to survive; how to focus on surviving.

there isn't a soul who convincingly expresses starvation unless they do, in fact, starve.
starving is different everywhere. at this rate, it is almost like an art form.
starvation wears many disguises. to find out if you are starving- if you are from where i am from- wear a mask. if you dislike the experience, to any degree, this will be a terrible feeling- a starvation in itself. what might happen is you may feel an irresistible urge to do anything else- whatever it takes to distract yourself from the mask you wear, before ultimately removing it. it might take forever to realize the mask is something you hide behind to deny your starvation. (my mask makes me feel claustrophobic sometimes.) this is how we starve where i come from.
it's a taking- a suckling at gravity- at the completeness gravity offers. wanting. having. stealing, without inhibition, while wearing a mask, facing many directions.
there is one particular direction i focus on staring at: processing through the day (evading a downward shift).

some flowers are dead. the arrangement of  dead flowers is wild. our legs grow to walk over the very long grass and the very dead wild flowers. it takes years of growth to get to the point of not being bothered by the dead wild flowers.

loss is only there if regarded as such. if loss remains of memory, what loss does is float along a stream with all other light things, turning out the be incapable of sinking.
i do this, pressed against nothing.
i share a few "drafts"- for lack of better word- from my last diary, that i may or may not have done anything with- but i really admire them in their "draft" forms. i chose to cut-up.

*
hi; my name is famous. people got mad at me when princess diana died because the song i dedicated in memoriam to her life was a song i had already made years ago for marilyn monroe.
hi; this book report will be about the consequences (results) of being a rockstar. my name is nature (exhibit). one day, i wandered outside the woods. i discovered an apple and ate it and went into the big city.
the big city itself, and maps of the big city itself, were sold there. people were sold there. everything was sold there- either that, or they were waiting to be sold.
i began to be sold there...
one day, i went back to the woods and learned the big city took parts of me, nature, that it wasn't willing to give back- and, it didn't have it in itself to give back to me, or anyone else. the city was biologically predisposed to ulterior motives.
it's okay, i said, without believing it. "it's okay" became the only thing i was to ever say.
"it's okay" was useful because i worked hard at taking care of animals and plants (life) and making things seem okay.

as i had mentioned, one day i was lured by an apple- half red and half green- by an ugly old lady from my house where i was told by my housemates, or, employers (seven, all little all men- who could've actually been divided parts of my own fragmented identity, come to think of it) not to talk to old ugly ladies.
"or else," said they, "or else...."
"or else" means i don't know yet, but just you wait.
on a carriage, a merry dream, i was swept into, headed toward the heart of the big city...and i saw several more little men...multitudinous little men...all of them...in bands, banded up together.

you do not have to clean
nor

do you have
to be
clean

we- (me, the charismatic and stylish frontwoman and a band of small men- far smaller- than me) were sneaked into a hot-spot-shithole called CBGBs- then- arenas. together, with gladness, we were merry....i lost inhibition which was destiny.

i got jaded because i was naive when i started and totally forgot. i was sucked quick into the big leagues and didn't know any of my nervous ticks. it seems, in hindsight, everything i did was a nervous tick.

i went back to the woods.

the original little men were all now twice the age i once was, and twice the size i was, since i had seen them last, since i abandoned them- when i was but a kid. and even though i was but a kid when that happened, they wouldn't take me back. mob. mob mentality.
i never saw the seven fragments of my shattered self again; just pictured them kinda.

i went on to sit in a television- that for it- i served as a screen. the commercials went on without me needing to be there, between me (lullabies). where is my purpose?

i went on a life-diet and slept for twenty years
i was awoken by little men. all of them ever had hunted me down. "emily, you rotting cunt-thief!" said grumpy (all of them). i was a fugitive of theirs, you see...one that ran from promises which i failed to fulfill my end of. "take out the trash!"
"but but"
"kick growl, kick! fuck fuck our trash, white trash!"
"fuck fuck"
"fuck fuck fuck so disappointed in you. fuck so disappointed. fuck disappointed feelings fuck you, fuck disappointment, fuck your responsibility. fuck need to apologize for this, fuck."
"fuck fuck"
"fuck fuck fuck lie fuck fuck small men fuck fuck fuck you said sorry-fuck you caved into an apology."

everything fucked until i really did cave into an apology. then i went back to sleep: "zzzzzzzz."

*
my nipples are pink. my nipples are proportionate to my breasts- i'd prefer to call them tits. my tits are plump.
i am unhappy concerning my relationship with my genitals. they hurt.
i want to have sex one day. i want to have sex one day if sex equates liberation, of the over-and-over-again kind.

daddy unties the knot
of his tie.
a distant cousin says, "we shouldn't be doing this. we don't have to do this," as i seduce him. he loses his backbone. somebody has got to serve as the backbone. i become the backbone. this is the method of seduction.
a flower pollinates and attracts honey-bees, mantises. the amount of the honey-bees and mantises grows until it becomes so many more of them that the flower is covered- adorned.
an orchid does not care about her beauty. she cares about attracting others. there are so many kinds of orchids out there. they are all beautiful. they attract everyone.

"others" have madonna-whore complexes.
madonna must protect the whores from being violated. madonna
is always trying to be a nice guy.

daddies drug buddies are delighted, even grateful, even blessed, to have an opportunity to bone madonna. madonna takes on the role of being a whore one day every century, to know what it is she empathizes with.
"yes, we are doing this." i've got it, we have to do it. "daddy is videotaping it."

(the "i am a dying slut" story...): the ancient spirit in the forest lures the little fawn-body into his life by calling to her in her dreams.
"i will save you." he assures her, voice of the winds. his face is all of the clouds in the sky. she sleepwalks to him. she doesn't know she's "in" love, or that you can delve into love in the first place. she's pretty sure she's doing what he says because she is wildly curious about the voice of the winds, face of the clouds.
when the not-apparent sex-fiends of her dream is about to achieve orgasm, she wills herself to, as well. she slows down to make his orgasm mean nothing next to the rest of the sex happening. she wants the motion to pulsate. she feels like a carnivorous plant: she feels her body close up as her muscles tense up into a stupid ache around the sex-fiend's sex. he still appears to her as a voice of the winds, face of the clouds. the moment her muscles give out and relax, they spasm- because, she can now see the sex-fiend for only his ugliness. she does not enjoy her experience- it is not an orgasm. it hurts, and she is frustrated, and realizes she has been tricked by all she has been warned against.
she now understands why rebellion is bad. she never orgasms, except a little bit.
she has yet to orgasm past a little bit sometimes. only the sex-fiend can touch her now that he has seen her: voice of the winds, face of the clouds.

hunting for the secrets of the forest, with closed eyes, the wild (untameable) youth- a nymph without a chunk of nature to be claimed by- really wants to seduce the adler man who does not speak, or kiss. he does not have a mouth. what she wants is a chunk of nature to claim and be claimed by.
he is sundry and wise. he grows antlers. his antlers grow into trees. the trees grow into the clouds. the clouds grow and grow and grow. the adler man is stiff on his hooves.
the nymph discovers the fountain that she is, and lives forever.

i died while living forever. papa shot himself in the heart and lived. that's how we learned- me and my family- we were going to live forever. the bullet wedged itself and grew into new cells. now papa has bullet-cells and bullet-arteries that come from his bullet-heart.
i live without reason because i'm not attracted to it- but that does not mean i live for anything else other than for the sake of living- being of the process- although i do like things...i like strong and potent things.
i do live with a deathwish sometimes. it is hard to accept because i am nature. being nature is my job.
i do not find anything "in" nature. i find nature.

*
truth-serm weakens resolve; compliance to pressure; lies are complex and truth-telling.
opportunistics:
it's cancer. it's spreading. "well, of course it's spreading- it is cancer, after all."

look at them antlers! the forest is coming to stab me! will you just look at them antlers? life is a game of peek-a-boo! it's just so all-embracing.
look at them antlers (pricks)!

look, my comatose state. look at my dream bank. it doesn't go away. it's too all-embracing. i'm rich with enchantment. i can't enjoy it. there's too much, and i live in a city where giving has never been heard of before.
let's be serious. deep down, my sensibilities resist, and resistance alone is why my sensibilities are sad.
*

Sunday, October 25, 2015

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i wait for the information within reach. i part, and wait again.

the bodies lost to militarization/a yoke-mate.

mass graves have been unearthed from hills in mexico- the dangerous parts you hear so much about, of course.
militarized authoritarians are believed to have handed themselves protesting-people, thereafter- rumor has it- passing these protesting-people over to "organized criminals". these organized criminals- off the record- killed them, perhaps for game, and buried them in these hills- probably. also on the news today: "we'll provide you with new reasons to worry about what you're doing."

parallel universe-scope: someone called nobody a nobody from nobody (in a persecuting tone) who just happened to live in a body which was more like a machine than a body so perhaps they were a no-body.

tetsuo:
don't like sharks. sharks live in families. families kill other people with each other. you think they're listening to you. they aren't listening to you- they're calculating their priorities which are priorities you wouldn't prioritize. they don't know you all that well, though you'd like to consider them friends of yours. they hardly know you at all.
sharks are born with remarkable drive to be very famous. "make me a star," they say, "make me a star," they repeat themselves. they write the studios. they doze off. they make it to the dream sequence.

i am a shark, tetsuo says. i am a shark whose face was eaten by a faceless shark. he was a shark envious of those with faces so he ate their faces.
i am a shark. i will bite your head off, said the faceless shark who ate my face.
parden moi? i replied, a little distracted, by...by what, i don't remember. something i took for granted is what i was a little distracted by while i replied to the faceless shark, i'm sure.
he bit my face off.

i think i've acclimated to living on land- where the other faceless ones live- but in order to do so, i had to become a machine. my skin is silver and hot to the touch. it is also overheated. i guess also i have to have a fever at all times.

before i left the water for the land, i was forced to swim in spit. it sounds like limbo, but it wasn't.
my mother had kicked me out of the ocean because it was time for me to separate from my mother. i was eighteen years old. she did this because it's a rule.
i might as well not have been swimming in spit. though, i don't know, for certain, if i was swimming in spit- because i couldn't see. i wouldn't have known i was swimming in spit if i wasn't told i was (is trust an indulgence?). but spit is okay to swim in. it has nutrients in it.

there is somebody in my jaws who i care for. i read her diary.

"dear diary, i just have been wanting to say all day, that i feel terrified...i want to cry it to somebody. i feel terrified! i also want to tell them that this doesn't really go away, and this meeting of the minds i'm picturing, i'd add, is how i think people really are with each other deep down inside. i want to cry all day to someone without them freaking out on me or me freaking out on them.
but picturing this...this meeting of the minds: my head looks enormous. it's all i can see- "my head". my head appears to be all there is and all i can be within."

this excerpt was from the diary of the nymph who discovered my fountain of spit which i grew legs in and ran out of and away from. she looks seaward for shark fins. the following is from my journal:

HOME.

home.
home.
i have never left my home before. it provides
comforts i reject
the sentiments of.
sentiments.
sentiments.
everywhere

home is where i am
wild, because it is
a dream of mine. i am home.
home. home.
i think of other people with homes and i
think of people without homes.
bad.
bad.
i feel bad.
i feel my badness.
i come my badness.
this is bad.
bad.
bad.

there is a heart somewhere in my home. it is
beyond the resentments which interfere
with the process of direct-touch. the heart

is the key to getting me out of my home. home.
because i have not found it, i am still home.
that being said, i am dead without the key
to leaving my home.
reason i am home.
reason i am home.
that being said, i want to be somewhere that isn't home, but
i don't know where to.
i think i love home, but
i think if i left it, i'd learn
i never learned what love exactly is
in the first place.
love.
love.
love seems vague.
love.
love.

love even seems a bit vain. it seems a  bit vain
as i write this.
love.
love.

home.
home.
i have no place else to go. this is
my home.

better. better.
i need to get better.
i need to get better
at home.
home.

*
tetsuo ages into the role of a domesticated beast:

the role is clean to me. it is a creature. i don't know if my body is parasitic to the mind of if i am not very clever at working through relationships. i don't know if the body and the mind are separate from each other, but it's a convention to treat them like they are. so, i believe they are- though, not all of my brain believes they are- so, it is not the truth.
okay, look. that special somebody in my jaws that i care for whose diary i read? she's a young lady. she is seventeen years old right now. i am at least fifty. she will be eighteen-years-old within a few months.
surly-anne is the name of the young lady. she wears dumb-girl target-me pigtails. she lives next door in the museum; in the next exhibit. she knows what you are doing- that which you care about and that which you do not care about. i know this, because she said this to me:

"you care a lot about your feelings. i do too."

she has problems with her nose. she wants to get a nose job one day. she uses toilet
paper to blow her nose with. because you know so much about her, you no longer
care for her more than you would an old shoe. but goddamn, do you have some
emotional attachment to that shoe. in your head, you still polish it. you do that
to calm yourself down when you know that needs to be done.

"as a small child, i was abused."

do you honestly expect me to feel differently now that you tell me you were abused
as a child? do you think being abused makes you special? cruel thinking; rhetorical
questions...although i too have been

caught explaining my childhood. but my autobiography would have nothing to
do with feelings which are pseudosciences. it would have everything to do with
science. so, it is bearable to read to myself.

surly curly sits by my side, oils my joins, and pisses herself on the carpet.
if i had eyes, they'd be very far away. unreachable. perhaps, shocking blue.
the places where my eyes would be: they don't want to die, but they don't
care if anyone else dies.

hey, surly: my head is in deep shit.

hey, metal-head: mine too. but what else is happening right now? for me,
other parts of myself are in deep shit, too. i hate myself
because i've destroyed my self respect. i've lied a lot.

don't just lie there wounded, surly: do something
with your pigtails, surly.

what song was in your head when you woke up today, tetsuo?: what color
is your throat lubricated in right now?

you are a brave, brave, girl. surly: have sex with me. the last thing i fucked
was a bowl of stale chips the other day. i do it everyday. it's up to you
to break my habitual pattern. surly? the real thing...i'm shy, but honestly,
it's been a long time for me since i fucked last. this was a deliberate
commitment. but i'm telling you that i want to give up
my long lasting commitment for you.
i have been courting you, and silently, examining you, until it was, which is
now, the moment when i was to figure out
what it is i want from you. then, you become of-thingness. an object, that's
right. you fade into obscurity and i don't care.
it's calling baiting the hoe. bait and switch. some people are just programmed
that way. it's medical. still- i mean, yeah, be wary, and feel like they're total
a-holes, but like, treat 'em like they're retarded too, now that you know better.
(don't treat them any differently then how you'd like to be treated.)

HORMONES
hormones aren't emotional. hard facts aren't emotional. emotional
people live on the outskirts of culture. they're actually not supposed to be
there, but they're a friendly culture, so they're used.

they're a friendly culture of nomads who explore the deep seas of emotions. they,
themselves, would be wastes of life if they weren't a friendly culture. friendly
cultures prevent infections in my dog's ears.

i'd like for you to marry me. i'm not ready.
you're not ready. well, let's see. i'm not ready, either. it's a tale
of two not-readies. it was the ready of times. it was the
not-ready of times. ready + not ready = ready. let's get
ready now. we both
know- and we both know a lot- that this
is a stupid thing to do. but we'll do it together.
so, we'll figure it out. now we're married. the papers, the papers,
have you got the papers? we're going

to find the papers. we're going to save this marriage. it's
the right thing to do. we're not going to save this marriage.
it's a tale of two not-saving the marriage. it was the marriage not
of times. it was not the marriage of times. it not was the marriage
of times. it was the not marriage of times. it was the marriage of
not times. it was the marriage of times, not.

creative differences.

creative differences are the dedication to my cause. this one is
for creative differences. i do not know what a defect is. defects
are my next shout out. the next shout out are for my connections.

show them meat.

it does not surprise me that those who surround me are satyrs. i may reproduce like there's no tomorrow but i'm no dumb bunny. i know how to make myself appear alert- and, on top of that, i see with eyes seeing into kaleidoscopes.
for a living, i gnaw off my rabbit foots. they regenerate. i gnaw them off each time they regenerate. facing my future, i understand that one day they will stop growing back.
i admit i have served as the biggest production of rabbit foots in the world. but nobody wants rabbit foot charms anymore. charm is a superstition to kids these days. they are paranoid. i cannot hide from this mutilation- children are the future.

let me tell you more about mutilation and loosely, the future.
a satyr once loosed from the woods by my house. he was shiny; a satyr made of metal- i.e., taken from the past and thickly pasted into a future setting. his stratum was unknown. he had to be put in a museum for this reason.

his name was tetsuo. he is drinking water in the museum. he drinks water to keep himself hydrated.

since being relocated into a museum, feral, lost-souled tetsuo has been permitted the opportunity of knighthood.
queen elizabeth- a polite gimmick who scoffs at my rabbit feet- liked tetsuo's music and invited him to be taught proper royal-family etiquette. she said after he was taught, she would invite him to all the parties all the elite are able to attend. tetsuo was welcomed by auto-tellers. tetsuo kissed the feet of the welcoming auto-tellers.
tetsuo did not have many choices. he was two different places at once, without a governing middle. he feels deprived of a middle among others who either have or are middles. he has something that seems genuinely unnatural. but the truth is, genetic mutations are becoming hot-spots for evolutionary change.
tetsuo, on the inside, grew envious of everyone aside himself. they were nature: many roses, many names.

*
there are people who profit from lies, people who profit from lying, and people whose lies are unprofitable: all three types, inner-city children. inner city children are bottom-feeders because they take money in a particular way in particular places instead of taking gradual steps toward taking that money in the way we're ordered to by a particular bigheaded-source...something elusive that's an uncle sam about itself.
sneakers and coats are marketed toward them (this is interchangable depending on where you come from and are now) by those who profit from the excess of lies off of others (wasps). if you want to be an inner-city youth, it's said, you have to wear what they say everyone else wears where you live. and you have to to do it the way you know how to do it. these are the woods tetsuo fled. he stabbed a guy, took his technology, and ran.

(tetsuo cont'd): i don't know what it is what has happened to us, but i'm not sure what propaganda reflects anymore. i see it behind so much- being real shady. i thought it was purely political. what are politics? politics are non-principles, i guess.
the reason we invest in the cover-up used to distract us from...from propaganda, i think...is because science is behind it. science sometimes takes risks for the sake of science alone, and gets stranded. it dusts itself off and continues forward with objectives set out on. these experiments are modulated by fallen scientists.
we are subject to being objectified in a culture thriving on excess- thingness. we are not unless we are things to each other. nothing is intimate any longer. this is sex: sex out in the open. sex is exhibition and its voyeurs.
in some ways, sex is bottom-feeding. it does nothing for us in the long run. i am violated by every act i've committed in order to maintain only the moment. the build-up is tremendous. i am going to have a heart attack one day. i need gratification now, or else i'm going to have a heart attack now. what other plants are like this?

i am a bottom feeder plant.

a bottom feeder plant is a plant that lives without remorse. if it weren't for bottom-feeders, we'd all be sociopathic.
it was once the case that sociopaths were rare. now, it's a booming craze- bigger than the beetles. in order to be knighted one must be sociopathic; moving at the speed of the deterioration of the sky.
both bottom-feeders and sociopaths- that's the sum of everyone- have made so many mistakes in their lives. they numb themselves from thinking about it because the marketing department takes their thought-products and forces them to fit into habits- patterns not yet cut off.
patterns go on repeating themselves until they're dead, like how we are.
an intuitive device is limited to the sound "click" today. that's what tetsuo sounds like when he moves- click click click click click; no time for clacks. we would be no-where without our spastic twitching.
tetsuo was born, i guess, of this. although he was knighted, he had somewhat of a right to wear expensive coats and sneakers not marketed toward him. he once didn't have anything and it's pretty disrespectful of yourself when you cut yourself off from the first half of your rags-to-riches story.
he didn't solicit things until he was knighted, though he didn't have to do that. he lived in a museum and things were handed to him, begged of him to be taken. the body was lost to militarization.

gizzards who-bat.

list-off of sane celebrities: the country you can't ignore
on a day otherwise glum- landscapeless. this is where

i want to go, to
make up for my poor grades as a
student

and other things i've grown from. downward,
flying ship, to being- some other-
source of light- so many at- once!-
caught in the trees- where

i do not leave- and not because i fear
escape- but because i can breathe again- and
effortlessly- i feel strong- so- no escape.
paradigm-discovery:

i do not regret

resisting regrets, though regrets
teach me that we are many-bodied, poppie-covered,
skin of survival (the language). i do not regret
because i am alive.

day of the picked zit: mutilation leaves
me only
a display of how i hurt myself with yourself.

this
i am owed an explanation for- so i explain to myself
for
myself.

i can
count with my fingers. i count on them. what is
that
dog-shit on the carpet?  where

the beetles go. how come we just say "okay" to

the dog-shit? it really let me down. i had
been clean for years.

i'm
not allowed in the crowd- it feels
my every violated moment memorized-

i go- tumescent: stage-props- distractions
in the spared time. there's not-
an audacious amount to mother-

this is all
setting an example, being a good influence- exploring
the negative space- warming up
to being it.

stage-props mouth what
a leaking gut might have to- slobber-

shot in my eye. this is who we are spotting for,
disguising the
growth of cellular delight

for the sake
of assorting a document. (this sacrament
has been around a very long time).

wild and sexy naked-rabbit (dying of old age). these are
my days:

at the bottom of the well, believing
that is where i am, i do what i believe
i can, knowing
i believe i can- and this is how i live-

must i assume it is seen? show them
you are alert. make it known

you appear to yourself.
scheming yokes, and then
rules. they're all whores. we're all whores. sex
is no longer
an intimate experience, and let me tell you:

holiness is a new sin, though
i feel shunned- it has always been-
so if you want to, shave your head in
privacy, show them only meat,
be this kind of in love.

Friday, October 23, 2015

world of space and world of body- the snug,
having a sense of an inside. is it supposed to
hurt? no, not really. it feels like space. heal
right now. heal right now.
i
do feel violated by night turning off and
turning back on. i need obligations

to keep me busy, to keep me out of trouble.
i need to pull the wires out,
one country at a time. we must understand, pyramids
are orifices from everywhere, haunting
behind guises. so, what
are we going to do about syria (the earth's fever),
i mean? someone sure as hell bit into the same apple
adam- and snow-white alike- did. someone
sold the soul of god. what the fuck are we going to do
over there? fucking look-alike of a nightmare
halfway-fled. new language-barriers

to teach us- brand new power. the forever-
rumble, existential
gnat, suffering (what is other than inner?),

shall be treated like baby- or a palm- whose grains-
will be all i peck at. i am willing to be- a traitor-
to anything- as long as- it does not- compromise- my
relationship- with- suffering-
the naked eye, of extinct volcanoes

now an x-shaped cellular puzzle- unable to abandon, so

can be stretched to the moon
from which they'd echo every
awkward phase.
told misfortune
honeycake fields, wispysoft grass
two cows graze

freedom goes unsensed
reality bares its soul

a soul is bared- volcanos- have something
new- to do- about diamonds
i'd like to be a ghost, but only your ghost- after
all, you are my ghost. you love yourself. do i

love me? thick as the cow meat, i say- i bet all
our things in common on
it- we look at it with wonder.

we look at myths with wonder. once again a myth
haunted in space, someone has to courageously
go back in time. shadows
of two people coinciding. two people
paying no attention. one or the other lays there

convinced it is dying. then a grey, then a white.
a bell rings. that's part
of the myth.

that's all
we see. we never make up more.
but i don't always necessarily know
that. so often, i think you're wrong about
a lot you say.
i know

what's lovely. i am a jewel thief, stealing
without knowing; missing
the forest for the trees. things
held together: new element, i must love myself.

it's the twinkle that gets me. the flowers
from the neighbors yard it turns out
i am not allowed to pick? i've done it. i know.
i have yet to learn from it

because i still pick flowers.
let us situate happy; and afterward
let happiness
not matter all that much.

happiness does not sit on top
of other things to be felt- our planets

are small and only have what they need.
there's so little
i need to climb in order to reach peaks.

i think it's wrong
that acceptance is not the cure- yet also something about
this is cute at most.

i may be ghostly, and too, often to
myself- but also
i am my own city in which wonder itself traverses;
all that is seen is that which is
happened to
breathe. give me nutrients; this daisy

has a heart during the autumn. it must
keep warm-
a pocket needs to be stuffed to
survive-

fun-time
big fat pussy, birthing other-than-babies.
the hope diamond. the pavement.
a glass of water. all the drugs that seduce

so fast you don't have a chance to
stop yourself from getting hooked.
all the wondering what
constitutes a drug
aside from us lepers and our
social impairments crystallized.

all together, i see someones
face. it turns
deformed with unremembered eyes. all
together: somebodies baby. leave me

to my little planet
and its particular sunsets.
hi. i haven't left, but i'm back to check up on myself.

goals of the day: uproot annuals, shower, work on thingie i insist i work on.
i gave up on the sound and the fury last night. it's the ebonics. i hate reading and feeling like shit (which is always- as i like to remind myself, my hippocampus is a whoopie cushion, and i can't pay attention to much.), but i hate it especially when i don't like what i'm reading, either- when what i'm learning doesn't beam out of me.
world at my fingertips- solipsist-stuff; grandeur. it's nice that we're all unique, all experiences experiencing unique experiences and responding to them uniquely. right?
"quieting down" as i insist the process routes itself. the idea of going outside and working with plants- it's the idea itself- feels as if it's paralyzed me with a sting in my fat. pure terror- the unwilling entrance into some counterfeit k-hole. the idea of vaccuming, too; watching tv...these are all things i do to force myself into a mold. i want to be someone i am not. what i am: ?.
drugs that don't count: none. i'd like to be a plant. it's easy to remember what's legal- and what legal seems to be is counterproductive.

i will be back to check up on myself and to see if i'm being checked up on.

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

i hate waking up to this: ungrateful for the
real-self and its life/ungrateful
for the evil twin and its fake-life; when it

does anything, it plagarizes. no rhythm.
nobody believes me. "too much rhythm,"

they say. and to polish, i'm practically

a college student, busting my back-end
for the future. my mind has

turned to cement. i gather this has meaning,
if i want it to. but goddamn the cracks in

my skull? from pressure.

all true thoughts mostly come
from the stomach. seriously, follow
your gut. it's impossible

to get fucked up. yearless, gleaming
paralysis- captivated
purity. content rains. i laugh. the brain thinks.
it's about to be winter, which

is daunting because it's only october,
but the leaves rustle.
i'm feeling better about moment-apocalypse
already.
suffering
is an offering of reaction. the go-to is sanctimonious, as old
as man-kind: pain (body and eyes bright and wavy underwater). without it are other choices. with it

i could kill myself so i have to switch gears.
no matter what, suffering
is felt by everybody alive. it's the changing,

the reservoir unexpected,
alive
nucleus, whipping itself on its own saddle- destroying totally,
and also not destroying at all
at the same time. what are you talking about?
well, listening to the same cd over and over again
of course. keeping secrets

that are to be attended to before all else
secret. the to-do list
presents bulletpoints of the been-there,
will commit to that again, until

i just stop seemingly unreasonably.
(secret not listed: "look at phone." ) rise, feared pink-pheonix.

you, far older than your name.
novocaine. neopinephrine-novocaine- chaser
of fixed-teeth. i do not feel a
face. mine,
those of the world- hardly
a face left worth imagining these days.
the blase life: not atrophy, but
going in directions departing to everything
but the focus.

equations produce the withins, and
the outsides- pair of complementaries. capulets,
montagues. dolls, in secret, frustrations
vocalized through. but if i
cut my skin, you will know
that i will see every fucking seed in their

non-parasitic love-making raving
doing nothing
but nothing
which sets an example
we all could consider following.
and i will eat the seeds, dripping
pomegranate-gut. ignore

what you hear and shrug upon. it's romantic.
romantic without it? not romantic enough.

shrewd motherfucking volcano.

Monday, October 19, 2015

garbage mosaic no.01.

the feudal system: many fences, digging into
hard-to-describe...arbitrary-bloat- perhaps that's
what i can't quite put my
finger on? one can travel away from this. i'm floating

in

the secret pond. eternity. leaves change colors.
golden-grotto. the chill is crisp. miracle-babies.
it doesn't matter
that i can't get the hang of swimming,

for i don't feel like shit about it- not here. let me be
the new amphibian- i have no sense
of outline; there's no pattern
of containment. all the fluidity? sure, rivulets- carry
the leaves and me too.
carry genetics (which i fucking love): the nostalgia
my memory

views as computer graphics.

i like

to advise people
on the first date that i am a catalyst for pain. without

making mistakes purposefully,
there is no way out. sitting shiva in caprice, and the
to-do list concerning such,
the walls close in because i picked that up

from movies- life imitating art, passively
ignoring backbone out of keepsake
of inevitability- gutter-flowers, blood of
thorn-drive in many spots

of my ungloved, dried-out already
wintered-in hands; full bodied
myrrh, frankincense. never use it, yet too

embrace the moment- there is no way out, anyway.
practice patience.

raise the threshold. gardenias and peonies
come back to life like they do

every year.

and nothing is fake anyway, only read into past vision.
a proven falsity
lobbies its way onto tv.

one minute of sex? not good enough, they say. well,
i reply-talking to myself- i don't have

a sense of time anyway, and having one
is nothing to be proud of.

i let go of my
eighth layer of skin which is

a plastic bag over my head. i do

so much in one minute
that i black out

during the second minute. the whole time, turns out

all i can see

is faces. the doctor never said

i was blind, but i am, apparently, this
whole time. somehow, it was worth
breaking the news to myself, rather than

hearing it in oversized scrubs: faces, faces, faces
are all i know; have grip on.

do i still get to be an anomaly
upon silent expectations? of course.
i'm better off with

philosophy, broke, living up to
only my own standards- the ones

delivered from the encouraging-voice. i do not
live up
to inventions i misunderstand- and i'm better off
this way-
soaped-up scavenger-wings- who have no
choice- but to scavenge.

Friday, October 16, 2015

stylizing the brain as medicine.

garbage: i didn't know why it was sitting there, so i threw it out. the garbage pail is a list of garbage you are making up as you look at what appears to be a big white illuminating space (it's where you're about to put your garbage):






















:since the mid-twentieth century, psychologists have, collectively, grown a lasting fascination with this deception known as "the garbage exercise". there is no right way to project garbage- you're going to project, and there's going to be an aspect translated as garbage-like.
i accidentally threw this scientific information away immediately upon secreting my recognition of it, though it stuck to me until my next bath and i didn't know what it was. it turned out it cost money- someone elses money. this took up a big wedge of some pie chart.

it's lonely at the top:

"where is everybody?" (xchoral: they are practicing religion elsewhere. for what reason
do you wait? william shakespeare
will not immortalize you
otherwise- the imago. at the top of your head, where
the final stage enlightens, "elsewhere"
is paradise.

listen- i know damned well people- are obsessed
with dreams. paradise

is where you're no longer conjoined
to your dreams- no longer are they
a medical necessity-
you are your dreams.

in paradise the sun is bright. the sky
is blue. there are riptides. animals you are
told in advance are always around
but never are? they are around, but with a power: they can
see you, but you cannot
see them. in paradise, you see each other.
)
(xxchoral: this fugitive wants to coordinate his location):  "where am i?"; the "i" with whom you are heavily involved is being removed by way of surgery (the insidious return to sameness). from now on, you will never return.
(is religious practice surgery? what is removal? is it religious practice? is it surgery?) religious practices of the past are foul unless they continue to be practiced. all of them
are remembered.
religious practices that continue
are memorials.

the deep-down:
when i was little i closed my eyes in order to not be somewhere- anytime i wanted- and pretended to be asleep. this was my way of getting control. it's the control i still have.
"where did everybody go again?" this question is something constant- for i am still little. i close my eyes all the time and they go bye-bye on my own accord (because of my control). i practice
my religion. (religion is practicing
getting control). although i'm trying harder at it, one can see
all i'm doing is refusing
to open my eyes. have i got it all wrong?
)
xxxchoral: shun fugitive a, shun fugitive b and the seeds they've sown. kill! bleed, pussies! ass-backwards is your religion and i can't wait 'til it dies to the core.
xchoral: many seeds have dutifully been sown indeed, throughout the waves-interacting. where is the genius (big gold glob-ball, disco-insurgent)? as far as observances go? it is lost-
it loses reserve when an urgency requires
a subservience to it. this is a subterranean demon convincing.

i am the dog of the urgency; the faithful hound howling- possibly,
a subterranean demon who convinces. i howl

because it raises my threshold for sound, drowns out
the other sounds i hear- all, uninvited. the other faithful hounds

howl back. there is no other satellite to howl at but that urgency
which extends itself outside
of ourselves; emanates. we signal to each other to
learn who has the back of

who. we expand.

let me set you straight about something important. when the faithful hound fails to step on their brakes, it's for no other reason than a loss of focus on the driving. i've learned i do this with the unconsciously-driven intent to ultimately be rewarded. fucking up gets the urgency to bow down to me. i get as close as possible to letting go of everything i'm holding. my boundaries are significantly unhealthy: i'm giving away. revealing is a necessity. this pet dog is the kind of dog that doesn't change in effect to socializing- henceforth, this pet dog is blind as a bat, cowers and whimpers. this dog is on a waiting list to be put to sleep. this dog is practically
asking for it.

a seizure is fragmenting itself? i allow it. i know you can feel without naming the feelings.
feeling 01. glass washes ashore. fossilized? it's a remnant of an old civilization
feeling 02. the waves of now are where i come from
feeling 03. i am a seed right now-
feeling 04. fully here.
feeling 05. this must be a denial. have it be
feeling 06. sacrificed for the greater good: a cathartic
feeling 07. release of toxins. have it be an ocean of
feeling 08. once-cried tears.
feeling 09.
feeling 01. i've had enough of chewing solids. this art
feeling 02. form doesn't complement my constitution.
feeling 03. though i chew solids all the time, i don't
feeling 04. make eye contact with it. it's not something
feeling 05. i want to get to know.
feeling 06.
feeling 07. look at this child: entropy. passive entropy
feeling 08. does as expected without thinking twice. it is the genetic-programming of the dna of entropy (the no-choice) to pass the opportunities outside of knowledge. in movies, people process as if
011001 ff. they weren't alive- as if they were commodities processing manufacturing (surgery).
110000 ee. entropy: there is an audacious amount of information to take in. due to it, my pineal gland
011011 ee. cannot stop secreting. my dreams are felt anyway they can be felt, and they race very
111110 ll. fast. a part of my body is falling off, but because pain doesn't exist in my
000110 ii. dream, it just feels like this feeling is not mine to possess. it doesn't belong
110111 nn. here.
000001 gg.

(a cry to the virgin-whore...)
000000 001.
000000 00.
000000 00.
feeling 00. my fulfilled perceptivity wears the red shoes. if i'm the protagonist, then we are all lost.
feeling 00. avoidance of insanity- the demigod of concepts. we are not sure it exists. these are ancient
feeling 01. burial grounds we set on fire.
feeling 10. the living fetishize the dead. dear the dead- please, exact our vengeance- grow from
feeling 00. underneath. make the buildings look like civilization is preserved.


(a cry- not a reply to the former cry by any means- from the virgin-whore....)
one day i shut down and aimed for short term efficacy. my balloon vision failed to center itself into a sense of "me". it drifted into a sense of a past-life: i saw the one who is not my child.

feeling 10. he is not my child. look at him. there's one fucker who gives a shit for certain. if he were
feeling 01. my child, he'd have my smile. this child's smile is different from my smile. this child is a
feeling 12. man that does the best he can. he's a man with a hat and a tan. where is his inner peace? it
feeling 23. was taken into custody by the police. look at him go- look at him banging the back of his head
feeling 34. over and over into the wall behind it. it's scaring his pet dog. he falls asleep somewhere
feeling 45. between one thousand and fifteen hundred counts of head-bang.
feeling 56. look at him. would you just get a good look at that? i gave my head away to him.
feeling 67.
feeling 78.
feeling 89.
feeling 91. and if this were my child, his middle name would be danger. i highly doubt the
feeling 98. middle name of this child is danger. if he were my child, though he'd not honor
feeling 87. danger, he'd ache to. living up to danger would be his long-term goal in life.
feeling 76.
feeling 65. this child is homeless, for he turned into a ghost, and lost his gravity. this was the moment
feeling 54. he learned to respect gravity.
feeling 43. he lost hold of his stuff, lost handle. so the ghost went to search
feeling 32. for a shelter of forgiveness. it took years.
feeling 21.
feeling 10.
feeling 001.
one thousand and fifteen hundred counts of bang and not a single thing accomplished otherwise? faster, faster: a zillion realities all the same measurement effectually responding to all colors at once. away from parasitic-destiny, unhappy upon learning we're all replicas of one another: the one sophisticated amoeba crawls from the hall of mirrors. present day: individuality is political. the earth is not under attack. the earth is under attack. the earth is not under attack. the earth is under attack. the earth is not under attack. the earth is under attack. must i spell it for you? it's the heartbeat.

feeling 002.
i am intimidated by

the customary pretenses which i speak against; distance
myself from for the sake of this intimidation
as well as seeing past them. i do not go to funerals
nor do i go to weddings. the flag stands for
something that i don't know about.

some say patriotism. i say patriotism is whitewashed
nationalistic pride. we are everything we already are

without pride. how lonely are you? really, that
lonely? that lonely.

i am a column (the architecture of the old soul). the sarcophagus
over which i firmly stand and refuse
to move
is whose? i admit i know not. this column

is set to crumble: there was a discrepancy in the news
that i noticed and didn't let go of. a scapegoat
for my crumbling is going to be blamed. i'm no good

at being a column. i ain't got no class, father. rules
made me laugh, mother. i didn't follow rules, father.
i found rules too difficult, mother. when i did, father,
i was at a loss, mother. i was a failure at rules, father.
i'm damned if i do, mother, and i'm damned, father,
if i don't.
and if all this turns out i'm to be an organ whose function
has always been my destiny- god's
designated plan for me to execute
on his behalf- wherefore? know not i

my function, know i- be still- my
failure- my fear- of failure- also- my fear-
of- success. better i breathe in, better i breathe out and forget about
everything else- though- surrounded by
extremely fast trains. binary, so better be one half of a pair of lungs- my better half?-
better i to admit it's unknown to me- the invisible source- to which i'm connected-
by my finger-reach-
better my fingers one to ten be
bitten off- these fingers do not finish- what it is- which
they start.
and underwater? paradise is above all this. water is wet. summer's
subtleties blend into those of falls 'til wintery.
nature is indistinct from itself, blends, even throughout
pride. (you have won
a free car.) you have won life from the start.

Tuesday, October 13, 2015

the thief's journal.

"bernard knew about my life and never reproached me. once, however, he tried to justify his being a cop; he talked to me about morality. merely with this aesthetic viewpoint with regard to an act, i could not listen to him. the good will of moralists cracks up against what they call my dishonesty. though they may prove to me that an act is detestable because of the harm it does, only i can decide, and that by the song it evokes within me, as to its beauty and elegance; only i can accept or reject it.
"

Monday, October 12, 2015

manifesto preamble.

i haven't been able to write how i wanted to today- it's really hurting my feelings, especially because i took a week-long break from doing so. i'm not sure how i know i am more detached than usual today, but i realize that that's what is bothering me. i think i was less detached than usual for like three days is why.
like how i am with my jacket, my locking of everything, and my watching everything i do, i'm sort of a master at finding ways to protect myself against the looming fear of absurd things happening always possibly out to get me- to which the evidence tends to lack, probably because i block so much out that there is next to no evidence of my history as i have perceived it. that's the shitty part. that's the part that leaves me wondering whether things really happened or if i imagined they happened. countless beliefs.
without protection i am as vulnerable as i am. with or without the vulnerability, i am many other things. i am also strong: i will myself.
what i gauge as typicalities are fine by me. i'll be hunched over the sink and the vacuum cleaner 'til death do we part. i will re-fold every last towel if i must. more than anything, it's the dishes that weigh with the power of simplicity- with purity. there's nothing to interpret. it's everything else i need to be superstitious about.

today was my last day with my therapist of three and a half years. i feel nothing except pretty fucking flat.
i don't get torn by the ends of relationships. i separate my memories of them from myself without even meaning to. it's the ideas i grieve over. it's the loss of memories, of brilliant epiphanies- death over and fucking over again, fifty to one hundred times a day- stabs to the very god resting in my chest cavity. nothing hurts more. nothing is so demoralizing.
i don't praise my therapist but i love and respect her (present tense feels pretty off though, so maybe i stopped as of today). she has been the sober, constant source of reality in a life where i have consistently rejected the value of realities otherwise, no matter what i fit myself into, no matter what "identity" i stuff my hobo bindle up and feng shui my way into.
time and time again i have proven i am either intolerant or-i really i mean it-i cannot do anything that requires a rigid structuring. (i find solace in reminding myself that it's historically proven none fully attuned to their genius without interference can- so i must be among this elite crowd. cultural integration is asking too much of someone who believes in the validity of everything else, although of course cultural integration is also valid.) suppose there is nothing to miss or yearn for if it is not here- suppose objects are as inconstant as they are. suppose this is okay as much as i can grow easily flustered, panic-struck, confused and frantic over it. suppose it is all okay.
i don't know why we have to fit into anything anyway when we're connected already; nested entirely into present consciousness as is. say we're not entirely observant of the present state of consciousness- suppose we're not delicately balancing our unconscious presences and conscious presences. so what if that's so. so what if i'm filled with "voids". suppose i've learned more about life by accepting these voids at some points and rejecting them at other times. suppose i feel like i'm onto something. guess what. i do feel like i'm onto something.
and if i know the present, i don't want to delve into a passive entropy. there are thoughts i expect to be true and there's that which turns out to be another truth. isn't it okay that both happened even though they aren't the same? we are treated with mutilation and i have the power to reject this, or to turn it into something that grows from it. i have an ability to observe and express the observation. i want to know whats outside of knowledge. it doesn't matter how i get there. perhaps there is a lot to learn and it has nothing to do with being traumatized and unwell and unable to fit when i want to fit. of course i long. suppose that's just as much a component of the truth as my capabilities to learn from it are.
my pineal gland leaks excess sensory input i've exposed it to (either meaning to with innocent dissonance, or incidentally because my country is based on an ogliarchy-model in which we enable the money-addiction sickness of the upperclassmen. *and of each other*.)
my dreams can now be anything. they are the response to the sensory input. restless as i am, because of my dreams, it is impossible for me to go insane.

i had hoped my therapist thought i was brave or something for willing myself into revealing "personal" information. today, i revealed some new awful i did today, though i wasn't sure if i was awful or "in the right", as usual. she wanted to know why i revealed personal information so easily. i dislike ending a relationship on this note: for the first time, i felt defective for my "revealing"- though, i'm not sure i know what defects are other than judgments passed on misunderstandings.
my personal life is small talk. it is impersonal for me unless it is shame- shame takes gradual steps to work out of and many musings over "society". all i care about is lightning striking me, and learning from it. i'm alive over and over. don't you know i want to thank this? every experience gives to me and the multiverse.

soldier, that was a hell of a fight you put up.

reality

is the overjoyed dog you come home to. realities real name
is faithful. reality is
the jungle kingdom
connected to itself. one is born fulfilled and connected. perfect
is already.


reality won the pulitzer posthumously as a tribute to its death whose presence impacts as much as its life once did.

Saturday, October 10, 2015

argument against spotify ad that insists "better matters".

um, the best can be found in the present moment and the present moment alone. (which you're already experiencing).

!!!5!!!!!!5!!5!!!!!5!!!!5!!5!!!!!!!!!5

dreaming-is the untamed
eternity.
and if you are the type
to not remember your dreams,
perhaps you should reconsider
your waking life- which is which?

Friday, October 9, 2015

open message to the fact that the internet freaks me the fuck out more and more.

i can find humor therefore a degree of patriotism in the fact that there is a movie about steve jobs being promoted in my face like there's no tomorrow, like he's the zeus of the internet, when in fact the internet is godless. people love the godless- we suck that shit up like cherry icees 'til brainfreeze of no return. don't multi-task yourself into a heart attack, promoting both the internet and now a movie too!

Thursday, October 8, 2015

i'm pretty angry and directing it at different sources so far this morning, and i've already e-mailed what's close to a carbon copy of what this post will be.
for the record: criticisms over art infuriate me. what's the fucking agenda? to help, or to adjust your confusion over my work into your own ideological understanding? yesterday i read an article on students protesting a renoir exhibition at a museum somewhere because the works of other artists in storage are "better".

art is given expression. it's amoral. it's the subjective experience. art is everything. letting this cloak me has set me free. it's the only happiness i know.
when art is gauged by a scale of good to bad, that's reflective of your own standards- not the artists. if the artist is criticizing their own work, it's because they've digested your standards. they're not trying to please as much as they're trying to escape their own shame. i know this happens to me a lot when i try to "draw normal" or write in the rigid style we're expected to- in the taught structure.

i'm bored. i like to create my own meanings and translations because i'm going to do that anyway and the world could use something fresh. when i try to write a "story", i give up, because i have issues with committing as is. it's like trying to be someone else. the taught structure is not my structure.
another point: disorganization does not exist. we all organize. it's practically all we do. my organizing is just as accurate a reality as the others.

and i don't write "stories". there doesn't have to be a name. i don't even have to be an z, a y, or a z. the bottom line is i'm here. the things i do are here.
everything has everything to do with everything. the world is involved with itself like that.

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

hi; my name is fred.

hi; my name is fred koch (ISBN-10: 0195161440) the mercenary. i emit terror[ism]. desperate to stop myself, i seek a partner in agape-style love.
i was born in a university walled with wainscot. this is my jail. i i am still in jail but that doesn't stop me from being a prophet. you, too, are in a proverbial jail but that doesn't stop me from profiting from it. my trophy room has your name written all over it. my trophy room is your jail and it is just like shawshank redemption- one is both innocent and guilty of crime.

i want to be the president of the united states of america (a young man that has been radicalized) right now to save the world from an apocalyptic, self-perpetuated corruption. my strategy is to amplify the very mission of sensory outreach (manipulated science) to override precautionary tales (ISBN-13: 978-0613357661) of losing one's humanity to their data in order to be immortalized; action figures.
i intend for everyone to be hooked on being radicalized into immortality.
ancient civilizations have advised us that computers are unable to compute without people. computers are dependent machines. there's no way we can know the future if it hasn't happened to us personally.
the first dependent machine was myself.
i am out to prevent computers from allegations of corruption. i am an original religion. because of the large numbers needed to be memorized in order for this to persist, i couldn't go on as a religion. my followers had convenience at their hands and never memorized anything ever again. memories went, attention went- soon, my followers all navel-gazed.
i'm out to stop the people smugglers who are people. they cannot replace me, not even with their strongly dissonant relationship with currency. they are not the voice of the underprivileged. contextually, i am- i am the voice of anything. i am the voice of people being things. the economy is not strong, but my number is rising.

let me come inside you, and i will immortalize you with bribery of luxury goods. let me come inside you again, and it'll happen again.

we need to have a talk. to do this effectively. we must have commitment to do so or else we will not have strength. and what is, without strength?
there's going to be a confrontation, i would never target a protected medical facility but perhaps russia. the starvation there differs from the starvation here. i'm on twitter and the next episode during the distrusted forecast.

Monday, October 5, 2015

cutting open some possessions a-holes.

time is slow as hell. nothing is charming- merely, adrift. charm is unreal- wanted, but holds refusal to speak to me. i wanted to charm and didn't: i crawl on my hands and ass toward the end of the day. the journey is a slippery slope. i do what it takes to get there and i keep it minimal.

not all births pull through. you don't always finish what you start. we all do decompose at different rates anyway. it is uncomfortable. the guarantee of life is it's okay to fuck up in this manner.
is it not okay the world is broken? am i really the only one that can feel it and know it's not just like sandpaper?

my ear is to the conch. i hear everything's nothing, which is breath- electric, and bunched into black and white: the flipbook. i acknowledge this is distorted noise- an accurate reality like all of them. i know the dark matter. isn't that stupid? i force an image of an ocean because one doesn't immediately conjure. it is not an ocean. if long horizontal landscapes exist, there is one that does command a presence. it is a desert.

i know my own destiny. isn't that stupid again? i like it and society tells you to judge. that means that's your job.
so dislike it: know your own destiny.

extreme nausea all over the areas underneath my ears. i don't know how to explain it or why i'd have to anyway. everything can be found in the extreme nausea under my ears, except my self-evident failure. maybe my birth did not entirely pull through. maybe i hit my head as a baby. maybe i forgot to take my medication this morning.

it has been months since i initially mourned. i live for that for which i continue to mourn. i don't know what to name that which i live for; which i mourn for. everyday i wake up and continue to bury the same remains that brought me to this point. this is a pattern.
must i continue onward this way? it smells like dog food. it's a real think-tank, all right. it feels good to burp. the smell of dog food is what has shaped me. two-year-olds and i have everything in common.
this sometimes entails an act of censorship. it is sometimes not an act, so it doesn't happen. all acts require choice. what is a choice?

i am doing everything you are not supposed to do in life. it feels like i am refusing to choose. i do this, because i don't know any better. i was raised in a dunk tank. i was raised in a shit-hole.
i forget everything that happens because i am touching a shadowy figure i don't even know. are you mad at me? are you mad at me?

when you fail to succeed, you can always fuck up real bad. you can do drugs and prostitute yourself literally. i do not succeed nor do i fail in that conventional-speak. i don't even feel abandoned by the moments that have passed. i don't know what they are anymore if they no longer exist. what it is i feel abandoned by is a collective meaning i've displaced; spewed. i long to be a kid in a candy store and all the candy is free and all the candies are all the organs i need to be happy which is what society measures (judges) we're supposed to be.
society shrugs its shoulders just as much as i do.

i am lurking further below, in the murkiest of waters. there is an urgency there. urgency only matters when it is there. imagine you are not you. you are me. you commit suicide as soon as possible because you can't just party. you don't have it in you anymore. it's just not your way.
now, imagine you are not yourself nor anyone else. you are not even a hermit. you live in their spittle. you reflect the hermits. it's your next life. now, you can party. you have it in you.

i don't regret anything. this has nothing to do with doing too many party drugs. i am listless toward anything. don't you ever look back and feel great about where you are now? no. no, i do not.

do i not draw well? are the planets dying? it was never mysterious to me that they are. maybe the point of gravity isn't black-pitchblack. and maybe...maybe the air smells like something neat-o like crackers and white people eating them. i'm telling you, even if you're obedient, beaver, ninety-eight percent of what we are bathing in is anti-matter-dark-matter. maybe it hasn't even been colored in yet, beaver. wouldn't that be a kneeslapper? golly.

i have not even dared so much to sneak into the house of a neighbor and woke up being them (though i have dreamed it. i have seen myself from their eyes. when there aren't eyes, i imagine eyes. the imagined eyes cover the ceilings of everywhere i've gone to. "child," they start, "let me tell you what a wise man has to tell...

"if you wake up, it'll continue being disturbing out there, but only you are disturbed. you must go on. you must continue to feel the weight of the world on your shoulders. you must be the one to carry the pain- for you, dear child, are going to be the only one that isn't a martyr.
"you are going to have a right to say you have all of the pain at once. the ache! it cannot be mistaken. you do know the pain and weight of the world all at once, don't you? the eyes all over the ceilings know."

the stillness
of the hanging faces persist- and if i...if i can
focus a little more, i can continue
onward, with the same

harrowing pain the triple-threat: it hurts me, it hurts
others, it hurts my chances of
getting what i want. deep reticence: so much shame

to receive- which is never a hereditary feat (those
aren't worth addressing). it is free

however, not a wild idea. wild imaginations

don't believe in themselves
anymore. sweet child? mourn! mourn! the
trumpets! jeepers, the lyres!

wild imaginations can't stand to look anywhere
but at

the hanged faces
who cannot be described. these ancestors watch...
the search for them is never intentional...

looking in the clouds i see
clouds. i see, t'isn't my time. hearing

in the conch? no ocean less terrific. this reality

is accurate, nonetheless.

dear child. you enchant me with your insecurities!
after all, dear child. you are honest and courageous.

IN A DREAM, SOMEWHERE- i was supposed to get somewhere at a certain time, and i did, but the door was locked. i didn't get it and also i was panicking. i continued to try to open the door the same way i had the first time. what do i do? who am i now? what do i eat? what do i drink?
nothing was labrynthine or anything- the boring tiles on the boring floor were lined up next to one another evenly as if god made them that way.

i wake up from the dream, somewhere. i'm facing the desolate ocean on a shitty day. i'm jumping up and down past a sandbank unselfconsciously. you can hardly see me. i'm not much.
again i hear everything's nothing but trust it no more than a distorted noise because i don't know any better during the moment which is an urgent knick-knack.

there are several truths according to therapy. what's in the way of the middle? this ocean. this view of the ocean. these tiles. this door. this dream. these insecurities. this conch, these clouds, the hanged faces, god. the several truths are in the way of the middle of the several truths disguised as golden wheat in heaven.
and i might not even care, even if it turns out differently than how expected.

i presume
you expect.

just imagine your are not yourself nor anything else as

how they describe
themselves to you. blank out

for good. it might be nicer to know
you that way; it might
do
you
good
do
you
justice.

where does your shame come from?

fifty-six, female, america. i'm seeking a person. any person. let's skip trust and have no idea why we love each other. i am sick of being co-dependent with shame my whole life. shame is why i am sick. i haven't had a job in years. i do not go to school, either. this makes me a bum.
sometimes i think of like, renting an apartment- i get really intimidated. i think more- signing a security release. that is so grown up. and all that money- do people know how much apartments cost? surely, you don't love your security that much.