fine sun’s in miniskirts. chicken blood for the bourgeoisie

oh, dirty gold….how extravagantly time flies. Mighty fine days. Mighty smile on peoples face. Where does it all go? Time…..with each step. Breath. Stab. Kill. Hunter or the hunted. The shimmering arrow in a tweaked daylight glow. Butterflies cringe in nectar. The wisdom of the old man, swallowed away by little children unheard. The vicious python coiled around the neck of Buddha. Time.

I saw this tree, and I climbed over it. Which on most passe days, this shit is ideally impossible to attain. I mean, who ever climbs over fucking trees? Perhaps climb into, or more suitably up. But no, however the english language is most applicable to sane and neither to be used under superficial or blazed circumstances…however the truth is, like it or like it again…. I did climb over it. The question wasn’t if this was a physically possible feat? Like say, pouring glass into water. Maybe lighting a match with toothpicks.

In metaphysical reality. Obviously any of this is (understatement) clearly promising. As it attracts no boundaries of human construct hence. If you wanted to in metaphysical reality. Bound by a metaphysical logic. Which some square root to the number -1 law could be applied. Does not really hold any prerequisites for logic. So I can say just as suitably, I climbed over a fucking tree. And not have to mean anything by it. Who writes this stuff anyway? Me of course but…who am I? 

I have found an amazing essay that clearly underlines the contents of this blog. By the great French philosopher, Foucault. Entitled What is an author? So all arguments aside, all metaphors…signifiers and the signified. Beyond the arrogance of human perception. This could be the opportunity to seize all arguments and just listen. Not merely to what the next person is doing. But, should you go on living like this with vile contempt for which you do not understand. Obviously. Hitherto is always possible to accomplish knowledge to a certain extent. And once that extent is left hanging(due to the numerous possibilities of human failure) it leaves a void. And with that void, you could keep building a bridge. Or just fall into space forever. I promise you though, there will be no blankets to seize your opportunities. In the masterful words of J. Krishnamurti. Every aspect of thought, creates barrier. Don’t think about it. Because if you did….it might be too late my humble readers.

litter box love

When you cringe. The bowels of hell suck you into its brain. So it is better of if you just stood there. Putting on a consistent ignorance piece in its face. Like the wrong song from a wrong piano. The decryption in your stomach is the product of a psychoanalysis that tastes of poignant spirit. Wrong was the way she turned. Accustomed to primordial beliefs of poesy stems of flower plants. Not make sense when she speaks. That is love, cause what they said was it knows no boundaries.

So if death was a boundary. More like the thick line of a painting gone wrong. Nevertheless art grows on failure. The failure to live life. Lust. Greed. Glutton bureaucracy. Death wishes of churches. The execution panel. Limp faces, with prejudice in their eyes. Fecal matter distortion. Cigarettes in their mouths. Unaccustomed suits. Dead penises. Wrong analogies.

The apology lays rested in a phallic skull. Disco beats and black lights tear open skin. Nonchalance ghetto. From the poor to the rich. Preaching psychoanalysis tongues that spit semen — torrents of wrong children. The mighty chaos in the hands of god gives no sermon. Plight brought upon plight. I know the deception. Wrong machine. Wrong human. Chaos reigns. Raliegh North Carolina. Blink beeps. Serpent beats. The snake kisses the microphone. Touche — touche.

Squeeze the lime into my porridge. The fermented. The rice wine. The wicked crew. Bloody of all blood I drink. The plastered face Van Helsing. In a brothel of wisdom. Where truth speaks itself as flesh. Wisdom of Vagina breath. Virgin Mary. Colossus. The sugar of ripe wine. The drought of gin.

Blue in film strips. Anal Outrage. Semen upholds to torture in gothic light. Through chiaroscuro textures and blatant exposure of northern light. Lights that show no mercy for hunger. Intestinal homicide. The glow within. The rot extreme. Follow gang signs. Indian merchants give handouts to children with no religious education. Withhold motherly love. Spit in faces.

Cream shows hollow hearts. Blood flows through space and thought. Forgo blood bath blue blood. Pluck the flower. Smell it. Disease freak. Kiss of goddess Athena lips. Touch frenulum. Whispers in your ear. Disease of kiss.

Love of disease. Disease of love. Wicked worship. No use to contort the lies. Because within lies open. And open get lost inside where the skull swallows you whole. No room for trust. No room for room in what context. The blurbs of swallows. When you say something to me I show you my palm. Let it speak to you. Endowed ghost. Frenulum squirt. Blood lies. Disco beats truth. Turtle waste.

Where is the water. Where is the beach….there…there….sand…

three inches above sea level

I sat on the roof with that boy. A brother. At least he used to be, as if I didn’t know before. Well, he could have easily transcended into the beaming stereotype of a sex addict of sorts. It didn’t happen. What was more excruciating to hear now. Especially now because he is 19 years old and there is no turning back. He is digging deeper into the dark supple feminine core of his soul. Yes, a transvestite. Not fully operational, but almost getting there — at least this was how the confession sufficed itself. 

I didn’t know how to react. I dragged deep into the joint I was passed and tried to linger in a high that was creepily giving way to paranoia. I was just shocked. Flabbergasted to a point that deserves the clinging satisfaction of my bloodshot eyes exposing retinas to a screaming sun. Where the fire cracks the throat open and more light beams shoot out leaving blood trails and the suns mouth — if it had one leaking with excrement. 

“So you’re gay?”

“No…a lot more than gay baby.” I passed the joint. “It’s okey I guess. If thats what you really want.” “But you know the shit you gonna have to take right? The lame ass bashing from an immature and pompously ignorant society.”

“Fuck it. Being in the closet is just as bad. I take the bashing myself. Upon myself. Insidious to my homosexual consciousness.” “It’s kinda hard to rectify the forcefulness of it all. I tear myself up inside. And I don’t cry, cause I promise myself I am a man?” “What is that anyway?”"Sometimes it is just better to let it rip you know. I can’t fucking take this shit. Like hiding…not being myself. It’s better I cry than just plain go out….and fucking stab daddy in the gut for example.”

“I think I get you.” “But you know, sometimes….all you need to do is just talk.” “Like you know all the bullshit that happening around us, but occasionally it just gets a little exasperating and its always good to let it out …. prominently to someone who could listen. And not judge or come out with their hideous solutions to problems you know.” “I’ll be like dude. You got your shit and I got my shit you know. Eliminate.”

An airplane — slow. A vestibule to take away. It was always to me some symbol of escape. Serving a better purpose as a coherent and a not so mind boggling metaphor for leaving. This is when beauty extracts itself in forms that are completely unexpected from the stale, ridiculous truths of life. And then memories are lost in there somewhere. As you stare out into the sky. Always when I do this I know one thing is true. That we all share the same sky. Even if we hated it on this side. We would love it elsewhere. Moment of clarity. 

I turned to look at my brother. He was lost in his own thought. Not starring at the sky. Just blankly into space. Possibly deep into his thoughts and memory. I wanted to tell him this but chose not to. I looked back at the sky, and squinted for a while until it got used to the sun again. I trailed the stream of fumes from the airplane — it was gone — hidden behind the clouds. And I looked down to the ground and touched my toenails.

collateral pornstars

He stabbed Goddard on the way out of the set. Everybody was black and white. Before technicolor bathrooms and ruins in desert sand. Maybe there was medicine in the tents. Fucking peyotes and teacher that taught you how to use the needle.

He left the set and walked into Jamba Juice. Threw the ice remaining at the bottom of the plastic cup onto the ground and squished it with his feet. The unbearable sound of crunching ice under his rubber soles. 

Now he had blood on his hands. Walking didn’t phase him. It was his veins that tore in circles of vaporizing blood. Inhalers for medicinal purposes. He had asthma. Not the kind that you would survive. Possibly the asthma that would take you in candle light — and sad sad Bethoven. Not the bastard who was chirpy… more like the primordial sad fuck. That looked out windows. That looked out windows. That looked out windows.

So they sell guns now. But what if the dust collected in the barrels. The desert gave the opportunity for no use preceding the full fall into cosmic affairs with the skies. When deers dance in supernova explosion communicating visual language that interweaves the cortex into breathless navigation. In order to succeed breathless not in a conventional sense. In a sense that seizes to exist. Then deers love the tiger. Cancer dreams on wet sand. Looking out. Beyond ocean — maybe it was possible for the other side to exist. But now this is all imagination. For what is real. Is imagination. What is here is only to be left beyond. Correction. Beyond and not behind.

He rose from his bed and navigated himself through the map of his floor. Found the fire. Put his hands to it. Warmed them up. Put his warm hands to his face. He thought this would be the right time for Wild Turkey on the rocks. A blunt. The head of the deer illuminated in the glimmer of the burning fire. The blood boils. Surpassing all fear. And the French police busted in, leaving no signs of significant ennui.

of animals eating you on the way to hell

So it was cold that night when I opened the window. A gust of wind came trashing in — almost knocking me of the fucking ledge. The point was to jump anyway, but I wasn’t quite ready. It was seemingly yellow. The shit stains of any city illuminated by goddamned street lamps. Gas chamber sorrow — when it is below 10 degrees something and no cars around. I had a flash light in my hand but the beam wouldn’t reach the ground. There were cars yes. Parked, edited according to the lapse of human sleepwalkers. 3am and still in the fucking office. So yes, here I am squatting on the ledge flashing a beam that isn’t even reaching the matchbox cars.

Maybe a heard cat fights but I’m just to high up to hear shit like that. Imagination. Possibly. But wouldn’t go as far as to conclude myself mentally retarded. Bad times. Sometimes it is just so hard not to hold on to comfort. What if, its just a bed — a television that speaks to you when you have no one. The radio. The internet. Fucking junk emails. I had thrown the desktop Hewlett Packard bastard out and watched it crash into the snow. Yet no one heard. Because no one was there. Too cold out. 

Occasionally the streaks of car headlights would stream around the corner and onto the highway and fade out into oblivion. The doctor had said it was the blood pressure. It ran in the family. But even a better explanation than that I told him. “Motherfucker. Depression ran in the bloodline too.” “Touche” he said. Erased by boredom. Go see a psychiatrist. “I just lost my job.” “I could recommend you one pro bono.” “Fuck off.”

The last time I watched the news, a guy was balding. Someone always grew hair or lost it. Better than war. At least this is a psychological death we endure. Possibly much more painful than a gunshot to the head.

But what bothers me is the cocaine. No really it doesn’t. It gives me the energy to squat on the ledge of my window on the 36th floor of my office building and watch the city go by with a flashlight. Where is the janitor. Would smoke a cigarette with him. Bastards probably sleeping. I’ll smoke one here with the Virgin Mary instead. God bless my mothers heart who believed in her. Now they are conspiring to “protect me.”

Oh look. A pedestrian. “HEEEY. I’M GONNA FUCKING JUMP.” She didn’t hear me. How did I know it was a she. I coughed. Spat. Watched it fall forever. I stood up on the ledge. No cars. No clues. No answers.

On my way down I thought of animals eating me on th…..

mailbox

I wet my hand and put it to the mirror — embedded the print of my palm. I shaved my head. When I was four years old I had a toy train on my birthday cake. I knew another four year old who broke the toy train on the same day. 

I went to the corner of the hall and cried. They had failed to cheer me up. I am fourteen years old. Now there is the wet print of my hand — amongst the molecules of water and the humidity of the bathroom. I shaved the side of my head. I dropped my hair to the left side of my face. Maybe it looked sexy. Maybe it didn’t. 

It would have been something I would have done after I cried in the corner of the hall. Swollen eyes. Flushed cheeks. Wet hair across my face and a half shaved scalp. I squeezed more conditioner into my hand. I massaged it through the wet hair.

I put my bra on. And walked outside to check the mail. It was hot. Mid summer possibly. I was starting to sweat a little. It was hot in the bathroom but I hadn’t really realized how much I was perspiring. Now I felt it. My wet skin against warm air. If my pores were pushing out the wetness in order to take in the new air I dont know. But my pores felt dead to me for long enough. I had left a pack of Parliaments in the mail boxed. I lit one. I sat down on the old couch outside that came with the apartment. It was ripped. An antiquity. It was a dark dirty green. Even if I didn’t get the apartment, I would have returned to steal this couch. 

Now I had the apartment and the couch. I am 22 years old. I had only managed to shave a part of my head. I had the letter in my hand. It came in a yellow envelop. I put it aside. The smoke collected in my lungs. I blew it out in the direction of the sun I couldn’t see. Too bright. I felt under my wet armpits. It itched. I looked at the letter. I let the cigarette dangle by my lips and took the letter into my hands.

I took the cigarette out of my mouth and put the letter to my parted lips. In doing so I smelt the dead trees that were left behind like broken soldiers. Remembering what was once apart of them. The sage was only once abundant. I felt the burning cigarette in between my fingers. It felt sexual yet stale. I was drying up. The wetness was evaporating. Leaving my body. Parting. There is a nonchalance about how my skin was exposed to the breath of gods. My heart contracting. I felt an invasion. 

Forcing me to open myself. Give myself. I put the trembling cigarette to my mouth. Sucked it deep.

And with a nail I gouged a hole into the envelop and ripped it open with my whole finger.

sultan of dope hill

We lit the hill on fire with gasoline and sat on a cement bench across the football field to watch it burn. This particular hill had been direly dear to us — in the prime force of enduring the years of high school. It was this hill where we dragged large aluminum coated dining tables and long wooden benches from the canteen to furnish the dirt platform that we had flattened — either with our bare hands or spades and sickles that either one of us had stolen from the garage. Carefully hidden in the midst of tall large tropical trees  and condensed bushy plants. 

Ideal to our prerequisites so none of the teachers or shit mouthed students could rat us out to the abusive authorities. Disciplinary enforcers who abused us with rattan canes or primordially with (and again) their bare hands — the ultimate tool for plowing ground and smacking the shit across our faces. Fucking high school.

So what did we do here? Once it had been carefully plotted out and furnished — landscaped to chill out suitability. Each of us had brought in our collection of fine bongs. Some glass, some plastic — depending on our tastes and style and how seriously we took our pot smoking. Which was a pretty serious deal in high school next to skateboarding or either playing in a hardcore – punk band. Some went straight edge and vegan but nonetheless hung out with us there when they skipped classes — listening to Earth Crisis CD’s in their Discman. 

And of course, I was thirteen years old, in fine fashion for the first time in my life — I took the hit of the bong — Coughed a little, choked a little and possibly farted a little but nothing had happened. I wondered why and voiced out my curiosity. All the older kids said was come back tomorrow and do it again. So I did. And again in fine fashion for the first time in my life — I experienced my first high the next morning, possibly during the two periods of Geography in which I was supposed to be attending. But I remember distinctly being wondrously paranoid and felt the teacher (a large hideous Chinese bitch) coiling around the branches of trees like a large blubber of fat morphing into snakes. But snakes added to the delight of being afraid, so maybe I was going to be swallowed by a dragon fly. The football field just below rung in a deadly silence. I heard the voices of prefects and teaches that threatened to show and eventually just dissipated with the wind. Then it started to come down — the intensity waving and I actually began to enjoy it. Just being high. Being content as a motherfucker. Sitting on a wooden bench within the security of a school system and within a security of our own. Totally invigorating. We had names. I mean look at us sitting here, in our school uniforms, fucking badge over our shirt pockets. Not belonging to nobody.

And yes we did. Now we walked around the school with a new found freedom. Brimming with a brotherly secret. With the days that followed, there was a constant supply and we had chilled. Lounging. Those who didn’t want to smoke had brought the good old Jack the Devil. Some did both. It was a great plan. Conceptualized by a bunch of high school outcasts. Those who were elevated from the rest. We lived a different consciousness. The gangs couldn’t figure us out. The teachers hated us. Those who walked around with cannes always pinned something on us — knowing something was up but not knowing where to pin point that shit.

We had even built a tunnel through the bushes. With a trap door leading to a second tunnel that took us there. You had to remove a bush door and crawl all the way in. The best part was, nobody even knew that shit was there. It was rather exclusive. No one needed a membership. It was just there. Either you knew it or you didn’t. 

Well, and so we got discovered 4 years later. It sure was a blast for what it was. They finally legitimized this as an official problem. And then they brought the cops in. And the decoy was and investigation for kids skipping classes. But it sure enough was for us. And we had years of collected fine evidence of homemade bongs that were stashed around. Maybe little samples of stale cannabis here and there. 

One day, me and a friend decided to torch it. We got some gasoline. Rigged the place up with enough dried leaves and smoked it. So here we sat. Watching it all go up in flames. History. A sort of communion in peace. The fire seemed to be a driving force behind an intellectual elite. We refused the system. We refused the pop culture. We had created what that had belonged to us and set it free into the world.

Then we grew up. And some of us had lived. And some died.

stay within the circle

Sometimes, when he just waited within the careless questions of his heart he couldn’t really hear himself. He wasn’t here. No being. Sometimes, when he wanted to talk to somebody, just expose himself in it utter most sensitivity, like a dead rose sinking in the flesh. The large metal clock TICKED, within the brass gold coated ring around its face. The train station was dead, despair was a constant character falling in love with his own hands, looking deadly and silently into them. He wandered past the metal enclosures of hotdog stands. The morning was never to come. He knew this cause he didn’t no one about it. He was so sure of his morning, but was it the morning of other people. Yet he hung around. His hoofs plastered and concealed into the ground with nowhere to go — but here and there. The favor was his coat, and it wasn’t about him naked and exposed in skin. More in the chastise of a strange convulsion. 

The nuclear birds were singing black metal screeches that violated the tinge of humanity. There was a mystifying warning of a sort of decadent exposure of the nihilistic nature of the universe. It will, would have or should have sucked it all into a careless emptiness. The wisdom was shaken in him. Often contradicting himself. Nothing was new to him. All new appeared dead. And the dead even more so. Why is there still lust in a broken heart he thought. Staring lost into the magnificent concrete tiles of the train station. White and creamy tiles, seeping into its concrete base, where memories were never to come out again. 

Why was there lust, and a dire craving for a crude sort of beastly passion that confided in him. Within the cage he himself was trapped in and battling his subtle consciousness. The tyranny of truth he thought, as he lifted his head up to the white lights, that glared onto him in an unbearable extent. Was the source of both condescending pillars of humanity. Exceeding that, life and all its equivalents in an unparalleled harshness. The ferns would feed you and yet prick you with its poison. And we shouldn’t pay any heed to this tyrannical exposure of the most blatant truth. 

So there he was in the feathery texture of his wool peacoat seizing the opportunity of thought. And as he walked, disecting the universe in buddhist tradition, but with a Nietzsche facelessness. And all elements kept escaping him, transcending into further extortion of the sane, merging into either darkness or light. And asking more favors to rediscover what could possibly not, nor even ever will be. 

Then he saw him. There he was, standing with a fine grey felt hat on his head, a polished alligator skinned suitcase in his right hand. And stark naked beyond the impenetrable.

the letter to her that i kept in my pocket

the corridor leads to strange eggs. That limp with the secret submarines of the sky. Never was there anything like that before. I know I hadn’t seen anything like it. But he did, I stood next to him. The trains had  passed is. The universe stirred beyond the skies. We had seen it all. Different voices had spoke to us.

My castles lay inbetween the whispers of the gentle grass that blew in the wind. There was no stalling us. Everhthing beyond had landed in our laps. As gentle as a falling flower. I kissed him on his lips. He read my palms. The lanes of strange countries levitated out of them…. — these lanes had come out like tornados in desert sands, seizing time. Coexisting with rest of the sad faces of Turkish children. Holding the hands of their little sister. Wishing the had lollipops in their pockets. I said to him.

“Listen to the voice in your heart that sings comrade.” “The voice that plays the dead Gibson guitar. Who revives its soul…..Holding the heart of a dead guitar, Feel it beat like a timebomb in his hands.” “The heart never fail’s you I said.” “It holds on to your bleeding lips, tasting its sweetness” “No shadows lurk in here.” “It is just you and your soul buddy.” I spit a loogie into the desert sand. The crows were calling so I looked up. Beyond still sitting in our laps. No favors. No commitments. Dizzy stars circle in the depths of our retinas. Children playing see saws on them. Some lunging on to mommy’s left leg.

“Why do they talk like that mommy” a little girl said. A lollipop in her pocket. Content. Loving the sight of a murky ocean. So late in the night. The stars sing to her cradling babies in their arms. She loves him. Oh so much. She saw into distant horizons, seeing beyond the dreams of Alexander. The soft leg of her mothers thighs. How sentimental could someone get anyway? Why so soft. Our ribs melt like petroleum when we touch it. Dear mother, I can feel my heart in my hands. I CAN FEEL IT!! I spoke to me. It listened to my hands. My hands were like ears. My ears spoke to people. People never heard me.

Oh, I love the feeling of my face to a cement wall I though. How luxurious, Fresher than the scent of exposed flesh.  IT is just me and my sorrow. I melt into the ground.

But no, it didn’t end there. He revived me. Revived me. He saw into my galaxies. I haven’t seen anything like that he told me. My chest opened up to him like the doors of a catholic church. “These are my secrets baby. Gentle unicorn. You glow like a crown when I say that.” He said and kissed my gentle wrists that hung there like a tormented branch in a misty forrest. I have wanted to kiss you so many times. The backdoors of my heart is aching. They held on to each other in the bitter cold february winds. Take my arms. My legs. I will just sit here with my shattered ribs. As they die for you. Blowing away in the cold cold February winds. 

I will have to crawl out the sand with the sun grinding on my face. They had whipped me. My wounds sprayed with red as the lashes kissed my flesh. They opened their lips to sing silent songs to you. I am blind but I want to feel only with my lips. With all the cavities in its soul to suck you into a vision of near lust. Somethings just don’t cling on to its walls. The flesh of its wild berries. Secreting its sweet juices onto your skin. Maybe it tasted like blood. Yes, it was where I stood. Watching you sitting there, in the dim light of a warm room reading Scandinavian poetry. The horses dance in glory out two large panoramic arches. With statues of kissing angels clinging to the pillars with their hands. 

The soft sound of harps on the other. The music that portrayed itself as the barrel of polished guns.  There is nothing, only nothing but a tunneling darkness. Only lasting long enough to hear the whispers of its endless ghosts. I kissed. The air…And all its echos. 

“The stars don’t talk to me anymore.” the little girl said to her mommy.

a letter to chelsea

Dear Chelsea,

Holy SPITIT? Fuck. I am just going fucking crazy. There is a lame dementedness about this fucking place. If I could just break windows. I can’t. Shoot myself. No fucking guns. I run into the middle of the street to screeeeeemmmm. And all I can do is show my fucking finger at the palm tree. There is no sanity in anything. Or the insane is trapped in the cell of this chamber. The bullet doesn’t spit. It backfires. Rotten sewage my mind it is. Have this all spill on the floor. I pick up my mess.. My internal shit fair. The celluloid of daylight dreams. Broken hearts are useless. Just like the purpose that propels the purpose. This madness is mine. And I wanna shit on the window. Smear it for the goddamn world to fucking look in at me. I shall hold up this goddamn mess. Look at my spilt brains you mad fucks. Look into my goddamn window. I fucking dare you. What am I? WHAT …JUST WHAT THE FUCK AM I. The blood off my wrists don’t stop. They keep me alive. Shouldn’t it fucking do the opposite? Where is the fucking holy ghost now you shitstabbing fanatics. My dilemma is the hell you believe in. The fucking paradise you call earth. God is no creator. I am god. I paraded the worst and saw the best. Try and tell me what to do. Let your ghosts speak to me. There is no use anymore. What worth is all this when the smile is just the same as seeping sore on a cows ass. Come in you bastards. I’ll show you my legs. I’m one sexy queen. My vagina is real. Fuck the plastics. You hallucinating bastards. I’ll show you how I live. RUN AWAY FROM…THAT’S RIGHT. I am the fucking abomination. Cocksuckers. Here is your love. IS IT REAAL>>???? I thought so. Now am I a sexy broad? Go fuck yourself.

Dick