Are You Gonna Eat Yer Fat?

[And other sad ramblings from a broken, broken man.]

     I have diligently guarded my anonymity, my introversion spackled like stucco, armor, onto my house of unreasoning and maul. As if it weren't my own shadow. A troll's teeth in my back pocket are coalescing into the consanguinities of relative adulthood. Often, when I do not sleep enough, I say things like "I find the smell of your banana offensive." When I only mean to think those things. There is a system, a repellant and obscuring of heart, that I have been making myself un-learn. My success could be measured in kisses.

     Consider size when praising- Or the fortuity of dynamic, as it's all relative from the strand. I am a miner, a brick-layer, a butcher, a killer. There is a lasting epic of failure- I try and tie myself back together with the twine I dream, scraped from the ocean, from the sea. Bread soda on my tongue, your sugar, this saga. I will retrofit the doom into a sandwich, a feast. And when I lay you down to me, like these red and blue collisions, will we make a new and unperverted purple? These bases of listing and scree hollow me out like I need to be hallowed.

     Sleep, for some, apparently, is not cumulative. Why then, would error be? Good Heavens, I don't know. But it is, of this I am sure. I can only allow my paranoias to carry me so far away- while I am older, you are bolder. Perhaps I should have flown, when I mistook wings for tumors, and you showed me the door. But these choices are wrought, and I anticipate much goodness from their iron and mantling. Hold dear the collusion, conspiring effort to hopscotching say-so and newer, cleaner days. Unmake my bed, and I will make it for you.

     I love you; means, I hope you survive this. And I do. Legacy, open field, open book, mouth agape [mouthed the words in the mirror, today- just to see what you see when I say them]. My ability to do so only proves my willingness to let you live. I am drinking coffee now, again, still. I actually would rather be doing anything but this, anywhere but here, anytime but now. I feel like you need me, and that is a better and worse feeling than there are words to express. I have invented some words to try and get it done- but when I'm the only one speaking the language, conversations become awkward...

8:31 PM - 29 Comments - 28 Kudos - Add Comment

Bizzarerie

Thresh, hold, triptych torture
devices contain these bleedings
out, this blood, this lust-
A song to the worms.
Wagnerian decompositions,
of mouth-box, make the words flit,
haunt, stay. Valkyrie me,
from the rooftops, from the
archways, in a trumpeted and
meticulous worth. To Betelgeuse
frothings, a starscape of
propriety on the back-end of what
you'll never reach.
 
I allow your petulant starings,
as you allow me to ignore them.
That's why I'm thinkin' Tejas,
this winter. We can be warmed
instead of chilled
in our differences; our
indifferences. Ansular mesh of
organic meanderings to dreaming
and escape artistry bear no
semblance of propriety to yen.
To my menagerie of instabilities,
I grant you an unending season pass.

In the mien of tender infliction,
I will grant you this thing.
To hurtings and healings, dressed
to the nines, stitched with
bellicosity and upheaval.
Make this sweetest song yet to come,
torture it out of me in a reversal
of pins and needles what put it in
so long ago. Play for me a new
song, that will murder the past,
play for me your song that will
murder me as slowly as possible.

5:07 PM - 26 Comments - 32 Kudos - Add Comment

Apartheid Daytrips to Brasilia

Jackhammer my patience into another day. They used to be filled with  variegated balances, blatancies in consumption- All for fairweather expedition to the priceless vanity of forgetting. How the bikini-line screams of reclamation!

[Endurance being the glue. Or satire- I'm undecided.]

Part and parcel, place by place, I've become less and less. Bound[ed] in sargasso twinery, to the definitive druthers of a spectacle. I fear at times for my own sanity, for my own desire... Stability is a conceptual frolic. Relearned for fire, for water, to burn or drown.

[I've always been a private person. I'm trying to give that up. I am brutally shy, ridiculous at times in my pavement-saw introversion.]

Often (admittedly foolishly), I've lived this life as if it were a spectator sport. Noncomittaly, as a hobbyist or a spoiled child. There are loopholing processes, feeding into an inertiative awareness that my pain is no greater or lesser than anyone else's. But, it is mine.

[Daily, circumstance insinuates itself into the material pornographies of breathing. Slicks the pall of reality onto my namelessness.]

To redress the bones of my choices in the meats of meaning. The fear in the muscle, topical memory, holds the held 'til all Hell's loose. Like falling in love. Like Jets, flying. Like imagining a beach in Brazil. Which, I am unsure, but I think's got to be an acronym for something. Again, I'm often wrong. Croatoa bosozoku mitigates the doom wrangling. Personal alchemy, I guess.

[Involved. I had always hoped, one day, my straw would be spun into something useful. I will eat whatever's left.]

2:16 AM - 39 Comments - 40 Kudos - Add Comment

I hate when I lose art. I used to draw and paint a lot.

When I moved from PDX to the Mil', I left my portfolio with my roommate- Who'd promised to send it to me. It was my lifes work- From the time I started creating at 14, to 22 when I moved. It was everything to me. I used to draw and paint a lot. More than I ever wrote, up to that point.

It was a lot of black and white, a lot of sketching, and a lot of ink-work. My favorites were some chalk and charcoal I can even still remember the lines and filigree of. Some of it was even truly great- really.

My former roommate decided I owed him 3 months of rent for breaking the lease, even though we'd discussed my moving beforehand, and he'd said "No, it's cool- I got someone else to move into yer room." I think he changed his tune after I'd already gotten to Milwaukee... The prospective roommate replacement backed out [pr'y 'cause he was an asshole], so he decided I owed him three months of rent, totaling $1,500.

When I told him I couldn't pay, that I had no means to and a limited income [having spent everything I had to move two thirds of the way across the country], he sent me a video of him burning my portfolio as a "Fuck you, and see you never" gift. I have not drawn since.

My heart still breaks remembering the best things I ever drew [or ever will draw] go up in flames. He sneered while he did it. The only sound on the video was the crackling of canvas being consumed. I have only written since then. I cannot say whether I am better or worse off for it..
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

this is not a piece of work. that is why comments are disabled. this is solely something i told a friend of mine yesterday, and felt that i had ought to tell all of you. it's the root of some of my neuroses, and yes; it was a rather unfortunate incident. but since that happened, i have become a much better writer and musician.

i think creativity in any given individual is finite- and when i hemmed mine into writing and music out of painting and drawing, i did greatly improve in those arenas. i often wonder if i oughtn't give up music and writing as well, to fully maximize my caliber as a culinary craftsman.

thaks to everyone who's sent me a comment or a message about this "piece"- but again, it isn't that. it's only a statement of fact, and an explanation of myself for my friends. why are we friends at all if we're not going to know each other better, every now and again, bit by bit?

7:16 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos

Shiver

Thermogenesis sparked, arcing-
Tendrils of stormy weather
veiled in skin, dermal discohesion.
When the adipose quakings rail,
like little trucks and trains,
to the shudder-speed id delivery.
Inch by sacred inch, those follicles,
pry me apart with imagined cold.
Vapid in calligraphic swipe,
the touch is icy kindling for a
brutal flame to burn and hiss.

I read somewhere that there are
plants that shiver, too-
which proves to me, that vegetarians are idiots.
If feeling matters at all.
Which it does. I think.

So I am pressed, buttery- into the
whelming churn of shake and
shake some more. Beautiful and awake,
for some sort of seance with
emotional semantics.
Apprise me of your whereabouts,
I don't want my shaking to destroy this.

4:23 PM - 52 Comments - 42 Kudos - Add Comment

Yirn

Plummetry in the slab, to jig-saw,
 bent backwards for the fitting- I
rest on laurels of pressure
 pointed symmetry. Hardly.
If I could make an attempt at
 explaining the decencies of
ingenuitive fluctuation, I still
 woudn't. These ghosts are fed on
punnery, oxymoronica and the
 whistling of mephitic corporeal
whimsy. Carried.

Brunt of foresight is a hostage,
 is lunch. Mangled articulations
and gnashery pop through the scree
 like a book of the dead, like a
hungry man dreaming vittles. Ylem
 to hydrogen, insufferable
building blocks of fire play, in
 the back of an obscenely large
Radio-Flyer wagon. Tasting
 whatness, with the paronomasiac's
desire to lick quiddity.

12:47 PM - 38 Comments - 35 Kudos - Add Comment

Less and Less Time

I am living in a world of make-believe. Where less and less time does not require more and more timing. Where everything can still work out- I haven't blown the gasket of happenstance yet.

It requires a true reverberation, a numbness of quantifiable ardor, to make these explicit trees bear their intangible fruits. I cannot allow for fortune to commingle its say-so. This is, or isn't, happening.

Testament to acquire, expense like reeds, blow, shift and dirge to windsonging bully. Deafening meter, approach and slaw. What were here before, are gone. Mnemony, scribed. I will have to consult.

I candor specific, big picture unlisted to wreathing reach. Haloed and quilted in memoriam, got safe rose by bushel on mount. Availed, jetted, westward. Brought me to a new mausoleum.

Here is under the highest water, refracted, rainbow bent to the sun again. Here is where less time is every day. I lobby its services in a more ardent manner, respective to its lessenings.

So, keep you quiet. It'll keep me quiet. I have learned, here, not to hold my breath. The only problem with that; is, that drowning becomes much more, so much more, relevant.

10:01 AM - 36 Comments - 34 Kudos - Add Comment

Dos Meridian [Love for the Damaged]

We are not forfeit in the maskings of these times, like so much tape wound around your head's not a helmet.

Over your kissing eyes, the Dos reminds me, returns me to the meridian of welfare. Holds me.

Sublimated in chicaneristic ratchetry, with pockets of glass through which you can count the shells of my hullaballoo artillery.

To where, with you under me, we make Dos equation to music, to reckoning.

Devoured into/by your blustery blue screen of death kissing eyes, psalters of hunger, ever eating me.

I am your feast, sustainably damaged degradation in a ratio of form fits function to extraordinary.

Either way, is that this [as of yet] uneventful eventuality could wreck what would might be.

Damage for lovers, collusive effort and max terra altercation. There are songs in your hair- too subtle to split.

How long has it been yet? For never awaits, comes, glyphic tarnation, I am hasted by corrigibility.

Thankful though, to be back on Earth, knowing, that you truly may not prefer an astronaut. 

11:41 AM - 37 Comments - 34 Kudos - Add Comment

Pageant [For Hummingbird]

1] To bird, alar sweep of perfunction. Sea of sky, lording over her love no more.

It couldn't remain, when it never really was.

Eyes aft your spike, plate the gamut, laud.

To bring your heart in its trillion bleatings the wolf you prayed I was.

I tripped the sail, you tricked the salt.

An unendedness'll have to suffice- these clutches drowned in mountain-thin-air.

Now, there is a numberedness to our endless daze.

Wallow, to dry in soliloquied varminture... Do you remember the worms at all?

2] Then to shark, to coffin- Bootstrap and pull.

Verity dicy, ultimations and waggling-finger epistles. You never were.

I always was a.

And the sun still sinks, and the mountains between us finally make me feel safe.

I cheated the wasps. But I only ever gave you everything. I am not sorry anymore, that it wasn't enough.

Sagacious maybes, tell me sometimes about the tipping off I dislocated.

When from hummingbird to hammerhead, it was only a pageant.

Dress down, it's nobody's funeral you knew. 

7:00 PM - 28 Comments - 28 Kudos - Add Comment

Knuckle-Drager Symposium

Night of a thousand false smiles,
cleared off- Worn shingles of
glee, shelled by weather and transitory
omission, off at the wrong time in
a binding place at a blinding pace-For weird loss, of what he'd said
"Happy New Years!" To, for, a bout
of colloidal fancy in aggregate
pinion to wholesale pharmacopeia.
Steered off- Why bother me with
coins when we can anoint a
midnight beer toss? Right here,
baby, boss, don't cough it up, just
drink it down- To keep this night
from turning into a loss or a
thousand frowns-

The gossamer unveiling sets a friction
to the misery, sailing to new grounds,
when decision bends the listening- but the keeper is a leaker and
he's ready to skip town-
So get down- To the brass tacks,
swallow 'em whole now, like mad springs
the symmetry beyond the madness of the cow,
take it as gospel, book the summer
enders dream for assorted ruckus.
Dream for when your pully schemes,
apostle- Lick the side of fantasy
collosally toned infringements,
while you lean into the breadth of
hostile take over theater, the
bullion articulations of breach economy-

2:47 PM - 33 Comments - 28 Kudos - Add Comment