Sunday, April 27, 2014

a title (throwback)

a title
December 28, 2012 at 8:31pm

I almost got angry or something. I almost fell in love with a French Canadian.

Now hold on just a goddamn minute there, I said almost. And I said that motherfucker three times.

Counting that one.



I had something ponderously sad and morose to write in a line by line (albeit flowing) format that



                                     precariously

         balances on top of an tetrahedron

     of prose,poetry and fiction (the fourth side is the ground, you dick),

but I started listening to some weird instrumental shit and it totally sapped the hate right out of me. Really. I swear. I was going to type away clickity-clack (those are keyboard keys, do it fast, I type fast) and reference a night sky or an ocean or allude to some girl I'd seen or met or fucked once (maybe not, or maybe more than once). I might write  worry about leaving a legacy, or about clouds, or rolling waves, or the edge of a green eye into a pupil abyss, or fuck, see? I can't just talk about it, I have to draw from whatever vast and latent source of words (although clearly manifest, at the very least minimally) I choose.



I wanted to make masked and oblique references to loneliness, confusion, and failure. I wanted to allude to and maybe even exaggerate a loyalty I may or not feel to you in the future. Maybe about you (oh fuck here we go) and me on the opposite ends of the park bench (or a couch) or the earth - And how you hold your hands in a square to frame a picture you'll never take or paint (saves us all the time of you fishing your camera out of your purse).



I wanted to launch a career high of obscure word usage and bathe in the vague allegory to self-marginalization. I like words about words and writing them.

I like words about sailing ships and horizons and pale blue skies (Rayleigh scattering) and I like hiding a hope in them when they seem helpless and hapless

and sad and cynical and dark and over and over and I write them again and I like it.



I like ink and ink droplets on my pockets and I like leaving lighters in my jackets (because I didn't quit smoking) and I like the cold night air and fuck Texas for that, but I it love here (I have two jackets.) So when I finish emptying out my mind from front to back, I'm going outside with a jacket and a cigarette and leaving you and my phone inside.



I decided I'd forgo and forego the use of words tonight. I decided all the ghosts and screams and vapors and fingers and flames and eyes in violet skies and airplanes and all the land beneath them would have to wait, just for tonight.



Just for tonight, while I try (doing this shit even now) to forget format and the signature way this shit might leave you sighing.

Just for tonight, while I am actually mentioning me more than you (who the fuck are you?)

Just for tonight, while I gather all my affirmations.

Just for tonight, while I sail around the world and forget all the words my mind has made to mean me and my loneliness.

texas empty (throwback)

texas empty
June 11, 2013 at 6:31pm

[in the summer, in the weather of confrontation, we follow along

don't crave desolation or this is what you get]



we count shooting stars and mile markers, and we forget to wish

between whiskey and static radio songs,

and i say i've told you

again and again i can't console you

from the back of his truck

he says something contrived before

the silence starts to bore me

and you reach across the seat,

you'll fish for compliments

and i can't even get up and leave.



the phones are dead for days,

on hold for collect calls

from any coast to coast to coast.

we recklessly swerve on

desert roads from

every edge to edge

(he can't give you what you want.)

his intemperance is boring.



at the park, we watched for

planes and landing craft

where prudence would warrant

that towers guide them away

he pours on the tall talk

and it's all circumvention

you say i'm cynical

with his hands inside your clothes



i don't open my mouth

to any toxic bonds we hold

i never open my mouth

down all these desert roads

i never hoped for another coast to coast



i should have never

staked it all on you

it's a hundred degress and getting close to two

we're laid out all star-shaped

beaten by desert wind

it's unclear as to what we all intend.



i don't want to be a grown man

waking up guided by sentiment

in the big texas empty,

i'll laugh at all his attempts.

i hear the bottle's half empty

i hear it's still half empty

that's a relief

that's a relief

that's a relief

Sunday, April 20, 2014

exsanguination.

[Well, do we really believe all of the old methods of the healers and apothecaries?
Do we discard them as remnants, apocrypha, obsolete, archaic? Barbaric?
How do we ever call them wrong with all of our current psychosomatic, placebo drugs and treatments?
(Don't draw that arrow out of his chest, the aim was straight and true!)]

bloodletting pt. 1

The first time I had a recreational needle in my body, I was barely into the first 6 months of my drivers' license. I had to have to three people there to guide me. I told them I absolutely wanted to do it. Two of them pushed me into the corner formed by the refrigerator and the wall in an apartment that contained no furniture, only shoes and boxes. I tried not to watch the needle, but in my paralyzing fear, I was enraptured, entranced, fixated. I watched this beige liquid, punctuated by measurements on this tiny cylinder. I watched a flash of pink and red splash into it as the plunger retracted. I watched a callous thumb press.

I watched the plunger depress.

They let me go. They loosened my belt from around my arm.

I felt a hot arrow in my chest, in my arms, and I coughed. I felt my blood surge with something new and watchful. I felt something primal and tribal and human inside me. I was really real, I was really alive and living and new, and I could do anything.

I went straight for the door, straight to the edge of the balcony, and threw up. I vomited over the rail until my vision started to cloud with speckled, colored static. I felt like death could strike me where I stood, that wrath could consume me, and I wouldn't mind. I felt no need to beware. I felt like something needed doing.

Keep in mind, the direction we're going in this case is straight up. Up, up, and away.

I watched the next two, my fear and general hatred and loathing of syringes fast fading. I helped on the third.

I learned to feel for the distinct, but tiny "pop" that one can feel when you've hit. To pull back for the red cloud, sometimes pink. I've learned to release belt and buckle, to release band, t-shirt, dinosaur, tie-off. I've learned to stay, or keep, anyone very still. Lest you miss. And that shit burns.

My skin turned to fire and ash that night. I was exalted. I was in the court and chorus of all the seraphim. I was a self-styled ascendant of faith and fate. I had learned forbidden wisdom.

The salient idea here, however, is that the mind and body only abide this for a certain amount of time before both desire to return to the original state.

Luckily for me, this state lasted plenty long the first time. I felt I had mastered astral projection. In my friend's car, I had astrally projected. I was traveling time and space through cigarette smoke and droning, redundant, and repetitive music. I was riding a wave of space and time.

It never really felt like that again, and I think that's a constant problem with users.

That's not to say that it never felt good again, it was just never like that first time.

I was in a sea of stars and dark and night, and no one was going to take me away from that.

I didn't sleep for four days.




.... more later.

blocked.

It seems like since I started writing here (I don't know, November?) I've lost some big portion of the creative (and usually incendiary) edge I have.

I have an archive (I don't know how many items it takes, really, to have it constitute an archive) of shit that I wrote as Facebook notes. Please note Fuckbook, that I am not promoting your empire in any way. Your application is a nightmare.

Anyways, I figure I'll make something of a purge entry to get the fingers moving on the keyboard, to get the brain accustomed to forming free-flowing sentences again. If I have to pause, I can guarantee the publish button isn't worth pressing. But, here I've gone 6 (ish) months without a really interesting drop of creative writing (that I've put on the internet anyways, dozens of drafts archived on my shitty and rapidly diminishing hard drive space.) 

I'm running out of youth, it would seem. Really, as you might have noticed from previous posts, I've attempted to self-medicate my (well, bipolar disorder)... self with alcohol ... and perhaps less obviously, caffeine. Constantly riding the crest and fall of these great waves of moods. I guess, what I really need is to go see a doctor. I can't go on like this forever, it's exhausting. Alright, enough of this fucking (woe is me) bullshit.

My writing is not the only thing that suffers. Relationships are dead, too. My work is hurt. Well, no. Work is the only place that's basically unaffected. Although, I don't feel the same joy and earnestness with everyone.

Seriously, though? I have just enough to game to continue spree-fucking but not enough to keep one? Well, fuck, maybe I'm not ready to keep one. But shouldn't I be? Don't fucking tell me age has nothing to do with it. This 30 thing is fast approaching, and I'm not sure I just don't have an ingrained, fundamental hatred of every other human being. Crowds, smiles, tinkling laughter. Oh fuck, oh fuck you.

I guess shitty writing is better than doing mountains of cocaine, or the white pony, or fucking your sister and laughing about it. Seriously, one more time: fuck you.

Ah, I feel exorcised. I'll back to punish the internet more later. Thanks. You're like a journal, since nobody really reads this shit anyways. Hahaha. Fuck you.

bridges.

Hey you.
You know what I gave for our night together? Next to nothing, bought it for a song, really.
There was something so brilliantly uncomplicated about it.
Smile, confirm, kiss, smile, touch, confirm, kiss.
What about this are you going to pretend to forget?

It's fine if one night is why you called, but let's talk on the salient points,
Why ask so many times if I'M sure? Why touch, breathe, relate ...
We walked the sidewalk grounds, the fog machine beams, cigarette smoke
And in the dark, I smiled behind you until my face hurt.

Yeah, you.
You know what I'd give for another night together? Next to nothing, darling. Bought the first for a song.
Now it stands to reason that it should be so uncomplicated.
Smile, kiss, fuck, and dash.
I see precisely what you mean now, let's forget about it.

You'll need the strength to burn the next bridge to the ground.
I don't know you.
Save your strength.
You'll need it.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

roses

[yeah, i'll be fucked if i'm giving up on any of this.
(you were holding somebody's hand, not sure who it was)]

we were scattered like early century irish,
you see, beneath the glare and the roar of the thompson gun.
hopefully, you're like any of us, and you realize that no one can be saved.
we've dusty gashes and wounds from the highest powers, from the rip
of the brass jackets through our jackets, through our three-piece suits.

yeah, i've finally given up on this idea.
i say i understand and i know, when i just don't know.

yeah, i see you're leaving here (for sure) - there's not much more
darkness to accept.

i've finally given up on all this.
you say you understand when you and i both know
that you just don't know.

the shrapnel and the glass, the endless days, the endless nights,
cold and wet. we know no one. we know nothing but the wounds
we have to lick.

i've given up.
you say you know
when you just don't know.

safe enough to say that our safe days
our days of smiles, of wine and roses,
we've given up.
they're over.



Friday, April 11, 2014

tell me one thing you remember.

I hate spiritual journeys. If you knew me at all(you don't)you'd know that I'm not dogmatic at all. I hold nothing so incontrovertible that I'd fight for it. Well, maybe that's wrong. All my friends (who?) and lovers (hahaha shit)
            you can take that drained-pool swan dive I told you about. Twenty-two feet straight down to the grainy gunite. Can
            you see your reflection below? Can you see mine?
            Yeah, this isn't what I planned for (hahaha...ha ... shit.) I have a friend in Fort Saskatchewan that will tell you differently,
            But fuck that liar - how do you communicate truth over two thousand miles? It's metric there, but let's not talk metrics.
            I told him, you know, I'd catch her one day. I'd catch her and I'd make her mine. No joke (oh ha, oh hahaha holy shit. fuck)
            I told him I'd grease the wheels, you know, I'd do something different. Something that might allow me to feel again. Love.
            But fuck if it's not exactly how I didn't need to feel now. I like the word, but the feeling is something fucked. It's a worrisome
            little tumor (is it benign? fuck). I'm sick of these senses, and all my friends are wearing their partners perfumes and smiles,
            All the blooms and petals of flowering (fucking) loves - Something that the seasons won't change for me. (I guess I should ask myself
            now, you know, for what do I need to be forgiven?) Everything I've drunk so far, I've metabolized to tears. On a roll here, you see,
            How do I keep these things rolling? I thought if I told you how I felt, you might stay another day or two. The thing is, I feel myself
            Slowly dissappearing. FUCK I REALLY THOUGHT if I told you. I just want you to stay for a little while.
            I know, with the anti-institution ... and the lack of kids (fuck I just feel like a change - give me a rainy day) - ONE OF US HAS TO
            GET HURT. One of us has to hurt, and one of us has to remain at the scene, one of us has to remain to deceive. I want to come home to you
            And hurt - I'll be the one, with all the raining blue blood from my veins I can give. (I thought, you know, Fuck.) But, have you seen me
            lately, liar? GET THE FUCK AWAY. This isn't gonna be easy, you see? I don't need this, believe me. Without monogamy and the fading, you see
            ONE OF US HAS TO HURT. Have you looked lately at my face? I was out in the rain. I was out in my clothes and my blood. Tell me, just tell
            Me the one thing you remember about me, before you know, we both know one of us has to hurt.

Thursday, April 10, 2014

do you save our pictures?

                      Go, oh so you're leaving? I left my jacket out, since our seasons don't stay the same.
                      Let's count the times where I went wrong, and they can all lie, but to be honest
                      I won't even try.
                     You know just what to expect. But I'll always remember the season you finally came.
                     We've never known eachother, and I don't care. Take me by the hand or shoulder
                     Take me by the throat, let's write those notes we never wrote.
                     There's time for whatever problems you have with me.
                     We can take all the time you need.
                     I'm not suggesting institutions or acts of faith, here take me by these ribs
                     from in front of my empty chest 

                     as I'm bending in for a kiss
                     I'm an echo here at best.
                     There's nothing here to see but us. There's truth to be told, I'm shouting
                     In this song, And we still count those times where I went wrong.
                     They can all lie
                     But truth be told
                     I won't even try.
                     I've lay awake for 8 long years, and I won't sleep another night until
                     The truth be told
                     Truth be told
                     Take me by the throat.
                     Let's write those notes we never wrote.