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| 11:35pm 30/10/2009 |
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[[lava sound that burns so good]]
untouched by him
the coffin and dirt
now unite
whenever you are near
and suddenly
on his back, floating in space
he has found himself
in decay standing so close
to the bottom of the bathroom
painting these images on yr mind
just like a poet should. |
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Read 1 - Post |
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| sarah palin suicide |
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| 06:15pm 29/10/2009 |
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outstretched and reaching
towards you for reasons
beyond guilt and pity
i will play fewer shows and go north,
placing dimes on the train tracks as i go
looking for the speaker’s words though
the next life tee-tops down
visible to all from the reeds
and thickets of birch, sassafras and witch hazel
that pulled apart the jew
that pulled apart the euphrates
(it’s a drink i made for you)
the next life: a tide that gets higher
sheer like a cliff to touch you whole
singing down to the floor
bound to repeat this mess
retarded to pieces
(even on ice, together and selfless)
what i mean now is not what i meant later
with matted hair and gnarled hands
palms appear to avoid the predatory
results of market economics
proudly, nimble as i look at you
once and awhile you see tomorrow
bloody noses and sky tossing the cotton
and i don’t mind. |
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| 08:32pm 04/10/2009 |
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mood: accomplished music: aislers
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everything is going as planned. is that an ominous thing to say? like am i just setting myself up for defeat? i've got this huge problem with being okay. it's a big deal for me: i can't let myself be happy. i keep reading about the tao. it keeps telling me to just let it happen. why can't i do that? i'm practicing it all the time. why does this sound so crazy? i'm probably drunk. it's hardest to do with the people closest to me. i just want to sing songs in the greatest twee pop band of our generation. is that so much to ask? come on you guys, you know it'd be a lot of fun...
check this out:
that oh-oh-oh shit gets stuck in my head....
also download this: http://rs656.rapidshare.com/files/287925738/tine.rar
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Read 4 - Post |
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| 09:57pm 24/09/2009 |
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Authorities also used a crowd-control device that emits a deafening siren-like noise, making it uncomfortable for protesters to remain in the streets. |
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Read 2 - Post |
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| ╟╟♦∞Θ |
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| 04:54pm 01/09/2009 |
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muscail,
after consulting the oracle, adjusting my pants and setting everything that needs to be in order in order, i find myself with the need to write. this is not a desire in the least, but an actual need, like evacuating the bowels or scratching an itch on my balls: i like to think of it as an exorcism. if i could just put it all down here then i wouldn’t have to carry it around with me anymore.
the oracle says that i have to kick Michael Jackson out of the house, at last at last. upon letting him know, he tells me that he’s in financial crisis (the same old story), but why should i let him continue to abuse us and our house in this way? how does his fiscal crisis out-weigh my own, and can it really be used as an excuse to his constant lying? yet, according to Aristotle (i think that was his name?), what’s good for a house is really what’s good for its occupants, and who am i to make mj homeless after-all? to crush his dancer’s dreams in Philadelphia? is this not the city of brotherly love, as the old man on the trolley pointed out to me so softly the other morning? it was raining out, and i had soaked my pants with the folding of my umbrella and he had said good morning to me after the woman who always welcomes me into my day with the same greeting: “good morning sweetie, how are you?” he actually didn’t remind me that it was the city of brotherly love, instead he addressed the woman sitting next to him, but i knew his explanation wasn’t just for her, as i was sitting right behind him. she seemed to inquire as to why he had addressed me and -- I’m paraphrasing here -- he said that it’s sort of ironic how this is the city of brotherly love and yet we all go around shooting one another. i don’t own a gun. nor does Michael Jackson -- it just isn’t his style -- but if i really thought about it, if i got really paranoid and down the core of my fears, i could probably believe that he owns a gun, more than one even. this is besides the point. the point is that it’s now time to begin the motions of having him leave. addressing him directly with vile sincerity, that ever steadfast agent of truth, laying down the law as it were. because i have found that i am the economist here in this home, and this is my responsibility: dealing with the people. when he’s around things seem to disappear. he borrows people’s possessions without asking if he may, sometimes they're never returned. if he even pays rent it's never on time, and he's never around to help with the up-keep. i like him though, flamboyant Michael Jackson, i like just saying his full name when i talk about him, i like his hand-writing and the smart things he says when he says smart things, i like Michael Jackson. But it’s been going on too long, he’s a ghost and dead-weight in the house. a heavy ghost i don’t want to send to the streets. what to do what to do?
my brother, back from his death-bed once more has been exiled to Westchester where i suppose he’s going to recover. i find myself coming back to the moment my mother discovered his body and breathe life into him a second time. i could see every detail of it if i wanted to, i try not to though, i don’t know why but despite my efforts i still find certain aspects of that evening running through my mind... my father on the phone with 911, the operator telling him how to talk my mother through CPR, at the same time pushing the children back so that they not see their brother's lifeless body, the needle probably still stuck in his arm, little drops of blood. the window was probably open, i think it was a rather beautiful night where the heat had finally broken and there was no need for conditioned-air. for some reason i imagine that he turned the television on to hide the noises he thought he’d make, or maybe he just wanted something to fade-away too, and so the sports game or cartoon network was definitely blaring in the background when she got his heart beating again. such a selfish thing, suicide. addiction. if only because somebody has to clean up the mess. if only because if you fail at it you are required to give an explanation but he still hasn’t. i don’t think there will be an explanation: we’re all left to blame ourselves. i went into the room this weekend, the first time I’d been home in over a month and the smell of it was overwhelming. it’s not like any other smells I’ve smelt in my life, and i have even smelt suicide, i have even smelt death. as far as the olfactory goes, the whole thing was dirtier than the last suicide, but so many of the details match, even down to the names. i was looking for a pack of matches, noticed the smell instantly and looked down at the place on the floor i imagined the body was found. i quickly found a pack and got out of there. i don’t want to think out all of the details.
when my mother told me i cried and cried on the phone.
life can be such a terrifying thing. i know that I’m not breaking any new ground here with that one, but even the simple things can be full of terror. waking up in the morning is the easiest because you don’t remember who you are for those first few moments there is nothing to put into context, the things we pile up around ourselves, the people, they all just fit because no reasons are needed. it’s all so easy for just a second, all so very clear because nothing really has to be done yet. moving from one place to the next, so many parts can get lost or broken, as the day goes on i imagine my brain fragmenting the whole into manageable little bits, like a prism. Polaroid’s of the kitchen and its fruit flies, little sketches of the familiar corner-stores and their people. scraps of paper that remind one to eat dinner or buy the groceries, and then the elaborate documentation of the days problems, resolutions, and so many pie charts, percentages, numbers&questions that get forgotten&lost despite feeble attempts at triplication. And the idea of the future, that’s the most terrifying i think. one day i will be old and who knows what condition i’ll find myself in then? I’d like to hope but i know that’s pretty foolish. I’d like to be a pretty fool, but i know that I’ve already done that and can’t stay there forever. the worst is watching everyone else get older too, all of us stuck here dealing with the same problem, getting older ever day, all of us just waiting even if we don't want to admit to it: what to do, what to do?
now that it’s September i feel the compulsion to make a list of all the things that I’ve done this year, but i can’t bring myself to do it as the list would seem so incongruent with all the things i hoped to achieve by this point. i mean i haven’t even won the lottery yet, something that annoys me considerably because i have this nasty habit of finding four-leaf clovers. I’ve lost count at this point: it’s well over fifty let’s say, and that’s not counting the ones I’ve given away. now that it’s fall (can’t you feel it in the air?!?) I’m ready to take it like i know it should be: gentle like a leaf towards the ground, back and forth through the air, it‘s such an intricate dance. but now all of a sudden i can’t remember the key to winter. was it a time to curl up and stay warm so that one can bloom in the spring? that seems like the wrong way of going about it, now that i find myself with so much momentum. winter is for resting, the same a summer? i know that I’ve written it down somewhere (the key), but am also sure i will remember once i find the ground again, and i know that i cannot wait to be frozen in the snow, i cannot wait for the ice and its melting. it’s a time for introspection, a time to let go of all this writing. perhaps a list of all my possessions would be a good way to calm the urge to write, but i could only make it numerous by including all of the beads and hair-clips, and watch-parts, and pins, balls, strange blocks&pieces of metal, bits of string and all of the rest that i pick up on the street daily (i know that i am not alone in this practice, the irresistible urge to pick up a stray bit of red string or discarded letter, in fact I’ve always believed it would be interesting if the rest of us worked collectively on a large catalogue of all these found items gathered over the years, positing it on the internet as a blog. and I’m not talking about the one’s that already exist, I’m meaning everything here people: turning this blog into a book called “treasures” or something of that sort might be profitable, or at least we’d all break even) but i can’t even bring myself to claim that i own anything at this point in my life. especially because of the magical qualities these items possess, the talisman which holds so much power cannot truly belong to an individual; it seems unwise to hold onto anything. perhaps i should like to open a museum of some sort and have the people pay a suggested donation to see their trash. that would be quite nice actually, but i suppose that’s all the internet really is.
seeing as thingsthatlooklikecocknballs.com hasn’t updated in some time, i think the new point of the interents existence is this. the more time i spend on this website the more I’m sure I’ve always been right about everything. check this out, it‘s like sex and the city but in the early 90s:
how stupid words, actions, money and everything else! come here to me and i will show you beautiful things and then you can tell me your favourite story and i promise i'll listen because it's the only thing i'm really good at, it's the only thing i've really mastered, it's really all i'm here to do: listen to you and then we can hold hands and make this trip together, all the way to the top of the mountain where we'll be able to inspect our whole country, survey all of us the living america, and decide what it is we should be doing with all the toys that we've been given. and then, once michael jackson is gone, once the roof is fixed, the new windows installed, and i've completed the list of all of my possessions we can finally lay down again and before i go to work, after i have gotten dressed, you can undress me again and we can lay still
waiting for america,
however long it takes, glowing fishbowl and all
-my voice, restored/
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Read 2 - Post |
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| á]`4AΩ°▌P▬ |
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| 05:31pm 27/07/2009 |
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so i got the internets fixed, the plumbing too. i had this weird dream that this cat that i kicked out of the house came back, and was all pretending to be a bunny rabbit. then tony told me that my brother had died, and i started crying. then some guy broke into the house by knocking down the back door with what i assume were his very large fists.
i woke up at one o’clock in the morning and laid very still, listening for him in the house. it’s a big house, over a hundred years old. five bedrooms, large spaces, bookshelves. i listened and listened, convinced he was going to kill me.
i have a plan though, i call it a weapon. this big wooden stick, more like a staff really. I’d hit him in the face if he came through the door. i have the element of surprise because my bed is up high, he’d never expect it.
nobody was in the house except for me. i went to the bathroom.
when you’re dealing with Verizon and your name isn’t on the phone bill, all you have to do is say that you’re in a relationship with whomever’s name is on the bill. it’s interesting how they don’t ask you to constitute the relationship verbally, i suppose because you could say it’s none of their business. i suppose that maybe sometimes people are in relationships and nothing has been constituted verbally, even before you call the phone company. maybe they just don’t care to hear the details of your boring life, as long as the bill gets paid.
so here’s a picture that my computer took of itself. i think it’s kinda cute. |
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| goodnight sweet prince |
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| 07:34pm 25/06/2009 |
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turns out his heart stopped beating it. paramedics tried resuscitating him but his mouth fell off. after being pronounced dead they rushed his body to the LA wax museum. docotors are saying that the cause of death may have been related to his billie jeans. the real question is who owns the beatles now? i suppose paul mccartney will try to buy them back. anyway, it's only a matter of time until people start claiming he's still alive. i bet jeff goldblum or patrick swayze go next.
 "This is it. I just want to say these will be my final show performances in London. This is it, when I say this is it, this is it"
- Michael Jackson
 "don't forget about me guys!"
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Read 5 - Post |
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| 03:23am 30/05/2009 |
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iwokeup's journal
