menefreghista [2006]

open.

sunset is a thousand black bones. scrying a dirty blue dirge of commerce. Reveille through a busted saxophone. down tempo doesn’t seem the fitting epitaph, like concrete used to be. irony is retiring in favor of sophomoric ridicule. but, no halogen light will nullify the knots.

oh god, I’m doing it all again. seeing crooked and writing in similar… the lines and nothing ever intersects.

March is proving to be a bitchy bipolar mistress. no kisses, just some boot-print posterior. prone shuffle through slushy hell. fucking sloshy hell named Playguard. and it comes down, through trees that used to be my friends. trees that used to show me the way home with spiderweb streetlights, but now they let the cold cringe on in. on down to smother in icy stasis.

so much for spring…so much for my sybaritic forgeries.

such seasons in this place are all closed doors. no refuge and no point of reference. just endless hungry faces. (endless fucking hunger.) the world confounds by nature… so, just buy a helmet already. a shiny one, so the rest of us can see you coming.

now, it’s this eerie empty street with its light of violation, raping open my eyes. maybe if I could touch the light - feel it sticky between my fingers - then could I finally understand? maybe the revelation could take hold at last?

however, this room is not the conduit that it used to be. its music dances different upon my ear. its skin has changed with the weather. become strange with the temperatures of a million surrendered moments. 

“but isn’t life like surrender, precious?” asks the succubus living in my hypothalamus. 

my smile is just a stress fracture. 

my smile doesn’t belong to me anymore.

not nearly enough RAM

I smell morning.

I see the light from inside.

I simply don't give a fuck.

Something I can't identify,

flew past the streetlamp,

I swear, it could have been anything...

I simply don't give a 

fucking want it to be...

can't explain what I see,

but, it's all emotional?

hell on the neck

“that which does not kill us makes us”…weary and paranoid.

involuntarily, my lungs constrict. my life is squeezed into strange locations. so unusual, yet so much paradise in one glance. the handbook is useless…

the face that crowds the mirror is a false premonition pocked like litter in the street, and completely oblivious to its predicament. only the crow’s feet can tell.

“baby, I’d shatter the world for you.” he says to a reflection too brittle for his conviction. he’s got his perfect eyes, but there’s no-one at the wheel, and the ice is fucking thick. 

things will change, but it’s the wait that kills. the smallest happenstance has the sharpest teeth. it’s the weight that disfigures the most common sense. how fickle…so goddamn fickle. ghosts in my teeth and leaves in my hair, the seasons here are irrelevant. heat seeking heat, and cold trading cold. always a catastrophe hidden in the curve of a question mark.

to leave me on the dangle is to leave me for dead. the ghosts make me fit for this awful appointment. it’s the ghosts that make me hateful. 

and, when it’s all gone, the dawn comes to do nothing short of brightly exhibiting everything that is lost. so much that can never be shared. so much that is made null by the lack of offering.

tonight, the moon is afraid. holding court in a corner of the sky not yet known to me. its glittered indigo fingers are visible only to my worst delusions. my throat is a prison of screams. my eyes, a famine mockery. this city is out for my blood. but I’ve been saying that shit for years. too many for sanity. I’ll never fucking write a sober word again.

        

why I don't keep a dream journal: reason #1

my sleep was marked by the salty stains on my pillow. not to infer that it had been anything resembling restful. a more fitting residue would have been much darker. much more fucking red. something much more descriptive, in it’s vulgarity, to the dreams which spawned such a crude biological byproduct:

there were so many bodies. so many imagined lives ended horribly. myriad holocausts, both man-wrought & natural. and, I felt every single one. not as a participant, but a mere witness. a witness who, somehow, felt the pain of it all bereft of choice in the matter. as if I were a chronicler excluded from all physicality, save the anguish. 

there was a lone woman on a desolate plain, grieving a dead son, opening her arms to a small nuclear device that had been surgically implanted into her abdomen. I saw her touch her forehead ever-so-gently, before the whitest, hottest light known on this planet bloomed a millisecond before the mountains broke apart like forgotten castles made of sand. 

I saw families in their various automobiles, brought together in some primal version of solidarity, fall as one into a massive sinkhole of earth. and, just when they thought they’d survived this calamity & found some shelter - because the ground they’d been gathered upon didn’t break apart & consume them all, but held solid hundreds of feet underground, like a great disc of salvation - the earth opened it’s emotionless maw & spat out millions of gallons of magma so fucking hot that looking upon it was akin to staring at the sun about midday. it flowed, almost insidiously, as if it harbored some long-hidden murderous patience & was simply savoring the kill. like blinding deadly honey, it swallowed everyone, along with their screams…

cut the dust

I

absolute bastard, I, have fallen back on the much too familiar and egocentric practice of putting my worst cock forward. limp as it may be. lumpen, as I may be, there is a presence of mind far too maligned to let a night slide without coming on unfamiliar breasts, and reveling in such tawdry debaucheries. my appetites have quantified and my desires have vilified. absolute bastard, I, now traverse dark corridors of slime and offal, wherein forever I cut the dust.

II

betwixt two chasms, I have littered my hovel with base control. I have met this challenge il voce. my lifeless throat has done me no good. pink light finds my eyes in this abattoir mentality. (Loki would be proud.)  ah yes, I now remember those moments of sexual aberration, wherein I mistook penetration for adoration. I mistook succubae for aficionada. looking east and west and north and south, and all minute points in between, scratching off zip codes like scabs. and always the uncanny ability to cut the dust.

III

thirsty, disenchanted and hung angry. 
loosing my ability to be gentle, hastily.
sacrifice is nothing more than reconcilement.
as we inter the many hatchets of our defilement.


     
     

   

CHILDREN OF THE RISK

children of the risk. like the lepers of Olde, but with a higher echelon of homosexual hairdresser. preening pants painted on canvas’ woven from the silk of a worm named “CALM BEFORE CATASTROPHE”. (the herald is a heroine pixie in shredded black spandex.) in the span of a foggy breath, it’s amazing what becomes irrelevant. it takes more than 40 shakes to waste what 40 slaves could make. and maybe November isn’t hiding her malice in the folds of a million confused stitches? in the mortar between a million stray bricks that somehow agreed upon one certain form. some harsh symmetrical sex known only to the progeny of this disenfranchised era. call this what you will, but it only answers to “ORPHAN”. and, the spotlight is effective only when it vomit’s a silhouette. 
and, the clamor is like a thousand red candles blown out simultaneously. “Christ, imagine the tears!” says the corpse chauffeur. the frets of the instrument seem unmoved by the number of strings being played. swaying errant hair like a deadly serpent. dancing skeletal singer like a herald of the ENDGAME screams, “who could ask for a better martyr?” (the lights strobe to confuse the issue.) 


a headlock in a snowdrift, it’s the season for giving. give and take, it’s the season for taking. taking time, taking charity. ‘tis the season to hang your head humble in the face of the frozen unstable. “don’t forget to set the alarm.” but, who are we kidding when the man comes calling, with icicles in his smile? the wind moans with depthless ennui but, by nature, it is easily ignored. so, why couldn’t the world just remain frozen and quiet for just a few fucking days? 
like hot mist on a mirror, such are the games your future plays.
they say that the devil is in the details, but what if the details are what keep you from drowning? where should your allegiances lie then? “SUCH & SUCH IS PAST DUE” will Jesus pay my utility bill, so my children don’t freeze to death? oh, but what sins such questions become when one has faith?


thumbtack through my feather: 
“is it good luck?” 
[smell of impatient propane] 
“who knows, the day is still young.”


six months to adapt. seems like a crime enforced by edgy angular men with incongruous moustaches. crystal displays and ill-met co-pays. “woke up in the crosshairs of a sarcastic universe.” yeah, I’m a walking tragicomedy with a glossy insurance card, and I pay my rent with canned laughter. tell me, does that make you feel giddy? “well, we all have a job to do.” tell me, who pays you?


   
   

Societal Selective Blindness

It is absolutely appalling to me the fact that people seem to simultaneously laud and lambaste  celebrities who have both perpetrated & continue to perpetrate heinous affronts to society. 

#1: Michael Jackson was proven to be a complete degenerate, pedophiliac sideshow freak, yet, when he died (justifiably so) everyone lamented his exit with tribute upon tribute, in an attempt to immortalize him.

#2: R. Kelly was proved to be an evil piece of human scum, yet everyone still sings his praises with tributes to "I Believe I Can Fly".

#3: Charlie Sheen showed the world, unapologetically,  what an absolute motherfucking horrible person he was & he was rewarded with, not only a myriad of commercial deals, but also a new series on fucking FX.

ENTROPYBOY: the truth

nobody believes me. 

no-one takes me seriously when I attempt to explain to them my strange, almost supernatural proclivity for things inexplicably going wrong. 

one time, while I was working the door at GUITAR CENTER in Springs with Pete, who was in KEYBOARDS, I went back to his section in order to abscond ourselves for a much-needed lunch break, I walked past a used keyboard and planted a single digit upon said keyboard and nothing happened. Now, if you know anything about how GUITAR CENTER operates, they keep all of their equipment (used or new) powered for customer use. So, when I placed my one finger upon a single key of a used keyboard, and absolutely nothing happened, I had to ask, "Hey Pete, I think something's wrong with this keyboard." 

To which he answered, "Yeah, one of the keys is broken."

ONE OF THE KEYS, as in, the only key I placed my finger upon.

It seems that any object which is physically ready to give way to the laws of decay, tends to give way at the precise moment when I want to use it. For example, if there was a chair which had an unstable leg, but is used by a large number of people successfully, the inevitable mishap would occur as fucking soon as I planted my fat ass in said chair. I have witnesses.