chasmcalling.claustrum #7

the worm has not only turned, but is creating a new dance craze. one which defies any GPS known to man. and a violent debate has risen amongst the many splintered and disillusioned hordes as to just who came up with it in the first place.

[8/17/2011]

so she came out, when i thought she was sleeping. she wanted to smoke & i tried to tell her about this video that i had just fallen in love with. she asked, "how can something be mournful and upbeat at the same time?" i said told her she would just have to listen to the song. and then the eastern horizon lit up like there was something apocalyptic happening. maybe it was just a storm over Limon or something, but it was disconcerting not hearing the thunder after the flashes. so i finished the cigarette that i'd torn the filter from and went back inside to write this.

sleep-aids: a punchline

she gave me the pills to help me sleep & she told me to cut the pills in half & she told me not to take them while I was drinking. well, I took 2 of those fuckers after I'd been drinking for many hours & they didn't do shit. either I have a preternatural ability to process combinations of chemical alteration, or I simply have a natural  immunity to fucking suicide. 

imaginary girl

The imaginary girl asked me, "So, what're you drinking?"

"Rum&Coke", I replied, doing my best to focus on her nonexistent features, "I'm working on my severalth."

The imaginary girl giggled, but not a vapid sort of giggle, but a knowing, sardonic, perfect sort of giggle. The kind of giggle one like myself would expect from an imaginary girl. A giggle that, not only denoted comprehension of my singular sense of humor, but also contained a certain inflection which spoke of an alluring weariness. An intelligent sort of reticence, combined with subtle interest. Physically represented by a slight turning of her head, while her eyes remained fixed upon me and the corners of her perfect lips rising at the corners. 

"Are you thirsty?" I asked, suddenly feeling idiotically bashful.

"I could take half of what you're drinking." she said, lining her dark sardonic eyes with the rest of her lovely head, facing me full on. Her lips stretching the length of the the giddy silence between us.

I offered her a cheap cigarette, which she took, and I turned toward the front door, making to enter & replenish my own drink, as well as procure one for the imaginary girl waiting on the front porch. 

When, after changing the playlist on my PC from SWANS to IAMX, I stepped out onto the front porch & sat down at the chair directly, and conveniently, located left of a small table holding an ashtray. I set my Mason Jar full of soda & booze carefully upon the ledge, pulled my phone from my pocket and reached for my pack of cigarettes. 

DICK-PUNCH

So, her favorite T-shirt is draped across her seemingly less-than-favorite frame... How does the wearer contemplate such?

angry liver blues #1

creation is an angry liver. food is a chemical deterrent. my stomach is a roadblock. guilt is your brain having a stroke. you could put your dick there, but would you get it back in time for breakfast…? the insufferable always have insurance policies. the weak always write bad checks. would you pull the lever with a sign that read: ‘DON’T PULL - TOO SOFTLY’? have a care in the world? just make sure you get it to bed before midnight. inside it might be warmer, but outside is where the real fucking fire is.

blah blah blah: the vocabulary of the millennium. the populace shares a television syringe. Phenobarbital savior in vivid Technicolor. recorded live in front of an audience of corpses. there is a lot of anger in acceptance. what the fuck is that smell? it’s the decomposing cadaver on the BARCO Lounger. 

you. 

me. 

us.

that clock on the wall is not your servant. these everyday designer leashes can be so confusing. especially when the fortune inside the stake cookie is blank. and the calendar’s been obsolete for at least eight years. the calls have stopped coming in, and they sank your ship.

so pay those bills and swallow those pills, because it’s only a matter of NO MATTER. 

OLVIDO [written 1.15.2010]

the human condition is akin to a bad case of tuberculosis. add the nebulous description of “AMERICAN” to such an equation and you have, thrashing virulently, an adequate account of what some experts describe as “irredeemably screwed”. 
despite popular opinion the “AmericanDream” is a scummy tide pool, unknowingly awaiting the inevitable purge. flushing everything out into a black depthless sea of willful resignation.
 indifference would be so much simpler than belief. 
let us all take a knee and ejaculate our hopes into the morass of the “AMERICAN DREAM”. let us forget what the word spirituality means, and throw our collective stones at the glass ceiling of our faith. let us turn our grey-filmed eyes of diligence toward something shiny and useless, like…say…a monstrance. let us take everything at face value, until the rifles are pointed directly at our temples.
and, speaking of temples…. 
you want to measure intelligence, like it was an ingredient in some tenuous recipe of the human condition? you want to quantify some vague equation of intellect versus fundamental instinct? you want to see what it means when the numbers are found to be as ham-fisted as a consensus of popular belief?
[feel free to insert your own answers here…] 


just when you thought it was safe to go back into the gene-pool….


the gene-pool turns out to be a tide-pool, full of aberration and variables. scum and uncertainty. might as well rely upon our skills to win the day. oh, wait…we have none. unless you count thievery, subterfuge and skullduggery.