oubliette blues [9.2.2014]

funny how I always hear the sounds of animals snarling and seeming to tear each other apart outside my window, yet my window looks out over a normal, albeit poor, American neighborhood. I could close my eyes and pretend I was in some jungle, and it wouldn’t make a fucking difference.

I must’ve been mistaken. it’s not insomnia, it’s evasion. I’m avoiding my dreams. because my subconscious hates me. it’s all disjointed pain and faces I’d rather not see. places that either don’t exist, or are some surrealistic mockery of those I’ve known. 

assured membranous destruction?  

who’s to tell?  

just shards. lunatic fringes of half-light vignettes. as if my eyes were in some involuntary perpetual squint, and my limbs were relegated to a similar fate, only muscular. some sort of punishment for transgressions of which I am ignorant in the commission. honest to the very last fault; I have no secrets left. I am a skinned tome. flayed down to the fucking bone. 

“What you see is what you get.” is the cruelest, most inept cliché. 

the faces I want to see are never present. the places I want to see remain absent from such a torturous reality. and the scenarios, well…

further fucking grist for the lunacy mill.

oubliette blues; 8.19.2014

finding it difficult to remember a stranger summer. then again, I thought the very same the year before. and the year before that; I seem to grasp a pattern forming. though, the grasp is slippery, like my bruised fat fingers were covered in oil. and that’s what drains my drive, the grasping of it all. and it’s my fault that everything appears as this spiraling vortex to nowhere. 

apparently.

neck up I’m dangerously unknown and singularly cavernous, yet everything below is in the shape of a million jokes. too many mouths for the telling, never enough minds for the grasping.

see what I fucking did there?

come at me from a certain direction, if you want a certain telling of the fucking story. that’s my version of motherfucking string theory. 

come at me from the void, and you will find a smirk written in languages I will invent for every way to say, “NON IUBES!”

teutonic buddha (8.15.2014)

“Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth”

I smile like the Buddha of late. shit, I kinda look like him too, in a hairy Teutonic sort of way. maybe it’s those leaf-shadows I mentioned before? Nah, it wasn’t the shadows, or the leaves; it was the diminutive, perfectly heart-shaped face, with those eyes and that smile of hers which made me take on the aspect of a deity in which I don’t believe, but rather his aspect in and of itself.

I smile because, at the end of the long arduous day, it is the best action I could take in lieu of current conditions. circumstances not only beyond my control, but ridiculously askew from any semblance of idyllic. 

if I seem hyperbolic, it is only due to an innate indoctrination involving appreciation for existing boons, 1st World in nature, versus diamond-hard actuality.

I smile because any other expression adorning my face betrays my darkness, my odium. Thus, in effect, betraying the love I feel towards that which is pinnacle to my continued existence. or, perhaps, my endurance of such. 

a quantity that remains unknown for days until I see that smile once again?

I smile.

oubliette blues: 6.19.2014

there is no 6 month chip for this. a body in a drainpipe. pure discard. simple math. no need to grow up in Cameroon and carry the weight of an AK-47, the greatest nation in the world has its own battlefield built right the fuck in. first world my shit-spraying ass. if simple mathematics dictate that going backward from 1 means you traipse into the negative, and if this country is what it is, than wouldn't we be, like, a -4 World Nation? we certainly do not deserve our status, because our own status quo is as imbalanced as a pendulum fucking hung sideways.

Mostly Abandoned Avenues

There was a time the light from the beacons above, the nullish ones spaced out seemingly just for me, made this simple. letting the scuffle of my shoes, over holy gravel, tell my story when my throat was this side of choked, and my fingers long since abandoned solidarity through numbness. 

40%

One of the aspects of the 1990's I miss the most was the idea that gender roles meant absolutely zero when a band you were into made music you loved. (Lest we forget that Alain Jourgensen looked more like Missing Persons when he started out.) 
Of course, everybody of an age to remember such, would say that Tanya Donelly was attractive, and they would be correct.
Yet, you would need to watch the video for "The Devil You Know", by JESUS JONES, to know that Mike Edwards was the most beautiful man from that era. You might argue that it was Michael Hutchence, or Jeff Buckley, but the latter 2 are dead, and Mike Edwards is still alive. But, why don't we talk about him?  I can count on less that one hand the amount of people I know who have followed JESUS JONES. Sad. 
And what about Shannon Hoon? Granted, he made that singular folly of the time, heroin on a fucking tour bus & shit, but he was soooo beautiful! 

Adagio In Red & Blue

You, this dark cloud of You, taking this all to the twitch and the abyss. Maybe it will all be proven wrong? But not before we write the ultimate adagio of sirens and misunderstanding. Not before the wind from the east blows into the open window and takes with it the only communion worth taking. So, the only true geometry is the digging of graves.