“We need to make books cool again. If you go home with somebody and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them.” - John Waters

CONTROL

It got to where he could only feel cold, and anything that would normally provide any sort of warmth simply felt neutral –neither hot or cold- a phantom limb feeling, almost the way things feel in a daydream or a memory. Shaking, trembling at the sight of food  -often to the point of nausea- eating was not really an option, or at least he didn’t want it to be.  This sick fetish he had with putting himself through Hell just to feel something real, something alive, had become a real drag and it was no longer under his control. Something took him over.

It has been said that every person has a dark side, but not all show it so openly or at least do not realize they are showing it. When this dark side gains power it takes total control of the organism it possesses, thus, the organism can do nothing but witness it’s autonomous actions through frozen, dead eyes, like a ventriloquist dummy; a gruesome and unwilling spectator of it’s own demise.

When he attempted sleep his sheets felt greasy and slimy and unwashed. His skin crawled and ached. Then it would be 6a.m., too late to even think about sleep.  That’s when the birds came out to signal the rising Sun.  –even though the sunlight barely made through the blinds, it burned him on contact, especially his eyes when the light pounded at his tensely shut lids.

The filth was all over him now, even more so than his skin….

It manifests itself as some sort of thin imaginary layer of mucus membrane or transparent slime over the skin and even coated his organs and lined his veins.  “Parasites!” his brain screamed.  “That’s what has polluted my body and filled it with poison!”

But Densmore never really gave much weight to what his brain had to say.

He knew the real cause for all of this suffering. And it was cheap, readily available at almost anytime and just one call away. 

Choke-hold Jesus - "The Most High God"

Choke hold jesus. 

Happily play for fathers and boys. 

Not me.  I have special powers and 

episodes of fantastic torment. 

Nothing plays the game better 

than God. Thinks his abilities are 

almost science-fictional - distinct from other boys -  

sometimes may result in illegal 

activity and may even follow 

excessive delusion or being unfaithful. 

Two factors mainly concerned are 

dopamine and cultural factors during 

the life is more likely at an increased 

risk to define. God has also been conceived 

as being English or omnipresent 

and may even be illegal as a result. 

These attributes were all supported by

 hedonism as you will usually agree. 

God may attempt to use illicit drugs such as dmt, deemed “the most high God” However, proposed that god actually preferred inhaling the universe.

Word Collage

So now this was his new fix. 

Simulated states. 

Nitrous oxide robs the brain of 

oxygen causing simulated asphyxiation 

sound distortion

and slight hallucinations. 

Also, in long-term recreational use, it 

depletes the body of vitamin B possibly 

causing acute anemia.

, political leaders themselves began making 

it as a phenomenon for pure short term control. 

Result - dead neurons dream-like states or trances.  

the unreal effect left by Nitrous oxide 

within an impossible dream to tell and, 

disconnected from one's self, or unable 

to continue one's actions during and after 

inhalation. As many a citizen 

who had been entirely composed lived 

in simulated states as they call them, 

trances. Dead phenomenon impossible to sell. 

Result – political dream control. 

Interesting theory on "the written word" as a subsequent virus to humanity. Article written by William Burroughs.

Read the article in it's entirety by following this link...  

http://realitystudio.org/texts/electronic-revolution/


"...Animals talk and convey information but they do not write. They cannot make information available to future generations or to animals outside the range of their communication system. This is the crucial distinction between men and other animals. WRITING. Korzybski, who developed the concept of General Semantics, the meaning of meaning, has pointed out this human distinction and described man as ‘the time binding animal’. He can make information to other men over a length of time through writing. Animals talk. They dont write. Now a wise old rat may know a lot about traps and poison but he cannot write a text book on DEATH TRAPS IN YOUR WAREHOUSE for the Reader’s Digest with tactics for ganging up on digs and ferrets and taking care of wise guys who stuff steel wool up our holes...."

Fuck You Magazine, Cover Art Anthology

  "The writing of the magazine is sometimes spectacular, yet uneven. Editor Ed Sanders claimed “I’ll publish anything.” The list of contributors is impressive. Charles Olson, Philip Whalen, Gregory Corso, Gary Snyder, W.H. Auden, Pound, Allen Ginsberg, Norman Mailer, Antonin Artaud, Robert Duncan. The editorial comments are priceless, especially the notes on contributors, the advertisements for a secretary, or the search for a literary assistant for Allen Ginsberg.

Here is a visual archive of materials from the Fuck You Press."

http://realitystudio.org/bibliographic-bunker/fuck-you-press-archive/

Joan Vollmer to William S Burroughs,

"You know, you're supposed to be a faggot but you're as good as a pimp in bed." 

at the wrong time

He sat there saying nothing, doing nothing, hardly a breath escaped him. Finger-thin lines of sunlight projected from in-between venetian blinds onto the left side of his young, unshaven profile as smoke escaped his mouth in gentle rolls which were illuminated only in the lines of sun.

He sat there, blank with exhaustion, on his dusty, weathered couch for hours, with his mouth dry from Tequila and menthol cigarettes and glared through the walls as if there were something out there to see. 

Looking for some truth in the world, maybe... but he's starting to think that he’s come to the wrong place…

SLEEP

Sleep

I want to sleep for hours, days, weeks at a time

No disturbance, no human interaction or interruption

Nourishment would not be an option due to risk of morning nausea

What a beautiful thing

All the fears and sorrow of daily life are gone into thin air like the gray last -        breath of an addict who’s shot his last spoonful

Dead like the wind

Live like lions at the helm of their prey

“Practically petrified skin and bones after a few months under. Can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone go this long. Two weeks longer even than ‘The Tank’.

Dr. Unger stands, paper thin from a side view, in front of what appears to be a man under deep hypnosis.  His assistant, Nurse Mabel, gazes from directly behind his right shoulder in awe of the whole scene, occasionally raising the fingertips of a flat right hand to cover her mouth to stifle a gasp at the shell of a man laying on a frigid chrome colored slab and covered by a wafer-thin white linen sheet.

“What’s ‘The Tank’?” Nurse Mabel inquires. Her eyes never leave the man on the chrome slab.

The Doctor, while writing some notes on his clipboard, replies to such a question.

“That’s what we used to call the man who was being held in 37B…”

He pauses for a moment to tap his pencil in concentration.

“Yeh, never thought I’d see another one of him. Complete animal, nearly withered away to nothing, not to mention the mental fatigue after he wakes up with a year missing from his life. We call him The Tank because of all the drugs we pumped into that body of his.”

Nurse Mabel’s eyes made a quick switch over to Doc Unger who was still writing and tapping his pencil.

“Poor man,” she said. “That poor, poor man. He must be a wreck after all that.”

She shook her head from side to side. 

“Poor?!” The old Doctor chuckled and slapped his knees with the clipboard.

He had the laugh of a staggering old geezer. His S’s rang in your ears and his P’s involved much saliva.

“Well that’s no way to talk about the man you love!”

Confused, Nurse Mabel scrunched her brow.

“Huh? The man I love??”

“Why yes my dear,” said the Good Doctor.  “Don’t you remember?”

“Remember what, Doctor? Is everything okay?”

“Yes, yeeeesssss. Everything is just fine. You’re sssafe here Mrss. Grady.”

Nurse Mabel becomes very nervous. She tries to ignore the hairs standing on her neck, the cold chills throughout her extremities. She has felt this way many times before.

“Grady? My name isn’t Muh-misses Grady. It’s Mabel! Mabel!  Dr. what’s happening?”

Nurse Mabel starts to feel sick to her stomach. She buckles over in searing pain, eyes closed, mouth open but expels no sound. Only faint squealing whispers of intolerable pain. Much like when crying reaches the point of no sound. Only minor jerks of the head to move along with the whimpering and gasping for breath after breath until it’s “all better now”.

High frequency sirens blare from the walls of the room. Her vision is blurry. She hears nothing but the sirens and her own heart beating, pounding like thunder. Faster and faster. Closer together now until it all swirls together in a vortex of sight and sound, light and violent, blistering numbness…. 

“Well, hello there Mrs. Grady. Glad to see you’re still with us.” The sharp features of fearless Dr. Unger blurry and abstract but only inches from her face. His breath was of stale black coffee and formaldehyde. Cold Black Death.

“Well, Mrs. Grady, it seems you’ve had quite a sspell.”

She did her best to witness her body with her own eyes, but couldn’t have possibly believed the truth even if her eyes WERE able to open, which, of course, they were not.

“Petrified sskin and bone!” Said the good Doctor. “Almost nothing to her.”

Nurse Mabel, semi-conscious, half-opens her eyes while she squirms on the cold chrome-colored slab of aluminum. She mumbles a few syllables, then shouts something like, “Mabel! Nurse! (Mumbles) Shark serum, half a glass, two to taste. Have’em by morning or I’ll have your hide!”

The awe inspiring Dr. Unger shrugs a shrug of indifference.

“Sshe’s completely goddamned delusional…  Well ladies and germs, this is where the scientific world gets off the train. From hereon it’s all up to the bastards upstairs. We tried. That’s all we can do….”

He turns from his patient to address one of his assistants.

“Take her back to her room please, Nursse…  37B.”

Unger quickly washes his hands then walks outside to smoke a long, much needed cigarette. Lights up. Takes one loooong drag towards death, and exhales with a vision of the eternal void. A sigh runs through him like lightening. From lungs, to throat and finally escapes his old, wrinkled, pouty mouth. 

Just imagine, the fearless, confident, genius Doctor Unger, hopelessly sighing away over his first ever experimental failure.

“Never see another one like her again, that’s for sshure. Ssshkin and bone….”

This song says to me, "Lets go to the maltshop... in Hell!" I wanna marry it.

Not a creature was stirring

I'm considering taking a vow of silence. I think it could do a lot to clear my head and keep me focused on what's going on on the inside....  speaking has become sort of a stale form of communication anyway.  Hooray telepathy!

Away

Weekend in Boston was more than amazing...  I miss my friends (and a cat named Rufio) and can't wait to see them again very soon. And just as I came up for a four day breath of fresh air, fate plunged me back down into the abyss. I returned home to a rejection letter from the university I applied to and my girlfriends parents are splitting up. All I want to do is leave this place, this state, this city, and move away. Something must be done before I simply have no more hope to live on. I need to be with people I care about, people who care about me, people I can relate to. Its gotta be somewhere. Sometimes I feel like my answers are sitting right in front of me in the drivers seat of a cherry red 57' chevy bel air convertable. I don't know, I guess its just one of those things....

Jerky

Once I dreamt I worked at Home Depot
and the manager caught me on-camera
jerking off into a paint can
 in the screwdriver isle
I woke up with my heart pounding

I thought I was really fired

Little did my manager know
I do it all the time.

Track from Radiohead's new album, The King of Limbs. I like.

What Makes Gene Happy

　It wasn’t a Happy New Year for Gene.

On New Years Eve Gene planned to go to a party, but his boss made him come to work that night. He didn’t get out of work until 12:30.
When he finally got to the party, everyone was drunk and happy. Gene was not. But he wanted to be, so he took some acid started drinking too. This would prove to be a mistake.
About an hour and a half later, sitting on the kitchen floor with some people at the party,
Gene’s vision started to get blurry. He figured it was the acid and quickly brushed it off.
But it came back. He rubbed his eyes with his fists and ran to the bathroom, but not before smashing into the door because he still had his fists covering his eyes.

        Without any time to feel embarrassed Gene stood up and closed the door behind him and began to examine himself in the mirror. Looking closer and closer he could see what appeared to be little grayish worms swimming around in his eyes. Both of them. He tried to get them out with his fingers, but he jabbed himself with his long, dirty fingernails. He often forgot to trim them. Only times like these made him remember. And soon enough he would forget again.
Meanwhile, the acid Gene had taken was starting to take hold. He became obsessed with the worms; studying them; their movements, their purpose.
   
   After half an hour he was on a first name basis with most of the worms via telepathy.
      Gene had taken too much acid.

       Through close examination of the worms, Gene had determined that the longer ones were females and the shorter, fatter ones, males. They had been living in a little boy after being homeless for a brief period. The boy eventually came with his family to the restaurant where Gene cleaned tables and the worms spread to him through plates, cups and silverware. But he was more than happy to give them a home.
   By this time people were knocking on the door. Yelling about how they had to piss or throw up. Gene ignored them. Their problems were irrelevant. All he could hear were the distant squeaky voices of his worms. Now they belonged to him. Other people had dogs, cats or children. Gene had his worms.

　
　
　Life went about that way for a few months. Gene went to work, went to school, went on dates and eventually got married. And with all of this, the worms left him. Gene was heartbroken. And soon he was divorced and had nothing. He sat in his meager apartment, drunk, wondering what the hell happened. When all of the sudden, his vision became blurry. He flew to his feet in excitement! He smiled while he gleefully began to rub his eyes and think of old times. They were back. And Gene was happy once again.

Pain

There will never be
another
anybody but you

anybody but me
you can hate
but all my blasphemies
you can relate to

and the spells
that carry
with the thoughts
I wouldn’t dare you to cross
but those pills
those pills
hit my brain
like two anvils through windows
and you cant have windows
without the pane

Salem - Piggyhog

Part 1 of a film about life around the world. Official soundtrack by Jonny Greenwood of Radiohead.

deep fry in a shallow pan

my heart is open this morning
    cleansed of yesterdays shit and polished with a fine wax
I hope it never comes back
but it more than likely will

Its already 2 o'clock, but I just woke up and its time to cook breakfast
bacon and eggs
like every morning
gotta have orange juice
coffee too   -black.   no sugar.

Bacon looks beautiful in the frying pan
popping and sizzling
curling up like lace on a girl's dress, or locks of hair, a rose.

sometimes I spend years staring into the pan
waiting and watching for something
and it stares back
crackling as it boils
it spits hot oil on my arm over the low outer rim
no protection
like burning acid

but my heart feels nothing
thick skin I guess

or am I still sleeping....

solemn note at the gates

the truth is

sometimes

I wish I just didn't exist





but thats just too damn depressing to accept




if I believe that I would just  whither away

gone

like a magic trick in a show

rabbit in the hat

cut the girl in half





there'll be nothing but what everyone thought of me

and I cant have that

because you're all wrong

I've got more to say





and maybe you don't understand

and maybe I still need some work





so I think I'll stay

for a while at least





but I'm not paying any rent

or signing any contracts





 life doesn't give any guarantees

so why should I?

maybe I'll just stop smoking cigarettes

shit storm

mornings are for psychos. even they know that, only they don't admit to being psychos.
I for example am a different type of psycho, in that I am  self-aware of my own psychotic behavior. as far as I am concerned, this justifies any and all mistakes I might make throughout my lifetime.

   In place of an obnoxious alarm to wake me up this morning, I was instead brought to consciousness by an obnoxious headache and rutheless stomach pains. that's malt liquor for you. these first impressions, I knew, were bound to influence the rest of my day in the same fashion as they brought me into it. It were as though I could see into my future. and all I saw was shit and white snow. yes, today was the day for a blizzard, thought Mother Earth as she feindishly stabbed pins into a voodoo doll of yours truly. today was also meant to be a busy day for me, as far as having a lot of shit to do, and  the only day this week I could borrow Dave's car (Dave lived next door in 12b) because every other day he worked and needed it to get around.

           so I got Dave's keys anyway and plowed through the acres of snow like a shark in minnow waters. snow never had it worse. it was a slaughter.

anyway, after going to the DMV, cashing my collection of old paychecks and getting some more malt liquor to feel like shit tommorow, all that was left was to make a payment on my fine. nevermind what the charges were. I did it. HAPPY?
  I walked inside, fought through the mongrel slimeballs, the drag queens and the snot-nosed, mullet-haired juveniles just to wait in line with even more putrid smelling criminals. I was one of them.

all that waiting and smelling and choking in line, only to find a parking ticket on Dave's car when I got outside. I saw the cop who put it there too, and by the looks of her she belonged inside with the rest of us. I thought about turning around and yelling some obscene words like, "Bitch!" or, "Officer Cunt" but I figured since it was Dave's car I'd lay off.

Finally there was nothing to do. and for some odd reason, which remains unknown to me, I was getting anxious. I was bored. I remembered I had a lot of spare change in my coat pocket and decided to go cash it at the coin machine in the grocery store. by now the banks were closed. there was nothing better to do.

   Almost 35 dollars in change! what to spend it on. what to buy. across the isles was the new beer cooler department with a cafe area where you could drink the beer. my eyes brightened. if I had a tail it would have perked up.

I chose a few beers and reluctantly shut the cooler. The cashier who rung me up said I had to buy food if I was drinking the beer there, that it was THE LAW. I told him I could drink it on the way home and he just stared blankly. not amused.
  after I fumbled around a bit I bought a cookie. one cookie. apparently that smoothed things over with the law. " if only every prison inmate had a cookie," I thought. 

I sat down at a table next to the door so I could feel the breeze, drank my beer and threw the cookie at a seeing eye dog sitting under the table perpendicular to mine. the blind girl stared in my general direction. I felt nothing.

a middle-aged security guard walking to the door stopped to ask me "aren't you a little young to be drinking at a grocery store?"
to which I replied, "aren't you a little dumb for a smart-ass?"
He walked away knowing he was defeated by someone half his age. "there goes any hope of self-confidence today," he must have thought.
I turned to the window to watch the snowstorm.  It looked like shit. but somehow, I knew it was worse to be inside.

the man downstairs

Billy was writing in the room next-door to his. You could hear the keyboard clicking from outside, like chattering teeth.
   It was late. Billy always wrote late at night; it was calm and cool and no one bothered him. Almost as if he was the only person on earth, or at least he liked to think so.

   The door creeked open. "Billy?"
The voice shattered Billy's concentration like glass. He closed his eyes in memory of the peace and quiet he once had.
"What is it kate?"   His eyes still closed and head hung down like he'd died at that precise moment, but could
      somehow still be annoyed.
"what're you doing in here? its 4 o'clock in the morning."
"I'm praying to the devil."
"thats not funny Billy. Why don't you come to bed?"
" I will," he said.
 "But first I have to finish this. Me and the man downstairs have an agreement and I have to keep my end of the bargain or I'm a dead man."
"Jesus, Billy!  what the fuck are you even talking about!? The devil? Come on, I work in the morning."
"Then you should get some rest. You look tired."
That one really pissed her off. She told Billy to fuck off and slammed the door, which somehow snapped his concentration back in order. Billy thought to himself out loud, "at least she slammed the door."

three hours later, Billy was passed out over his computer, breathing beer stink all over it and slobbering too.
Someone started pounding on the door.
After a while, Billy got up and staggered to the door like a zombie to a fresh pot of brain stew, cleared his throat and, in his raspy morning voice, asked who was there.
No answer.
"Who the fuck is it?!" he yelled.
"who else would it be?" said the voice from the other side.
"Jeff, from the ground floor. Do we still have a deal?"
Billy zombie-staggered back to the computer room, passing kate who was woken up from the knocking, grabbed some papers out of the printer, back to the door and slid them underneath.
"You have the money?" Billy asked.
Two 20 dollar bills slid through to Billy's side. He had a smile on his face. "Its been a pleasure,"  he said. and walked up to his room to sleep.
"who was that Billy?" kate asked.
He closed his eyes one last time against his pillow, yawned, and said in a whisper,
"The man downstairs."

it hurts me
and its killing you lightly
to fight a white dove with fright
so lets freak out tonight
and fake true love

and follow fall leaves
       -wallow in trees and free our memories there
but theives,
their cherries are too sour to swallow
and they have no berries to bare

so keep chasing your seminary fairies
spend days in faded prayers and fool cemeteries
and I'll drown the pool with drops of our dreams
and dim the light

as fire fights the night with steam

Paper-cut in a World of Wounds

never thought i'd say it
but i
heard you on the radio today
saying naughty things about the way
we stayed together
and never strayed
well now its all gray and faded
and every inch i took away
is just another thing you traded

so say kind words of me to who you thought our kids could be
and tell them how we dropped the ball
and the hope we had
if any at all

Formaldehyde

all your burdens under lock and key
reach the branch under the branch under me
to catch the catcher in the rye
his glowing eyes swallow butterflies-

    -who flew a shot in the shallow vein
but the bloodstain clotted
a formaldehyde shot in the brain
nothing else gets the fresh-air flooded

SeQuela

Dirty clothes, dishes, empty beer bottles, pills, torn pages from notebooks and scattered half-read books lay butterflied with arched bindings; the front and back covers fall and curve upwards to imitate the shape of a W.

               Sometimes I wonder how I can live in such filth, disgusting trash ridden atmosphere, sometimes there’s even a smell. But then I look at those empty bottles, those torn pages and books and see good people. Books can be too much like people, it scares me. Looking one right in the face, right through the eyes. Its like a staring contest for hours, relentlessly decoding wrinkles on skin, words on a page, a voice. Maybe books are like people, and maybe that’s why so many of mine are unfinished. I’m afraid they will hurt me too....

Happy Birthday

Belated New Years resolution in light of my recent plunge into the current legal drinking age: get blackout drunk at Chuck E Cheese and scream at families, inadvertanly spitting and spilling beer everywhere. Preferebly using enough blasphemy to put Satan into a coma.

As time drifts along carelessly and indifferent, without dying, and the world gets older, and you get older, and your friends and family get older and closer to death, you start to see signs and realize some things. Call these signs from God or spirits or whatever you want, but above all call them signs of life: Mom or Dad contracts a fatal illnes, the Pope gets the new iphone, or you see someone you used to know (and hate) and they're doing better than you, take it as a sign. Your Mom and Dad won't be around forever, the Pope (and coincidentally, religion as a whole) is completely insane, and instead of focusing on what other people are doing, focus on yourself.

By the way, isn't it funny how these things come to you while you're taking a bath?  Excuse me while I get this really hard-to-reach spot on my back....

Blunt-force trauma to the ego

          Things that went through my head yesterday -besides my steering wheel: maybe now I should appreciate the smaller things in life like automobility, being comfortably far away from the emergency room and having all my blood on the inside -where its supposed to be. Also, blacking out while driving a car just bumped up to #1 on my least favorite thing to do in my spare time list.