I don’t even write.
I simply waste more time,
I feel like smoking ***
sitting, enjoying this moment,
and watching the world burn bright and beautiful.
I don’t even want to write.
I am nihilistic in this sense, and also self-effacing, masochistic.
And nothing satisfies me, so I am like the Buddha, and relinquish my rights to the great systemic pattern.
Killing time and hoping for the apocalypse to move the broken record that skips and repeats.
Why waste more time writing the things that have been said?
Why express the inexpressible?
I wish to forget the meanings of all the words and pen bleak and esoteric paragraphs in universal grammar.
As I slowly begin to forget even what I was thinking of a minute ago, that thing that prompted this new but white opaque letter.
There is nothing more to say than that and why spend more precious moments contemplating the inevitable.
I have digressed to a state of vague generality so profound that all meaning is lost.
And I can only wipe the spit from my lips and experience the thinking slow and bored perception.
I am complicit in this great shadowy game.
The game that is me
and that is you
but also both of us together, as a whole
and my tacit approval of the state of things has lead me to a deep and darkened valley,
a slippery slope of mud meant for clawing fingernails in desperation.
And I, like the rest of my generation have perfected the bacchanal and reverie of the leisure life.
Soaking up the romantic narratives of a primitive past to accept the fate of indecision, and construct meaning from the meaningless.
Picking up the pieces of a shattered ghostly mirror only to rearrange them in the likeness of a persistent and inherent logic, which can only be shown and never understood; my own computational meat sack ever deteriorating, or perhaps growing, to the ecstasy through entropy.
I have yet to find the great rut!
On the brink of a new n’other I am blinded by choice.
And I’ve yet to find my voice!
And proof of purchase is another thing entirely.
My misery is self-imposed,
and understood as only frivolous
trash beneath the hooves of trampling centipedes of mars
Because I looked into the stars
And I stared right at the sun
And felt the rapture in the wake
Of the wave I meant to break
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
Sometimes I wonder if there is any line between poetry and prose, or prose and story. Where is this line? What is the difference? Is it some kind of structural difference? The problem with this is it becomes difficult to define where the structural lines are drawn. Is it some difference in the use of language? Anyone who has read Burroughs knows there is very little difference between his language in poem and prose. It all comes down to that old bald thought experiment. If we were to remove hairs from a man’s head, one by one, at what point would he be bald? It must be the context. This is a poem because it is presented as such.
The thing about it is I don’t really give a ****
The thing about it is that I’m just looking for something that I do not know.
And I get a kick out of pretending
And sometime something something I’m a little bit high now folks
Because sometimes I need something too
/
all the time
And Some might say that you can get a lot higher without drugs than with them
But at this day and age that’s becoming less and less clear for most folks
Including myself
And that’s pure Thompson
May the great decadent castle topple down!
And I, like a noble captain,
Will sink with her
I stand with hunched broken back
On the backs of millions
Pondering lifelessly
I smell something. I can’t really know what. It’s horrible. I do not know if it is me or someone around me. A woman in front of me has a dark line around the back of her neck. As if that crease her skin collected some errant dirt and she never washed it off. I don’t know but it may be her. Or I may be a son of a ***** because she is pretty fat. And that’s empirical. And I know it’s not her fault, but I may have some sick bias against fat women brought on by repeated social direction. I remember when I thought of myself as undesirable. I did not wash. And I didn’t shower yesterday. And really I don’t know if this line here on her neck is really dirt, but holy **** that smell. It’s killing me, and even distracting me from the gripping narrative of the American sedition laws during WW1. Honestly it is probably me, but why is it so persistent? Wouldn’t I fall victim to scent saturation blindness, or whatever that affect is called. The point is you can’t normally smell your own stink, and none of us even notice our own stink. I think there is something in that somewhere. I can’t smell my own stink, and so I blame this poor girl.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
I had to say something
My skin was starting to crawl again
And the backs of my eyelids were itching
Everything was deconstructed
And I saw infinity there
Well really I saw infinity everywhere
As if it were a forgone conclusion
They managed to make my heart pump In my ears
I had never known there were men on mars
Training in esotericisms like philosophy and Art
And did I mention I made a lot of this up
As some kind of joke on you
Because I’m far too Oh! So terribly concerned
That I will fail And Oh! How embarrassing
Reputation is the only currency we have
Now that privacy is gone
But there’s still money
And don’t we all just love her
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
When watching a zombie movie, did you ever think we are the zombies?
Did you ever think we are the shambling dead?
The listless mourning, past its prime
The rotten apple, left to rot
Everything gets better and we feel worse
Our project, nigh finished, and here we sit
Only complaining, and waiting
I think and I spit
On the ground
(I heard that’s illegal in Singapore)
As I am just another falling leaf
In the autumn of an empire
I sit with the TV on mute
Hoping for some lateral inspiration
From kitsch
I am born of kitsch, of product placement, and buyer’s remorse
And I have no shame for it
I am another product
Built by a combination of complacency and incompetence
Incompetence in one place and competence in another
And I sold the world
And it made me a nice profit
But then there was nothing else to say
And nature reared her mighty head
Hubris led you years ago, and now does shame
An experiment that drew no conclusions
And only drew on time just a bit longer, pulling film across the projector
And inventing for just that brief moment
All that we held dear
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
“I spent the rest of the day smoking joints and listening to music. There was very little else that I had going for me. I was left hungry for something I could not put my finger on so I wondered the streets until dawn. With my head down I tried to feel confident but could only manage to fake it. A cloud of thought grew out around me, only broken by the introduction of some new stimuli as I walked. And very little stuck with me on my journey unto dawn. “
I read that in a book. I think it’s Joyce.
But that would be convenient wouldn’t it?
“Tell me, do you have a better idea?”
I wonder, is there one
Or are we all just products?
such a tired cliché…
I’m the miser’s purse
Dionysus
Something Something, we don’t care,
You and I,
Where this goes.
Do we?
Have a drink on Bukowski though
Despite my lack of common tact
I do have dreams you know.
And where were you when Burt and Ernie told us our Sponsors
And Images with discreet meanings rested in our hearts?
We Don’t need to read ******
“If you won’t stop screaming I’m gonna have to call security.” She said to him. His glare ****** her way. “Secure this,” He said. He ****** his hand into his coat producing from it a photograph of dollar. He handed it to her asking “can you break this?” She looked at him in fear and confusion “Sir this isn’t legal tender.”
“well I say it is” he said. But that was it, as security immediately burst into the room and the scene devolved into panic and screams.
<div text="He perceived an abrupt break in the energy, an ebb, stagnation. Everyone appeared to know where everything should go from here, But pretty soon he saw realized they were all talking out their ***** and he turned to leave."></div>
When we’ve reached that beautiful peak I want you to throw the radio in the tub.
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Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
Reading an art magazine and Jason Goes to Hell is on in the background, I cannot really get anymore satisfyingly pretentious. The day is softly leaving me now and I don’t really see much point in being so cryptic, as some people might like to do. I have found that I reuse a lot of words. I wonder what that means. They come in waves. I’ll use a word over and over and then drop it. Sometimes I will make up words and use them for a time. This movie is god-awful but I can’t seem to get off the couch. So to the keyboard I roam, the path to corporeal transcendence. As is above, so below, as the saying goes. And I stand between with my machine.
Ting Teting ting
Teting ting
Teting ting
I’ve found that I’ve come to be blessed by the Thing
And I Ring! and I Ring! and I Sing and I Sing!
For the courage counter-culture creature torture
Sold for sport
I have a dog his name is brady
Ugh. stop already maybe
There is
nothing
you
can do
there is
nothing
you
can do
are we
permanently
stuck here?
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
My bastardized hand trembles at the sight of its own reflection
Revelation
Understanding the unknowable
I am cut and pasted
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
I am near permanently enraptured by all that is
In a way like only two youngns’ alive and ravenous
Libidos ******* everyday can be and do
I have all the meanings of all the ancients wrapped in my skull
Shadows of memories that are not mine
On the brink of the precipice-come-project
Along with other vague metaphors that are so trod
Upon that all we have left is the post-modernity of antiquity
Scrapped together to make a semi-legit piecemeal rendition
Of narrative to cling to
Because of course narrative is all we cling to
And its really just simple teleology
When you think about it
So why? And also What?
Also is? Also I’m lost now, everything
And having lost everything I find it easier to not care what others think
And aint that the rub
Because when you have people you care about you inevitably seek to please them
And only when you care about no one can you really please yourself
Or at least that vague notion of the self trapped in all our ambitions
And aren’t we trapped by our ambitions?
But enough of that because I was saying something else
There was a feeling in there somewhere that inspired me to write once
And it seemed very beautiful until I realized it had been done
So I sat back and laughed and did it anyway
Because there is a power in me that you do not know
And it exists in the rapture between words unspoken
The synapse between thoughts and the explanations
Of my various and pointless free associations
So I’ll take a walk now and become Walt Whitman
And no fear or loathing will stop this great wave
Our great wave in the speckled sea of Nihilation
Tis’ sublime that is the very notion of sublime
The thought that beauty is thought
And other failed attempts at describing the impossible
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
I don’t know what to do
And I don’t know where to go
And I don’t know what I don’t know
That’s keeping me from home
The home that’s out there for me
the horizon of tomorrow
And words are fickle ****** things
For description of that pasture
As I’m lost and I’m silenced
In the beauty and the rapture
And if for just one moment
I could finally come to capture
The light that settled in the wind
The storm that won’t begin
The blazing saddled horse within
The path that is incumbent
I stand broken in my stature
I am under-slung resplendent
As the words come much slower now
And the feelings washed out grey
I couldn’t tell you who or how
Has come to write today
and the words begin to flow again like the river Styx
as I follow on an angry path to find a blessed fix
to sooth the shallow paltry soul that bore my sordid stay
as I ponder on the world and things with shadows in the way
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
Today is a pale day, A grey day. But that is not why it is pale. It is pale because it is colorless, another drop in the bucket. My inadequacy grows symmetrically with my own dissatisfaction. And I am shelled with explosive thoughts all derivative and predictable. For the loose sand that I sift through my senses creates a thin mask of foundationless kernels. All the candy is wrapped up in bright packaging to attract the eye and disguise the paltry nutrition within; an old, worn out evolutionary trait used supposedly to search for new food sources. And I am left ever conscious trapped by my own logic in the new paradigm that is lonely and empty. Sometimes I wish I lived before all our great wars, back at the height of aristocracy. When we all lived by the romantic images of our minds and men made change by god inspired will. As the world was much larger then; so large that we could ignore it’s vast esoteric workings and rest comfortably in our own intuition. Whether the world is material or immaterial is irrelevant and meaningless. I only want to know whether it is mine or isn’t. Is my stake in this world or is it’s in mine? Is my destruction my choice, or his? And even this is irrelevant in the end because it has no purchase on my actions anyway. The fact is I feel as though I’m in control and all scientific fact points in the opposite. And so today is pale, again. And my life feels empty, until another brief glimpse in to the shadow of teleology passes through my sensorial geodesic and I am wrenched headlong back into comfortable narrative. I am the waffle ****** I own the waffle. And I wander down along the dotted time line with my blinders on, occasionally slipping on the balance beam and smashing, crotch first, into the irreconcilable and incomprehensible night of entropy. Ever circling back through all my fancy “knowledge” and landing again on the feet that my father gave me. Coming, once again, to the sanctimonious and systematic pattern of myself, I lay unawares, viewing only through a pinpricked hole, into the wasteland of the real. I am left only to gape in awe at the persistence of my dream.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC