Since one can't simply stroll down to the local Revco CVS & pick up a BFF Bot, 'tis a good thing someone invented Primal Headbang Therapy.
In more interesting news,
Caution: contains electric guitars.
No Beard of Wisdom? Fret not, mon frère:
Spouting out some philosophy like it means a damn thing.
-- Jack the beardless barkeep
Anyone can be s-m-r-t. Anyway, replace philosophy with phantasm -- not this one, scram, Scrimm, but cavalcades of soporific F sounds that dream of landing oft in Nod, F off. Those who are lavish in happiness: the abnormally lucky, the terminally oblivious. For the rest, we float where the waves aren't relentless, nor even choppy. Still the boat bobs & weaves & you can even pick out moments of old leather comfort: paying the controlled lightning bolt bill in order to type this crap & spelunking in the freezer for the fabled pizza roll. Reflective powers, activate(d)! Alter a word or a line of a long-dormant corpse, & see it in a whole new necromancy, at least until it's dragged into the light. Brand spanking fresh is just a trick of the Kafka.
Banalities foreign & domestic, notebooks & pathways of mock Technicolor explosions of those few hundred tubes of the same hue; clearing away this logarithmic logorrhea is the Chance card to clarity. These last few pages are a motherfucker, though, blank & ogling me with a sneer as I try to collect & Go away. Once upon a time I think I composed over a photo of berries. Displacing the beast of gawked hack, that was nice. The possibilities are as endless as my easily distracted zest for legerdemain -- for is not the blood the phantom zone to the intellect's General Zod?
[ed. note: those of you inclined towards prayer, tear someone's heart out for the Duchess, who, as the only other permanent member of the Esoteric Order of St. Drogo's security council, is cursed to occasionally be within earshot of my outerweb self-absorptions; you fools can simply stop reading & furthermore, if you parse this only literally, you know what you are. Qualifications are long-winded, thus, boring; ask the members of CONCACAF]
Complexities are birthed in fictions' bubbling trouble, yet attempts are increasingly too tired to design anything of candor; think 4e v. the elegant simplicity of old school stat blocks. So, an overdue reevaluation: if here & there weren't just charades -- driving, a driver, dancing, no, diving underneath flying clots of darkness, no, it's hopscotch, stupid -- & the lint don't forget the lint, maybe it would mean a damn thing but like the Important Things, it's unimportant. I blame Loki, you measured bastard, you.
Caution: contains really loud electric guitars.
Instead of Vertebrae on the Ruun, I'd rather be on Eld.
Badoomboom, tumbleweed. HUMOR IST KRIEG.
I figure if a picture's a thousand, a tune's gotta be at least a gajillion.
[ed. note: RIP John Lord]
Or I can simply spend the day clicking on this.
The great dilemma of our time, & by ours I mean mine, & by time I mean get sleeping, stupid, 'twas solved long ago, satisfaction or no moot like a slack of Anglo-Saxons, & this is a library to boot oooh meta, so shhhh.
Keep waiting for that stanza to close itself. How does one keep mushroom clouds handy? Perhaps that's the great. Hey, for Mordenkainen's Disjunction, I'd settle.
Not in the spirit of much of anything nowadays,
but monkey dance at the keyboard:
I'll be watching this for at least one more October 31.
Cleveland owns 12 cemeteries, 11 of them more than a century old. The cemeteries are home to about 400,000 departed.Why is that good? Because
Census 2010 numbers released Wednesday show Cleveland's population has fallen to a 100-year low of 396,815.Dawn of the dead, baby. Have a nice day.
Penned in class a fortnight or two ago, because I wasn't thinking about silly geese like #OccupyInsertCityHere, the amazing coincidence of human rights as grave concern when violated over tubs of black gold, weapons grade domestic scowling, or class, all markers of an existence that is nothing more than an existential slow ride take it easy towards Ragnarok.
This, 'tis a ritual, a necessity like once upon an adolescence when life was that & death. Now, the same, but I know more, know I'm often wrong yet am better equipped to handle it.
It means more, & less. So, this. Staccato, pretty on the page. Spoken, a terror. Cut & stripped & stitched, then discarded then restitched then dropped.
Until a name & a series of sonic swells that burned through stanzas rising & falling, cliche of cleansing fire, sure, but there it is. Spark not the piece, but its inherent sense, the result of its spellwork upon memory & illusion (usually the very same thing), composed over as many hours as I've slept over this time & was it a waste (see below, no), is it a-okay (I can say, no) but what can I say. Great art will never be in my hands, two pair, now & then, then I fold into an eleventh, twelfth caffeine, but there is nothing else. Less than nothing after censoring here but not on the sheet because who's ever going to see past this safe pivot, I'll never show & tell. I'm not crazy.
[redacted: 1]
Whirligig hours spin the bottle, neck
jaundiced & craning
out white noise to steal
a face in tarot-littered streets, to purloin
(over a bus, a bridge) a story from a crowded being. Piercing
the smog, a solar song
whose staves prop up the dead
left, right, here in the chest, though not in vain
if I could be permitted to freeze
[redacted: 3-7]
No commentary on anything that would mean a damn thing to anyone but me, & that is a-okay. Art is its own vent. There is no other reward, sometimes.
You must do what makes you happy.
Might as well get up for work.
Sure, there's some red stuff, & some blue. No Baba Yaga, though.
That otherwise nondescript building with its fascinating pattern of rust & crumble, shadowplay & color, passed & ignored by thousands daily, perhaps turns out to have been situated as such because there was no other place for it. Simple chance. & weathering? Of itself, how commonplace.
Less fascinating than the serendipitous outcome of artistic desires to be sure, but whatever piques our fancy, mundane or exhilarating, will nonetheless have a story to tell.
Getting used to an academia-fractured schedule is going to take some getting used to, en plus, with coworker corollaries of ja das Nachtbus (in spirit at any rate), urban darkthroning is severely curtailed this semester, thus, before weekly junior offspring pickup campout on my new day off in the almost-middle of the week, a trek through the wilds of Parmastan, & lo, what hath I discouered, Thor vs. the burbs:
Spiked, fourth of fifth. No, not this that; too obvious, that. Yeah, that that, thirty-eight going on eighteen. Splitting hairs, each a liquifier. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid -- oh, but I don't control, so I don't fly the bomber, yet who can resist such a magnetic water body but the dead? I'd bang my coded head on the wall if I didn't have to clean splatter from between the keys. Contemplation, solitude, storming brain, ink is no lightning rod. Nor poison; quantify the unquantifiable or make-believe make-sense; not those thats either, rather that -- that again -- most tired of conceits. How fresh the ancient seems, always, when new to the perennially confused, the damned that never wilt long enough to reflect, the beautiful molting into the ridiculous, for all time. Detach, & you can laugh at this juvenile convivio. I would, but remain stuck in stupid, stupid, stupid, same as pin, same as needle, ever was. I'm going to laugh now, loud, without discipline.
Paralyzed by inaction.
By any mathematickall reckoning, there has been of late more pictures than words digitized scrawled* on the musty walls of this increasingly loathsome place oh how the cheap laughs fool you insert supervillain chortle here, a formula applied for both your sanity, gentle reader, & mine. Honestly, that's a lie, the first half of that equation at any rate stop it what's with all the references to number crunching I cannot answer, such dimestore topography a wretchedness cousin to having an economic lecture blasted through a Marshall stack whilst lemon juice is daubed on paper cut corneas, lashings continually refreshed like a Space Casino shot glass. & I hate writing nearly as much because I love it & what it represents only to have it fail me as I fail it, acids & bases reacting into a blank artificiality, every time.
*if I could draw, I'd sketch rust & Bear & flowers & amusement & loss & a constellation or two if there wasn't so much industrial glare, though those, too, would be digitized, hey ant, get outta here, too, to, two.
What of that rare hour when it doesn't? You cannot see the imaginary -- perhaps it will someday come, one last ringing of the red star bell, gradient blazing the sky before the nation goes out & to torture the metaphor some more, how come I didn't even get a '60, '62 or '68? Rock and/or roll isn't the only loser's game -- & the stuff that comes (very relatively) close, I cannot show.
Socially awkward is the real awkward.
& what of the issues of the day, no, what of self-examination, what of dissecting faith, such as it is & not that kind simmer down you know who you are, this crutch, grain ever weakening, splitting, leaned upon for how much longer as a casual wave of the hand, a dismissal that unlocks a selfish return inside the shell, sulk deftly parrying each strut & fret of the mask?
First, cohering the scattershot, then, let the snooze begin, for you & for me.
Pass.
The point? I don't know, thinking out loud, & typing it. Again, I don't know.
Au revoir? What else am I going to do at work when not snarking, fueled alchimick by the Kynge's Brewe, over the bizarrerie of humanity sundry, infuriating & comical? The muses -- & let's be clear, not just of art, but also of human interaction, for that too is an art**; fuck, feels like I'm padding, now I know what others suffer when I ramble, apologies -- don't come with a GPS, & how unromantic capital R would that be anyway.
**double fuck, that sounds suspiciously networking & ambitiously careerist upon first cynical glance whereas I certainly with gusto mean an art 180° from such soul-destroying toxins, an art that's neither making & broadcasting a grand creative statement nor a self-aggrandizing manipulation of Calvinball, but hands kneading the form itself, the shapes, colors, textures, &, perhaps most important, vulnerabilities of this planetary existence, & sharing that with other humans.
Alongside yours truly, the air stands at a crossroads, playing the blues. Chalk it up, perhaps, to it being nearly three, partially hungover, & consciously tired of all but the fewest of things, strangely, the ones I have no control over.
That's progress, I guess.
Zen may be dumb -- pour the clutter out? Go realize yourself, fucking wanker -- but too much heavy thinking (reading & listening that's fine but ruminating you stupid brain now let us never participate in such depression again) with a double of heavy drinking, & this
A can of pop, shaken, not stirred, top popped & every place flooded with a caramel fizz cumulus. It's still carbonated garbage, just differently tactile, & a smidge stickier. Neither lack of either/or (no dominant), nor extremes canceling (certainly no tonic), I don't know from where it hails, what it is, but this: floating up, looking down, seeing something new, uncomfortable, unlike the usual --
Nothing never gets the chance to be burnt away.
I've always been a sucker for melodramatic statements, & I'm imagining Hollywood re-imagining poor young Werther -- no, Troma, & instead of dying via self-inflicted gunshot, Romantic rage causes his head to explode, supersonic wavelets of blood & bone & brain oozing down the linden tree, said rage now giving birth to a hideous new head, one filled with nasty, big, pointy teeth he uses to great effect in righting the wrongs suffered by the peasantry, this folk hero entering the international stage music video style to beat Napoleon back single-handedly & when all the glory was heaped upon that coward Wellington, suicide solutioning (or so the audience thinks, direct-to-video sequels, man) into the North Sea, though what truly rankled this lonely German Hulk if one could peer into the chambers of his heart was not having a delicious beef dish bearing his name for posterity.
With a late start due to closure issues, toyed in my attic with the idea of posting original verse for the first time in awhile because I don't like you anymore, but blessed art thou, a quick confab led to submission for flagellation & mockery & three-point shooting contests & on the off chance that the editors are drunk or high on Bach Flower Recipe, well, yours truly is no benefactor of bad form.
Oh, alright, here you go:
This place truly has become a running, unfunny gag. As penance, here was to be a pseudo*-philosophical examination of the complex relationship between multiple variables & their iterations but, in the interest of sanity, distillation: to make making sense of making sense makes little sense with these heresies in hand, for that way lies only madness whose warning's preserved in unseen lines where I still hope to discern me amidst all the carbon copies exempt from the burden of right & wrong, thus, cleansing woodland darkthroning this morning.
*duh, what else
