Swing and a miss

Suburbia hole-up tea chug, Stooges on repeat, half oblivion to the FA Cup on the tube & the usual too, the page dirtied by shit verse #752 = ¡Viva la Revolución!

Dark nights and that soul thing

Can't sleep, clown'll eat me. Can't sleep, clown'll eat me. Can't sleep, clown'll eat me. If it's vacation, it must be sick again, though not just flesh this time, and that's the wart of worry. The rewrite's usually harder with each passing line, tricksy 3am wrenches jambed, but that cleansing fire was loaded with extra Nyquil, or Benadryl, some kind of i/yl(l), so either the disturbingly easy confessional's a lie, the noxious seep of a tingle I want no part of (fear being the mind assassin, after all, or is it laughter, as long as it's not irony, and, most pertinent, which I are we talking about), strike while the iron's hot. Or (which) I can sit back, shake my skull like a piñata getting whacked by a bunch of overmedicated children, and wonder what the fuck is going on.

Dream a little dream of me in chains

The lines lay on a screen, & as I begin to read them out loud, a low-key media show flashes behind, each slide synchronized to a single line, but with seamless watercolor movement. After I'm done, I realize the piece is pretty fucking piercing, with, of course, the attendant grumblings of why can't I write like that.

Then I wake up.

So I did write like that, but I can't remember any more than a stray word. If only my subconscious was flesh n' blood, I could kick it in the shins & tell it to get outta my house for beating the dead horse that is my poemetrick corpse if only it hadn't already paid for its n-year lease in full. If only.

I also dreamed that I got arrested by an overzealous cop for taking pictures of the outdoor stage where the pretzeldent's gonna drone on today & then had to call the Duchess & tell her that she was the opener during my indefinite incarceration. Like I wouldn't use my one phone call to ring my dealer.

About fucking time, or, stuck inside

Mr. Mike may have given up death for '70s smoking jackets, but tra-la-la-ing through winding aisles of crunchy leaves [ed. note: they're still mostly green, so no evidence for thee] still means this nestling in the ears,

this when it's stomp-stomp-stomping, though ignore April, think November because the standings-in-place, the same old song & slight show, & all that other rot will by then be nice & ripe for the annual ignoring. A second though: that ostensibly angry riff's sure a grin-maker, but don't tell anyone I did.

A hefty dose of epic, pungent melodrama, that's the fucking draw in an increasingly fragmentary catalog of specialized electro-mechanical box factories where Irony the Sifter, XIVth Lord Documentarian of Blah-upon-Bah coolly wears the iron crown but ironically, which is probably why my penning's all self-absorbed garbage, but just till I learn that monster verbal riff, then it'll just be self-absorbed. Oh, this is on the first-world, fossil-fueled internet? How ironic.

Joey, have you ever been in a Turkish writing workshop?

Once upon a time, a hack hacked out a hunk of hacked-up hackwork that to the surprise of everyone in the kingdom except the king who was busy being nude, merely bordered the putrescence of a Cannibal Corpse cover unlike the last piece of tripe which, under order of a member of the Underling Order because see above, did belong in a tomb, & was in fact mutilated with snotty glee in the town square before interment.

The cackling hack, after a rousing game of sleep 'n toss, woke up, dumped a bucket of cold water on his head, scarfed down a cold bowl of tasteless bran, picked chaff from twixt his teeth, braved riding with Bus Carriage People, & reread yon eve's pamphleteering, only to find that it was among the suckiest bunch of sucks that ever sucked.














Now suffering the shame of echoing tinnitus, & shame, the hack struck upon a momentary lapse of lack of eureka & embraced sleep deprivation because when you're hallucinating, everything's at least mildly phantasmagoric & the cataract of imperfections becomes a mere dribble that's actually drool but you won't know that until after the crash so, hey, enjoy the ride, wizard scribe.

fin

Allegory, or, unexpectation sucks

One goddamn piece?

For the last three months, that's it, & a half-scribbled-in-class one at that. Even a serious post-witching hour carcass pick didn't salvage such poemetrick shit.

Perhaps a revisitation, a reghosting, a reapparitioning. Let's go with reghosting; the latter sounds too fiscally gerrymeandering to which Jake says ewww.

If only marrow was recyclable & nothing more than a quick snack for the ghoul on the go or a key ingredient in either compost or barbarian stew.


I do know what happens when I mix acids & bases, the same thing that happens when blood & brain aren't siphoned off by stanza & paragraph.

If only spontaneous combustion was a contest.

First prize is $500 & a year's supply of melodrama.

$500, you say?

Melodrama, you say?

If only an if only.

Yeah, these guys again, this time with some old Oldham. It's cold [ed. note: slightly cooler that it has been, but I'm ever th'eternal optimist], overcast [ed. note: shit, that's the sun, innit], & nothing's better than these dour Swedes for hoodie weather, but I'm certainly open to suggestions that I'll immediately ignore.

Put that in your pipe & mope it.

And to all the corruption in my hands

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.

Sunburn

Fuck, it's gonna get hot. Might explain folks forgetting about pot numéro deux two days in a row which ain't just for smokin', but doesn't others Pepperidge farming their annual springtime douchebaggery. That's a well-cultivated hydroponics, narc, a burn I want out of.

How come I always finagle shit on the Wheelie Bus when I've no ball-point because the domestic point lost its brass & I had to purloin myself for gold? That Homer sure was s-m-r-t. Repetitively repeating repetition gets repetitive, but O, it's awesome: fourteen's easier than 14k.

Just call me Slackajawea.

This is what it feels like, when doves take a vacation day

Thanks to a comrade-in-armed-conflict, I will get to sit on my ass watching footie & consuming pizza rolls for the day [ed. note: can it, Columbus, or I'll live blog] which, to be sure, isn't as swanktacular as a chance at low-interruption creation & immersing within a painted apocalypse, but I've low no ambition beyond the occasional piece of occasionally not-sucky verse, a failure in progress; pretending to re-learn what little guitar I once pretended to learn; mock turtle penance for a multitude of sins; & moderately pleasant diversions before the inevitable myocardial infarction turns me into the material component for necromantic spellwork, verbal & somatic sold separately.

Snoopy dancing with myself, or, double-barreled refusal

Metaphor, or something.

Dumping the contents of my spent noodle in the Colander of the Technocrats that doubles as a helmet +1 vs. edged attacks, I find that 94% of my posts are about me, myself, I, & things that these three separate beings & their affiliated homies both flesh & electric hopefully find Pee-Wee's Big Adventure hilarious --

I'm trying to use the phone but I don't get no respect zipzop bopzittybop.*

-- & that 99% of my offline writing (thus, inversely, synaptic warp & weft, too) is the same save that last gig because only about 23% gets interpreted by rods & cones bobbing in other skulls since I maybe fear awkward more than death [ed. note: not really, but being a perpetual optimist, I assume that I'll die when the Wheelie Bus flies off the Detroit-Superior bridge due to an explosion caused by a transit cop firing his grenade launcher wildly at a fare jumper & not whilst in a federal torture chamber or slowly torn to shreds by a basement Necronomicon experiment gone horribly wrong is there any other kind].

Being selfish -- & oh, I am, ask those who know -- this isn't a problem. Being wise -- & oh, I am, for I know that I know nothing about everything except that plus ça transmogrifie [ed.note: I just added a verb to French, go me] -- this is. The need to spill in order to start the change [ed. note: not that shit, fuck that shit, you know the shit I mean] & the aftermath are, well, cue the music already.



Even when I'm being serious, I resort to this blessing, this curse.

The pinball rattle is more complex than what's shown here [ed. note: how to avoid tough rooms: it takes two to lie; one to lie, & that same one to listen, & oh yeah that cold cut tray is all yours], more than a simple aesthetic desire to avoid uninformed artistic commentary &/or factual discourse on either the Satanic puppet army of late capitalism or any other exterior arctic molasses death spiral because 1)I'm kind of dumb & 2)yawn, so I choose to hermetically seal inside a combustible Erlenmeyer flask of cavernous low maintenance ECHO ECHO ECHO Echo echo, white noise routine, & the desire to shout until inky exhortation becomes the mimesis of a flamethrower-throated blues but that would mean guts everywhere & they're real messy & I'm too lazy to clean that up & I don't have any booze to soothe shredded cords fingers. At least some things never change chords, & I'm the poster boy for the reason(s) why. Told you I'm wise.

♪ Belly button
you're the one
you make complaining about slack, acceptance & the lack thereof lots of fun ♫

That's not very catchy. Storm of the Yeti, we hardly knew ye.

♪ wizard van
wizard van
haulin' ursanity
protoplasmic Jesus
Scythian axe in the back
next to the munchies
in the wizard van
wizard van
wizard van
yeah ♫

*there's your 80s nostalgia follow-up, tom. You're welcome.

Message in a bottle

Jinn, like graffiti & jaywalking in front of the Space Casino, kills.

+1 for olde schule geekery. Oui, I can reward myself. I'm a loner, Dottie, a rebel. By the way, you, the reader, suck. Don't worry, so do we though the other half of Local no. 13 less so, me gumming up a personal cost-benefit analysis with fewer thoughts on Important stuff & more on verse-y I-stuff, though Important stuff bleeds through, how can it not. Apropos that oxidized blood is the color of rust 'cause all the waste twixt the lands of a completed piece you see where I'm going with this. Ruin porn ain't just for shooting rubble. Fucking hangovers, & that ain't all of the ubiquitous it. Don't be daft, surface phenomena.

A potpourri of miscellany

Stop flashing your private sector parts

[because I care a lot, no photo]

Yet another instance of micromangement, this time from macromanagement, managing to cleave the antiquated notion of decency, for, & cue Vincent & a shadowed pool of near-fluorescent blood, someone's parental figurine w/o the kung-fu grip was haughty enough to be ill, & worker bee, with shameless gusto & hubris, took time off the Vital Task of the hour, receiving an e-slap. Gasp, horror, fuck off.


Death's door

Too soon?


Dead

Left, salvage. Right, the salvageable.

and the streaming winter splinters like a child

[redacted]

Here, had a piece of a piece, but that's redacted, too.
Listen to the tune & thank me after 3:40.

[redacted]

Don't come over here & piss on my gate, save it just keep it off

Margarita master, I find happy in that silly anatomy, you know the one, no, not that one, though that one is one woo, I imagine. This dump's turning into a tumblr 'cause what little (read: a lot) I have to say on important shit can't be said here --

unimportant shit
macro: PTBs do stupid, get gold
middle: PTBs do stupid, get a pat, perhaps a poison cookie
micro: PTBs do stupid, get a slap
P = assuming makes asses, 'tis inherent, so squared

-- I swear if this is ♪ printemps fever, ooh la la, printemps fever, ooh la la la la ♫ I'm gonna go hunting for the snark & kill it dead & bloody; there goes my valuable street cred, syncretising Motor City in the previous fragment. Spring = happy = sad, can't be, bien sûr, 'cause I'd be contradicting myself, which would at least count me among the finest (read: all) humans since the thirtieth century BC, I don't remember how to do that set crap because fuck math. Ideas always sound better until they're splayed on a paper table, but that anatomy's still fun to dig into. Wear goggles, galoshes.

Stellar classification

Waiting in the sun, brain & blood churning out a phrase that rhymes with tree, pen blurting out oh, be a fine girl, kiss me, the end, never, the means, yes, oh yes. I loathe a parade but 70°'s now (mildly) groovy, less armageddon than it used to be.

Sure, bunch of stuff labeled 'fuckery' is still going on, still will, rancid butter n' splattered guts, son, you ain't wrenching the gears no matter what, so go play in the street, have fun, & watch out for rampaging Wheelie Buses, run by Skynet or not.

Even Fucking Chelsea victories canst derail thee.

I give this mood until about ten, then, the return of troo kvlt, baby.

It's like something out of that twilighty show about that zone

Clever's in Nod. Slab, somnambulism minus the sleepwalking. Zoning out whilst treading neither frosty giant nor gossamer fairy land. Wrote something, then rewrote it, then re-rewrote, then unwrote the first rewrite, doubled the second, folded it into a triangle, thumbed it through a parallelogram, possibly a rhombus.

Sacred tectonic aftermath, three a.m. astronomie ys full of awe & awe-full.

♫ Don't call it a hoodwink ♪

Beware burnynge carafes!

Orthodox rites, or, put down that fattening donut & have some doggerel instead, or, this dump nutshelled

Fenriz says what is this that types before me?

Check this eloquence:
zen New Jersey nowhere,
how now brown bureaucrat --
shocking, a Simpsons' reference.
Next, offspring elder + younger are
cool cats, the sometimes-better-half
half-crazy, half-frustrating.
About me, what would she say,
let's not say. Hey, I said, hey,
Jesusfreak, secular humanist,
each one full of equal shit.
What of democracy, anarchy,
celtic frosted flakes would agree with me:
one in the same. Wait, you say,
no, go blow it out your craw,
the wisdom of crowds
is crowned oxymoron king,
ruling wherever the unwashed sing,
every bus, every train, every shower
everywhere. Darkthroning is sexy, too,
except when I croon. I can't carry a tune
so never sing (it's true) but shoot shoot shoot
flowers, rust, & trees, & hopefully
the Duchess doing a Dio --
shit, almost forgot to self-censor
me, your monkey dancer,
a dancer for boredom
existential. Hardly, maybe, certainly
but don't worry baby,
unfurling, beauteous petal,
at last, here's the metal.

Birds do it, bees do it, even holding midfielders do it

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Pieces parts, or, where's the beef?

This has nothing to do with this post (not really), but, looken sie hier, snow!

A painter gazes at his/her/its [ed. note: too many of you conveniently leave out the denizens of hollow earth, feel shame for your ism] work, grimaces, then relentlessly daubs like a giant, radioactive paper wasp over the mistakes, stroke over knife-edge over stroke, pleased with this fortress of tint in miniature. Or scraping it away, the righteous judgment of the gods, or the Borg, channeled through one unworthy, on a thing unworthy.

With the written, once it's molted & is ready to provocatively display itself, it appears flat -- just like the feeling after reading it, badoomboom. I can don my imaginary top hat & flâneur my way through a museum & nudge (relatively) close, seeing the topographical scansion in gobs of oily or plastic goo. Par ailleurs, the text is flat ink on a flat sheet (usually) or electricity on a screen (also usually). But I see, always, the detritus of the crossed-out, the arrows to the replacement, arrows from that to the return of the murdered word, the game invisibly played out whilst typing because the visible is Finished, the Great Deceiver.

So, rereading, rehashing, delving, digging, thieving, an archaeology of expression in order to express the inexpressible, which is not so because it's the key to the pyramids or long lost esoterica; the most common sentiments are the most uncommonly difficult. All this crap isn't new to you, I'm simply tired of being unable to throw the same piece in a six-foot hole & run away, but since I've yet to find a shotgun to kill this zombie dead, on the board we stay.

Sunny [ed. note: ugh] day real estate

Crap from vendredi 'cause I've got zip else, though the oh-fer, like the domestication of the dog, continues unabated but hey, second verse in a week, even if gatekeepers hate it. I do too but that's completely you-know-what.

Darkthroning in the "woods."

Scare tactics.

We're number one. In rust, not corpses.

Why don't you get a haircut, you hippie.

Your humble host & hostess.

Ghosts never come out in the day. I don't blame 'em.

Cadaver to be named later.

COULD BE TOXIC CALL FEMA

Creatures of habit.

Graveyard, pshaw. Sometimes we get drunk in the alley.

How microcosmic.

I hope this purchase was approved by the OWS banking committee.

Skyscraper.

You're always ruining my shots.

Limbs.

Not ours.