Broken record

Another semester, another layer of lawn off-getting deposited on the gunk.

I have a really strong sphincter about the badness of really bad stuff.

Forest hermitage.

METAL.

Abysses and eyeballs

Fuck you dumb public
fuck you stupid work
fuck you humidity
now that's fuckin' poetry
hell no says you
well fuck you too.

Doing the right thing

Frogger, deconstruct D)all of the above*

*did jam ninja-ly** to a stack of Darkthrone discs this weekend so hail hail rock and/or roll for truth in advertising for once

**sans air guitaring and/or neck wrecking***

***one wreck's good n' plenty****

****do "they" still make these?*****

*****I know "they" still puke out the great taste of Charleston Chew******

******66, the number of the beast, ******66, the one for you and me

Twenty-one gun salute

Yes, the marriage to the SBH is now old enough to drink. And drink I shall.

Ebb tide

Was unofficially saving this, the riffyard where I lifted this dump's subtitle, for the final whatever, but whatever. Kinda struck me the other house on haunted hill, mind and matter meeting over reruns and free beer I forgot about: I'm tired, out of shape, dead & bloated minus the dead but the bloat's a boat not far in the harbor, a place to go in the quest for firing negative reactors because doing so saves lives, or so we're told. Easier said when the Surround Silence isn't 'round tick tock.

Should be a bit o' yay honey since the oh-fer's now a one-fer, but you know, so? Brain's still a tumescent sloth happy to pine box space out, too, see above. Leave summer blockbuster clawing for the undead and characters from Poe.

Hell ain't just them but sing song, yingless yang -- hey, I should use that -- Newton's cradle stuck on static. Okay, five minute rule: sucks. Fine line between yabba dabba doo. A wonder anything's scrawled with this screaming quiet.

But hey, that's on you. J'accuse, accuser. You all through two of 'em, base ten. Seems this is how it's gonna be until we're worm's-meat. Yippee.

Maybe it's got everything to do with me.

Passive aggression

It's taken decades, but I think I'm beginning to get why some, many, most, who knows, prefer clinical cold to that gummiest of monkey wrenches one finds jamming up the circulatory warp and weft so often that of course it was built that way, it's just that I really hate math. Where's that confounded bridge?

Family, religion, friendship. These are the three demons you must slay if you wish to succeed in blah.

I'm sure I've played this a dozen times last week, so here's a dozen and one butchering the baker's count for making candles von too tree ha ha ha make sure they're weird. On second synapse, monkey's tired of dancing. Always tired.

Ergo, stop hanging around and go frolic in the street.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to ignore it, does it still talk to itself?

Blah blah blah.

Riddle me this, Adam West

Being around others is exhausting.
Being by yourself is draining.
Solve for x.

CRACK. 



Nod.

This show's overdue for a reboot.

Axiom grease

If something's going good, give it twenty-four hours.

Every three months, The Blizzard rages.*

Here's some metal, 'cause monkeys dance.



*not exactly axiomatic, but what is the internet but lies and porn?

And I'd rather be shot in the face than hear what you're going to say

Yeah, not so much

Verily, a day about to be wasted vomiting up an on-rails high school paper for a rumored college class. Oh, the gutters we willingly dive into for that shiny bus pass. I feel so dirty, but not very sexy which is probably true of most middle-age hitched dudes but in order to stave off every else's burgeoning vomiting, let me quickly change the vinyl and spin ye something both Halloweenie & oh baby.

Sweet love my labor

Darkthronin', drinkin', prestidigitatin', & a bunch o' other things that end with n or are at least consonance-adjacent save conversatin' 'cause you know. Tried & true has left me blue. Period. Art jokes aren't as funny as bar jokes. Just watch. 

Gauguin, Carvaggio, Mauve, & Van Gogh walk into a bar. The latter says, "friend, Roman, countryman, lend me an ear." 

HOT TOMATOES A' FLYIN'.

An other bunch o' other things going on, but check the header. I can't fix yours, you can't fix mine. Need a fix o' something. This post is very leprechauny. Perhaps some perhaps imminent vegemite might help?



All this serious is seriously egadsing my soule's intestinal tract.

Masks

Masaka is waking.

Lock up, clock out, scour European scores, predict who's getting nodded out of the pile of part time outfielders & corner men for a league I'm doing terrific in but care very little about, the exact opposite of black notebook stuff. Non, black codex stuff 'cause each page holds alchymick formulae -- that sputter, fizzle, & a bunch of other adjectives for frustrating incompetence.

Nyet, today (Saturday to thee & me) I'm going to clock out then kill the time twixt (un mot juste) the Slab & the Wheelie Bus that won't get back to Parmastan till past seven by sunning the carefully-placed cobwebs away, curbs tattooed with grimy perspiration as I get the gun get the gun shoot shoot shoot. I'm no TD Jakes, but I do sweat, which is why I would love Oslo whether it was full of snow & darkness & Neseblod Records or not but I'm glad that it is, not that I'll ever get there but at least it's on the shortlist which is more than most cities can brag I'm looking at you, Los Angeles.

So this new move, as small as it appears, is the first, likely temporary if I know me & I do much to my chagrin, crack in the big black monolith of routine, soon to reveal no new life signs, HAL. The air sags with moisture, concrete, & the incontrovertible fact that the self is the one person we cannot escape.

Comfort, cold or an étant occupé, isn't always gold but is the only thing that is always. Silence isn't either. Beyond this wall of sleep, speak dead speaker, beyond dead city centres, though I much prefer their funnier, kvlter old stuff, folk kveldssanger, too, smoking just like those bookend scours about wolves.



I blinde gaar jeg/Redd meg, ikke/La natten føre meg/Bestandig? Ha. I'm not fooled. As for new developments the lizard Shelley childishly perceives as brazen, I wait to hear a distracting pop song, people pinballing past, people about whose carnival I wonder, whether their frolic & shield is dis/similar to mine, yes even those feline-chapeau baroque off in the distance, forgetting that not all ears get one.

These posts, so grandiloquent in the synapse, quickly peter out like a dying Perseid you know is still there but that naked glass can no longer see, its wretched end forgotten the moment beautiful sparks evaporate in a city's overwhelming artificial light like a house in the Nevada Proving Grounds after a hundred kiloton test. (This image would work better later in the year when it's actually dark this early, I know.) The corner of the eye, having cocooned something terrible flapping in the breeze, readjusts. It turns out to only be the circle, recoiling. Stretching it to gather contact only leads to further getting burned.

Tomorrow at 4:30, ringing will reawaken reanimation.

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.

This is what I think about your ______

Brilliant idea, Number One, a twenty-fifth anniversary retrospective blathering, 'cause if there's one thing besides the twin titillation of porn & politics that the internets will be short of the next few months, it's posts on Star Trek.

You know you want it. You know I got nothin' else.

Grumble, a half-play in one-fifth act.
Hey, check this text.
Ja wohl.
Thoughts?
'tis good.
Asking receives naught.
fin

Nightcap needs a nightcap after all this weed & mow.
Fuck, I, this, old. N-n-n-n-nobody's fault but tango.

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.

Reflective powers

It's funny but not standup how I've got more noodle-rattling oodles than ever, but the ubiquitous perplexity of punctilious coherence [ed. note: egads] notwithstanding, filtering the scattershot through sieves & into useable voltage, that's a gloveless climb of K2, thus a tune & a lament, like this. Upon further reflection, yes, I am an assembly line of many hats.

Apparently, there's some Serious going on in November or tomorrow or yesterday, but seriously, whatever, shit gets in the way of versification [ed. note: holy shit, I finished two in a weekish, that's like ambition Jake says ewww] & fine-tuning my slack towards chord practice. Storm of the Yeti will play live at least four times (yes, the basement walls count as separate dates) because what's left but penning a never-to-be-seen wizards, weed, & outer space epic whilst sitting in a pool of mold-encrusted pizza boxes.

Squint real hard when shafts of sunset pierce the glass, looks like jade.

Low would be the ideal, you would think. You would be fucking stupid. Entirely unfair, you would be unaware that low feeds upon itself, & in fact, isn't itself at all. One-way has little to no forks; thereat lies the mystery & wonder of gazing at the smear that surrounds & finding the outlines of stars, or at the very least talking about nothing, which is everything, its inherent un-serious-nesse the most potent serious imaginable.

I did, Yoda, so it's back to try because that X-Wing is too fucking heavy.

I enjoy rocking back & forth in the corner before circling the drain it makes the ride more pleasant

So long, library cowboy.

Gloopdooploopdeloopbettyboop when, after removing string after coiled string of Lite Brite because every day is at least 8% Christmas plus tax, I peel the onion & cry because it's an onion & they do that [ed. note: I'm not really because the only onions in the vicinity are caked on vending machine botulism & tears lessen the chance of an ulcer everyone should have attainable goals], & because further & hence writer's block is the midst of boxing up & closeting next to the skeleton all the freeform ready for public jazz joints & since I don't discount dissociation all I can do in reply is to thine own self nelsonmuntz in the mirror in lieu of diatribal rants on how silence is golden makes fools of us all, or at least some, for once not me, or am I the fool, probably. They sure can gab.

Postscript: no, this ain't a sayonara, some of you fuckers take what I say way too literal, a mistake when dealing with someone who talks, as a rule, out of his ass.

But he don't know what it means

Brave chicks & magic skulls, what's not to love.

Contents of a box, blueberries bobble on the tongue, processing one from a stack of none. There's this cool Bilibin work I work at work at staring at, & another by some other that I can't remember, though it's not entirely similar. We, fuck that, me, that is, I, stare at this shit for inspiration [ed. note: since it's old & arty & I love the big R, though I don't know under what scholarly heading the experts classify this nor do I care all that much beyond being used as keywords for ordering shit from other libraries], alternating between that & St. Drogo's elixir & the too/not occasional glass of vino chez moi because. Coffee is water, though headaches pop like a whack-a-mole when I don't & gallons [ed. note: I originally typoed galloons which are galleons crewed by Walloons. Would pirates like balloons?] of tea, though tasty, take too long to compensate.

All I know is that I need, really need, to write more 'cause even I get tired of doing nothing but grumbling. Not that tired, let's be clear.

Sit n' spin, see parking lot nuked for new apartments unaffordable by anyone but senior partners, so it's funny that a morning glare out future glass will be ruined by a Towering Slab-dappled view.

Maybe Baba Yaga will move in.