Saturday, June 19, 2004

Plussed

Yeah, I'm finally back. I plan on making a post about that trip when I get it, maybe, we'll see what happens.

I read five books in one week, there was so much of nothing else to do. I will talk about that when I make a post (and if).

The principal one among these books, the one I most enjoyed, was Upton Sinclair's The Jungle. This book almost made me cry when I was reading it (and I haven't cried since I was a child--seems to me to be when I hurt my knee or something). It was also highly moving, and it endlessly pans through my mind still, to this day, after having read it days and days ago. I recommend the book, very highly, ostensibly; I think anyone should read it--it will make you consider things.

What's it about? Well, I'll get into that when I make my post, later on tonight. It was written in 1907, and it still packs the same power, let me tell you. I think this has to be one of my favorite favorite books I've ever read.

But, anyway. Let's see if reading those five books has helped my writing, shall we? Here I have is a verbose excursion. I'd call it a poem. Enjoy.

---

my naked hands, wry & lavish, feel upon the bed, move upon its surface; these hands tingle; they are supersensitive. touch after touch, plussed, gives forth to the lust; in each gentle stroke of the bedsheet i feel in my fingers an itch; feel a sensation as if i would like to rip out of this skin and have that feeling, full, which is covered in the flesh; to have only the pleasurable rapt and none of the physical limitation, nor none of the hurt which wallows in the gallows-the very sallow-faced human form-and torments, and torments and torments carnally and sworn up the bereaved wearing of my spine. all the same i do carry the wreck of my mind; hear its bickerings and its design, its very own crimes. to the depths they say, the bars and cell of the illicit condemning of an innocent man forced in full to the whips of a wicked wrought reality. suffer, and do the time. pendulum swinging verily from the grandfather clock in the darkest midnight of the house-rather called a hellhole, a veritable housing of the innocuous desires and harrowing inundations of the place where residence is established. it is here, in the limitations of the nature, and the limitations of the reality, that i shall shakedown myself, breaking free the moorings, and be free.

an antipathy of apathy, i am on this bed; there is no dread. there is nothing dead. it is only being fed its dinner, the desires overwhelming the one who cannot surrender and contain himself. a being too sly shy & tried, the judge, the jury, the executioner, that is who he is. he slams the gavel down and gives the verdict; he decides the verdict; he acts on the verdict, delivering the stoutly swang blow beyond a reason of a doubt.

the beautiful woman, taken many forms, a stirring within the guilty mind. two fallible red bounties aparted for the bequeather’s own lips to trust. let them flutter to each other as the passion is drowned in the muddy muck of the river’s bottom. let them drift as one to the bottom, weighted with each other. let them suffer for the air and sunshine of a blossoming day, and shudder and shake as they drown to death.

and here is parted them with rigor mortis setting in upon their features-dead as a doornail with the final nail to the coffin, still coalescing in each other’s arms. this is the death of something too good to last which this coy shy & young demurer has never had. he still tries to learn to swim and hopes to drown with woe one day, a temple for him to enter and worship unduly open and agape to this lake he builds.

i am upon the bed, thoughts demeated out of my head, and i rock a bye baby & hear the bed moan in lament with me. the mind’s eye lets me see the pretty woman of desire, an impune startling being with that thing imparted as “beauty.” for in her that is what there is.

the trees? natural, mundane dancers in the open wind. paved roads-the sky-the endless antiquities of this world-all overshown and overdone-“there’s nothing new under the sun.” this sun. everything is a mire, a pitiless pit dug to depth. but she who in this guilty mind prevails-that is “new,” that is “under the sun” that is “beauty,” in its stark simpleness, she is non sequitur to all else. truly she is a rare and unseen thing. how she can carry about herself so carelessly with all that beauty. oh, if only i were not so shy & inward, then i would entreaty her to be careful with that beauty, to exploit it but keep it forever. oh, if only i could own the veritable beautiful bounty that is her own ripe for the picking body. but she is where she is, and i am where i am, and i am not a talker, and she is not talking, and i see her now standing within the depths of a darkly lit crevice where she has locked herself in. when i lay eyes upon her i remove my gaze as to not attach attention or suspicion, and when i am looking away, she is all i see as an afterimage in my eyes and the endlessly echoing semblance of myself.

i am poisoned. the poison seeps the arteries and veins and capillaries of my black-as-hole heart. i am empty, needing the be filled, and just a glance, just a lookingover of her is enough to sate the empty with a thudding redness. the madblood courses over me and i tell myself one day she will be mine. but she is gone. even so, there are others on the grape vine of lust whose flesh ripens with the fetid of “beauty.” i shall pick many of these grapes and ferment from them a wine which i will drink from a goblet and get drunk off of. the taste as it enters my mouth is a sweet bitter thing because i know the grapes i have procured for my own imbibing shall not last, that i cannot get drunk like this forever. that is lust to the leaves, a fine irreverence too drunkening, too bestial to last but ephemerally: it is the problem with all good things.

once a tendency is developed, lust falls from the stem of rotten grapes, withering. and the wine does not taste so fine when those rotten grapes are plucked. rather it does nothing & tastes repulsive & is aged wrong. for this wine is unlike usual wine. to get drunk from it now is impossible, and to do so brims on lethargy & a broken-entered precipice called love. i will have none of that at this ripe age. i am poisoned and must not get poisoned more by the likes of that.

on the bed i am beyond myself and all, and i imagine her. she takes many forms but all amount the same thing: a giving in to the desire, the pining, a release of the passion; to that is what it goes. the bed is a woman, the woman a bed, whereupon i lie and is my territory to reign. like a bear i leave my scratches to the trees; like the ant i serve the queen; like the rose i green (with small thorns whose point is sharp); and like the world spinning, the universe infiniting, me grinning, i am to it as is everything, and i cannot deviate from what is my purpose here.

so it ends, my head reeling.

the release of the feeling.

and for that moment in time, all is well with me. i have been satisfied by my own imagination, the lust i reprieve.

onward i dream. the cell i am in has sentenced me to hang someday. it is with hope beyond hope that i never need use the rope, but that time will infest my skin, a tick, and disease me and ail me with its decaying fingers, crawling all over me. but sometimes, this cell is mighty lonely, and the shadows decrying me sometimes seem to creep into me and make me wish to break this neck rightly with that noose. but perhaps i am just morbidly obtuse.

i have nothing to lose-everything to gain-and i think that’s what scares me the most, that i might throw this all away without having her. or doing my foot’s impression in this real world. but first i must jiffy open this lock in my cell, and tiptoe on out and see this hell,

and that’s only to be eventually captured, and put back in this cell. because i’d rather live here in my head than in this hell. and i’d rather have her to keep me well. until then the bars give a shadow to these eyes, and my outside window shows the sun’s rays as i gaze out with dead eyes.

dead eyes embittered with a fighting guise, a ready-open fighting that dilates the pupils and warms my thighs.
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Tuesday, June 8, 2004

Desperation

Well, today I'm leaving for Dickinson, then we're off to this cabin in Minnesota for one week, so I won't be around here much at all (not that I was around much anyway--the only way I've been on decently enough lately is because I sneak on).

I plan to play some games when I go to this cabin. I think I've convinced my parents to let me bring my brother's PS ONE with and use that. Otherwise, I'll just read. In fact, last night, I read 100 pages in two books combined, which is odd, because it's hard for me to read most of the time lately.

I was reading Desperation, a book showcasing a murderer who called himself H. H. Holmes in rebuilt Chicago. He was around in the era of Jack the Ripper, and from what this book is saying, he was worse, much worse.

In the era I'm talking about, dubbed by Mark Twain "The Gilded Age," the mantra of the world was getting rich. Being rich, being an entrepenuer, being a tycoon--that was what it was all about.

The book starts off with a forward explaining the "Gilded Age," then goes on to its first chapter, where it tells about Chicago's fire it had. And the rebuilding. Then, quite genius, it centers on the murderer-to-be, back in his home city, some ways away from Chicago, and explains him. This is all in the first chapter, is all true (the entire book is true). I was impressed with this book, it's done in a nice way.

But it isn't fun stuff to read.

Once he moved to Chicago, the man I might as well refer to as H. H. Holmes got a job at a pharmacy. Here there lived a husband and wife, old. And the wife was soon to be a widow. So when Mr. Holmes came in, she was under much strain--her husband dying, customers--and hired him right there on the spot.

What happens next is Holmes works there for a while. The man had a certain flirting charm, a way with the ladies, that brought more to the pharmacy, if it can be called that.

Eventually, Holmes asked to purchase the store from the old widow. She thought it over and decided on it, under one condition: she be allowed to stay and board upstairs. And it was agreed.

Somewhere around this time, Holmes also got married to a woman by the name of Myrta. Now owning the store, Holmes set her up as a cashier, but she cramped his flirtatious style. Holmes had her soon thereafter up in the living quarters, doing domestic tasks. But, up there, there was no old widow.

Holmes hadn't been paying his payments for purchasing the store to the poor old widow, so eventually she decided to take legal action. When that failed, she tried other things, but suddenly, she was silent, and gone. Where would an old widow like that go? Why would she just drop her needed money and plop off out of that store?

To this day, she is still gone.

Myrta, his wife, got pregnant. He sent her off to her parents, where she stayed. She should be considered lucky, because she is one of the few women who knew Holmes personally, and had not disappeared, such as the old widow, previous owner of the store, had.

What follows next is Holmes, embued with the spirit of that day, decided he needed to go larger, needed to get on top, needed to become rich. To do that, he needed a new building, one that would attract a passerby's attention, and make them come in.

It was no coincidence that nearby his now-owned store there was perfect land to purchase to make a building. Holmes had scouted around the area before making the decision to come to the old widow's store, and take work there.

He got a lease on that land, but wasn't getting enough money to build his building. But in his mind, he had a plan.

He began hiring workers: brick workers, laborers, the like. In a quite nefarious, yet clever design, his laborers would come to him. He would fire them right there on the spot, telling them that their work was insufficent, and that he wouldn't pay. And if they picked a physical fight, Mr. Holmes had at his side, endlessly, a six-foot-something coarse-looking man to ease them from wanting any physical endeavor.

In this way, Holmes fired many, many workers, then hired more, then fired more. Building his building took longer than it should have, but it was an equal compromise, worthy of the money Holmes was saving.

Holmes even bought a vault, and when he didn't pay his payments, in his usual fashion, they came to take it from him. The room it was in held the vault, and wouldn't let it come out. Holmes told the men, as they tried to take the vault, that if they damaged his building, he would be getting his money back for it.

The vault stayed where it was.

When the building was all done and completed, about 2 years later, Chicago had no idea what was going to happen. The building was soon given the name "the Castle," and when Holmes was done, his mark left on the city, it would be called "the Castle of Horrors." Or "Bluebeard Castle." Or whatever other name that you could come upon.

The building was rather large, but not in length, but in width. The first floor was set up with whatever shopkeepers set up there. The other floors housed different, more evil, areas.

Mr. Holmes soon sold his old store, which was very crude and small in comparison to his new one. The gentleman who bought the store came in, to talk it over, one day. There was a very nice rush of customers. But unknown to the gentleman, who had high dreams, these customers were actually hirelings hired by Mr. Holmes himself to act as customers, and purchase things.

Why is it so busy here, the gentleman asked Holmes. Holmes had expected to be asked. And gave the right answer.

It was sold.

A few days later, the gentleman and his wife watched across the street as men unloaded and hung a sign on the big building over there. It was a wood sign, beautifully rendered, and in silver letters it said "H. H. HOLMES PHARMACY."

That gentleman was soon gone.

There are other details I could cover, but I am low on time, so let me jump a bit. Eventually, Mr. Holmes hired a person of the name Ned as a Jewler. Ned had a wife, a buxom, 6-foot woman. And a child, called Pearl.

His wife hated him. Ned was a failure, having failed in a plethora of other towns. His wife, full of beauty, would've gotten a divorce a long time ago, but her parents would not allow it. She would have to live with her mistake, is what they told her.

So, the fates had lead them here, to Mr. Holmes's "the Castle." Ned was hired, and the affair the ensued is obvious.

Eventually, Ned left her altogether. Around this time, she became pregnant, she told Holmes, and she also told Holmes he had to marry her. Holmes, already married, told her this, and they argued and argued, until Holmes told her that she must get an abortion, and then he would marry her, because he already had a large load from the other children he had created.

She agreed.

Time went and went, and she continued to put it off. Then they agreed on a date--Christmas Eve.

That day, she was taken down stairs she never knew existed. She kept complaining that she needed to put her child Pearl to sleep, so Mr. Holmes told her he would. Holmes went there, but before he did, he grabbed something, and gave it to the child.

Holmes came back, and told her the child was sleeping. The child was sleeping soundly. And it's sure the child was.

Holmes soon found out that one of his employees could fix skulls. And so, he asked him to get rid of everything on a particular cadaver one evening, and leave just the skeleton. The worker agreed, glad to get the extra work. He was paid an extra $36.

Holmes sold the skeleton for $200, and it was hung upon a wall. The person who had it looked at it and would think, wow, a six-foot tall woman, I wonder what she looked like when she was alive.

I just wonder what took her life--pneumonia, or was it something else--what could it have been that took such a flourishing woman's life?

---

I've been playing FF 7, and Unreal Tournament lately. Hopefully I will be able to play FF7 at the cabin, so I can continue my fifth time or so through this game. I also need to start a new game on Final Fantasy Tactics, since I got screwed over even though I was so far.
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Monday, June 7, 2004

The Great Debate

I've had these uploaded for quite some time. I guess it's time for a picture show, eh? Eh.






































I've posted pictures of myself about three times here before, but nothing with this many pictures. Some of them are pretty bad, but what can I say. I'd say in most of these I look ugly, personally, and that's the way many people are with pictures of themselves. . .so yeah.

Sorry if they are crappy quality as well, for that cannot be helped. I used a crappy web cam to get them.

And we end with some of my own writing, in its beautiful, wonderful, amazing splendor!


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A Perfect Circle- Orestes

Metaphor for a missing moment
Pull me into your perfect circle
One womb One chain One resolve
Liberate this will
To release us all
Gotta cut away, clear away snip away and sever this umbilical residue
Keeping me from killing you
And from pulling you down with me
In here I can almost hear you scream
One more medicated peaceful moment (give me)
One more medicated peaceful moment
And I don't wanna feel this overwhelming hostility
No, I don't wanna feel this world around me hostility
Kill it
Gotta cut away clear away
Snip away inside of this umbilical residue
Gotta cut away clear away
Snip away inside of this umbilical residue
Keeping me from killing you
Keeping me from killing you

---

This album is all I listen to lately. It's that damn good. I think this album's going to be a lot like Radiohead's Ok Computer for me.
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What is it you most fear/ Zombie

what is it you most fear? is it fear itself? what is it? and why do you fear? why must you be afraid?

the only answer i hear is the taciturn mouthing of unknown coming from your silence. we live not knowing why we feel what we feel. . .we just feel, and that is all, isn’t it? that’s all.

i’m sick of questioning, i’m sick of interrogating myself, i’m sick of pushing my chains to the point where it aches. the only thing i know anymore is that i need-that i feel a primal urge to get what i require, and nothing will get in my way. my wrists have marks on them-red marks-my legs have those same marks from my shackles. i can see them getting less each day, leaving me, going away. i am subdued, i no longer care. i’ve gone beyond no longer caring and i’ve come to the point of either throwing it all away, or keeping it and watching it grow as i watch myself slowly age, slowly dwindle to nothing. it is obvious which venue i have chosen. either way is as right as the other. i am simply a coward to the pain. i fear the pain i will inflict if i were to throw this all away, like a steady hand will handle a black garbage bag, put it in a garbage. this path i have chosen will still lead to the an end-lead to it being thrown away, the garbage going in the trash; but with this way, i will lead it with my hand, i will carry it till it needs to go at last, and i will dump it when it is too rotten to go beyond.

i cannot let go of this, and i know why. it is the maddening rage of survival. the beast will not leave me. there is no averting from it. i try to be something rather than what i am, and the act’s gotten a little old. but there is still more acting as i go into this status quo. i also know i will turn my back from this path many times because this path seems so useless sometimes. i feel no accomplishment in this reality. i feel accomplishment in my imagination, and if in my life i pen enough of it, i will be glad with that. and if i can make others fulfilled as well, that will work too.

if one needs to label down what it is they fear, the closest one can come to a consensus on is to say they fear the unknown.

---

some fear zombies. i don’t fear those. at the root of all fear is the unknown. zombies may seem out of this world, yet at the same time, they live in a cozen of existence relative to our own. they are a creation of imagination-and if we are in touch with this, then they aren’t unknown at all; they are merely a creation of the human psyche’s intuitive design.

zombies are human in form; rather haggard, worn-down, they are former humans-often considered beyond death, constant in hungering for hunks of human flesh, cannibals in trade. flesh-eating compassionless moaning groans, they shuffle about on two unsturdy legs. they swoon in a drunken helter-skelter, endlessly approaching the soft, wonderful taste and feel and touch of flesh upon their molars. feasting on this flesh, devouring it, fulfills them and it is their nature.

zombies are quite like humans. zombies are humans, but not, at the same time. if you look at everything, you see everything has its place in this world; everything has a purpose to which it contains and lives itself in. you’ll see the plants undergoing photosynthesis: taking in carbon dioxide, making oxygen; you’ll see the human breathing, any animal breathing: taking in oxygen, making carbon dioxide. you’ll see water evaporating, condensing up and up and making clouds. you’ll see clouds getting too heavy and releasing water, causing what us humans call rain. you’ll see an animal die in a forest, fall on the ground, and you’ll see bacteria come in and eat away the necrotizing tissue. you’ll see this eaten tissue become nutrients a plant feeds on, grows roots, and sprouts and blooms from. you’ll see the plant produce fruit which contains seeds in it; you’ll see an animal take the fruit for nourishment, and see the plant’s seed carried on-this is all natural. it happens in nature, it’s meant to be.

and in imagination, there sprang forth a creature whose sole purpose was eating human flesh. it’s just their nature. you can’t help the nature. just like we, as humans, can’t help our nature-our need-for procreation. see, that’s how we’re like zombies. we like our flesh too. like a zombie’ll snatch onto ripe human flesh, dig those teeth in, seeping, so do we, but we don’t eat it. we just like to lick it, or cherish it, or feel it. a zombie just needs food, and has a natural need to possess every human with its affliction which makes it a zombie.

so really, what’s to fear about these living corpses, these living cadavers, living fatalities, living bodies? what’s there to fear? nothing i say. you can’t fear them getting on you, eating you, because if you’re about as fast as, say, any single human on this earth (even the morbidly obese ones) you should be able to avert them. they shuffle around like drunkards, slow as freezing hell, fast as one slow snail. all they do is moan endlessly, sort of like someone who’s alone, who needs a woman. sort of like me. they have an eternal want. they sort of sound like wookies too, when you think about it. eat your heart out chewbacca. always cajoling like some goddamned prune. yeah, you’re as much a zombie as them all. i’d really like to see you in the third remake of dawn of the dead.

by the end of your life, you are a zombie. really. in the flesh. you’ll know what i mean when you look in the mirror in about some-odd count-me-not years. just wait. you’ll look at your eyes, and see your sockets are just holes in your head. it’ll look like you’re a walking talking skull. you’ll sort of moan at what the world’s done to you. if you still have a logical thought process, you’ll think, “shit,” and that’s about all you’ll think, because you’ll realize you can’t think anything else. and that the world’s done it to you.

just don’t fear those zombies, kids. instead, be scared of mummies. even though mummies are zombies wrapped in tape, it’s okay. you can be afraid. you can be very afraid.

i have a mommy and i think i’m more afraid of her than a mummy. my mommy doesn’t have tape all over her either. if you wanted, i could wrap her in some scotch tape, get myself some cheap camera, have her start moaning for me, and get her a sarcophagus. there you go. there’s your mummy mommy.

the scene’ll open up with apparent black and white, very vintage. then she’ll crawl out of her sarcophagus, while retching music plays. the music will continue to build to a climax as mommy comes out of her tomb, moaning, groaning.

okay, look what you’ve made me do. either it’s my mind working too hard with too much sexual autism, or you’re receiving the same thought within the bowels of your mind as me.

doesn’t the entire moaning, groaning thing just sound. . .wrong? not to mention i seem to see a word called “climax” close to where that part happens. this is just too kinky for me. . .too kinky in a bad way. i’m getting a bad image and i don’t quite like it.

when i think about it, zombies would make good porn stars. all that oooing and ahhing and rrrrrring, they sound like sexually overused porn stars, too damn tired and sick of their job. so sick they began becoming indifferent to the whole thing. yes, that’s right, zombies are veteran porn stars. they’ve been penetrated, or have penetrated, so much, that their legs move slow, and they shuffle as if they’re too old for their bones. and can you not just imagine two zombies going about procreation? zombie #1 and zombie #2 getting it on? i could. honestly, since some horror movies have some humor, i believe this would be a brilliant idea. it could be easily implemented, and made to make fun of porn movies.

i don’t know if you’ve seen porn movies (for i have, being the sex-lacking being i am), but they are done so bad. you know, the story takes the backdrop for. . .other things, if you know these other things i speak of. if not, ms. virgin mary, or mr. jesus christ, carry on, and stop reading, for your eyes will be covered in sin. i don’t want to see the sin sore in you, and make you just dying with sinful thoughts. o dear god, no. not at all.

but anyway, in my mind, it would be hilarious. dress up zombie #1 and zombie #2 in a man and woman’s attire, make them be in a room, moaning as they please. then, give the translation of what their saying in zombiespeak by way of subtitles. of course, the zombies wouldn’t be speaking in zombiespeak, but what the hell, it’s my show, so they are. (basically, you just make up some terrible script, a la porn movies, and there you go, that’s what you put in subtitles). then of course you’d have your procreation scene, in which zombie #1 bites off zombie #2’s blouse, then bra, then panties, are whatever the heavens else is within your mind. and i could go on and on. . .but you get the idea. it’s ingenious really. i should patent this, just like donald trump wanted to patent his little “you’re fired!” thing. don’t forget to put your arm, compacted, on your chest, then push your hand outward, fingers held together when doing it. you have to overemphasize it too, just like mr. trump. the thing that’s too bad is that the “u” in trump isn’t an “a.” the name would suit any millionaire. and that’s my final answer. but really. . .the zombie thing is a good idea. i shouldn’t be selling it out, because i know one of you out there is someday going to be a successful director, screenplay writer, whatever the whatever else, but what can you do. just give me credit where credit is due-and don’t forget that over the years there’s accrue to it. interest. the longer you wait the more credit i deserve. this is a fiscal matter.

i’m really such a satirical bastard right now. i’m just wondering if before you feared zombies, and now you don’t. that’s what i’m hoping. i’m hoping they’ve made you laugh.

ah, here’s another idea, ingenious from yours truly. we could have a zombie preacher. i mean, preachers at this point are zombies anyway. all they do is moan and groan about this so-called god man. a zombie moaning would be the same to me. . .and he’d be perfect for communion, too! i don’t think anyone at church would really see the difference, either. they’d just keep on with their same old.

zombies sure are interesting creatures, aren’t they! oh yes indeed! if i could be an creature from horror lore, i would be a zombie, too! it’s too bad i am already a zombie, isn’t it, kids? yeah yeah, i hear you going “awwww,” and it’s so nice to get a symphony of sympathy in this congregation. but story time’s over now. i feel like a zombie right now, because i need my period of resuscitation, unlike zombies.

this is tom brokaw saying goodnight: “goodnight.”
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Saturday, June 5, 2004

gargoyle

i have something inward pushing me down that opens me up. there’s this feeling in me just fucking me in. i wanna know what’s going on this time, let’s go in. again.

a certain determination, a certain will that is; the certain perseverance, intuition, a gargoyle statue grins. he’s on the pinnacle, the very top, the summit of the skyscraper. the wind’s blowing, the sun’s blistering the skin; the clouds are ominous, his hand’s on his chin. what new threats does every day on the top hold? when will he fall like a weak, feeble being? this status quo greens in a summer’s time. ripe fruits bear a picking, a pulling out of the roots, a devouring to the lust, to the desire. stone held up will soon fall down. the world awaits below-that never-ending crowd. just hold your grip. . .and fall.

on top of this edifice, the wind blows like hell. the clouds fill the endless sky. gray dark peeks its eye. proverbial, it stirs a design. the rain falls, and the angels up in heaven are crying for nothing again. while they gently weep the lowly prowl. worms come from their dirt homes way down and prance in the falling tears. some seem to hope a fallen angel will land in their lap and show them the world. it’s too much well wishing, too much dirt digging. hope is an apparition; don’t you hear, hear it try to conquer all the fear? such an empty likeness to what is a human being. the gargoyle-stone tenure-can see them all. and the rain washes the dirt away. the rain washes the wishes and bangs a pitter patter with no avail. it’s an endless wail.

the gargoyle is broken, is destroyed by a thunderbolt. zeus flung that thing like no tomorrow, aimed it with intent. he wants to watch it go down. we go in and out, the angels’ incessant pout, zeus’s thundering bout. and down pours them tears; the worms down below are being drowned. they flounder like trout. flip flop, the water flows, grows ever-higher with each moment, each passing train of time. this time is a train hell-sent, bent on making wet all the fears. it’s not stopping till it falls off the tracks. the angels won’t let it happen any other way. the worms will feel the wrath to no end.

down falls it from the skyscraper, broken debris wettened, the gargoyle’s face seeing nothing but the coming ground. he sees the windows of the building flying by too fast, sees the drops of rain streaming down fast as him. with weight comes inertia, the speeding up of endless mass. statuesque, can you see inside the gargoyle’s burlesque? deep in there-that rock hard stone-is something soft like the touch of skin to skin. it’s all within. look past the superficial superfluous supercilious and see the supernatural, the anomaly, the alienation from the supersaturated greed. you’ll see once it falls and breaks to pieces.

the statue breaks on the lips of the ground and explodes to pieces. out from the gargoyle crawls a spidering thing, a naked, open king, a rex to rule this monarchy. the worms cover all around, the rain makes its sound, and here stands what you never see. what’s always covered by the temple, by the building-the physicality, the stone being, the hard exoskeleton covering.

the worms, stupid, feeble, idiotic imbeciles go about their way. two-handed, two-footed, one-hearted blackened machines, broken to this reality. blinded by greed, by success, by the sucking fiend of pride. they taste accomplishment from slaving for this resounding organized humanity, the society, the swallowing, grounding. for it they bleed, with open sores, and let go of themselves. servile insects, they slither into the ground, the covering dirt of this enclosed space and live with it all their lives until they die and are buried, forgotten names which had no place but to continue what’s here. and i am this king, and i am supreme, and success-true-will taste upon my lips and i will give in to this and kiss it with my all. i will spit upon the sidewalk, i will walk and wear the reality and bend it to my will. it will surrender, insurrected, and i will live in the chains but will utter the forgotten names, and i will overcome and oversee and overanalyze. i will make everyone realize this immense potential and mesmerize all the worms. i, stone gargoyle, broken, ruined, destroyed, have been reborn. in my hand i hold this scorn, and with the words i shall shield, shall defend my given right to express this fight. i will make one of them angels up above fall to me. she. . .she shall be my queen. i will crown her also supreme and we will never be torn apart. for you cannot tear apart the coalesce that is the heart.

only the good die young, and only a fighter can go beyond death, go beyond this breath. i heave in this oxygen, and it goes into my lungs. the air is full of pollution, of transportation, of commerce, of passing cars full of passing lies. i will not fall to this, it is so contrived. opening up my eyes, i walk on the sidewalk-king of the worms-and i feel my feet walking, feel them hitting hard upon the ground. i want to dent it, make a crater, make an impression to everyone around. i want them to know how deep my compassion is found. i want to show someone-even everyone-the genius that can be had if you just open up and view. let your eyes see it true. living in a space that’s too close for someone as paranoid as me i go beyond and in my head. i am walking out, the sun up in the sky, the squall going away, and i crave.

i crave to taste the air, crave to taste your moving temple, crave to make something above and beyond the usual. i crave to be known as an unknown and shown the things in life i cannot find. i crave to always feel the imagination within my mind. but here i am, on the outside, in disguise; i am wearing my stone skin, i am a gargoyle, i am on top of a summit, a pinnacle of my existence and i feel fine. physically, i read between the lines, i pass it on by, but i am caught up in this reality that’s in my eyes. the beauty is what i crave, and it is time. i will have it all. don’t disturb me, i am festering by the rose-the red thorns poking the side. i want to be exposed, no longer alienated, isolated, below this shine. i will find myself in myself and give it to you. a rose a flower, it is in bloom. someday to wilt someday to gray and line, someday to push away what is really mine. i will not waste this taste, i will come to it and devour, dine. i will bend, i will excel, i will feel beyond this empty. i will push it all aside and see myself as beyond a human being, beyond this useless greed, beyond this useless temple i am grounded to be, beyond this mental heed. all that matters is the feeling, all that matters is the desire, the lust, the need to weed.

i am a dandelion, i will be picked, i will feel my seeds. i will flutter in the wind, a disease, and supplant myself within you all. i am the king of myself, of all i see, and i need a queen to spread this creed. the bible is devoid, but what i say is true. close your mouth and speak with your mind. there’s more deep inside than what’s outside. this weed-what i am. it’s summer, i shall cover the ground and fester. the worms will nourish on my roots. the rain of fallen angels will make it divine. you will smile in my presence, i will strengthen it all.

can i smile? i do not think in my entire emotional head i have the breadth to open up these two red bounties and allow the curvature which enunciates happiness. happiness in slavery, i am most happy when i am least happy, and i am least happy when i am most happy. i am most happy when i am fighting, when i am passionate, when i am alive; it’s when i feel above it all that i crash and fall-can you not just hold me in your arms? but you do not see me, i am a statue, i am rock hard, i am indifference. i am a cratered surface, a satellite orbiting about the earth, a moon with no place no home. there’s no angels here. the only way it comes is when it goes. it’s all falling up. there shall not be a smile but there shall be contrived happiness. i will only open up when you’ve given up. this is the game i play, pounce and pray. i go to my temple each day and worship your name. do you do the same? you know you’re my god, and i don’t have you yet, but i will have you in the end. then i will clutch you till it drains. till the rain goes away, and what’s left is just me gone.

the feeling of frustration endlessly embraces my face and goes all over the place and makes me feel wasted, useless. but i am above it, i will succeed. i do not need to worry, it will all go as i please. i have the potential to make more than i am. but deep down i know i am nothing, i am dust in the wind. but i have gone beyond this self-depreciation, this self-lament. i have hit the cement, and broken in the rain. i feel wet, but i am on fire. i will forget. i will be cynical, but i will go and do what i must. i will give in to these intentions. it’s all for you, it’s all so futile, but i will build my empire, i will be king, you will be queen. love is only a feeling, but that’s all there’s ever to need. this is absolutely a machine. but when i covet you each day i see it all fade away. all i care for is beyond what i see.

i am in a haze. this contrived happiness, this fake, i know what it is. but i am so sick, i am so tired, i just give in. for a moment, i’m not a gargoyle, i’m just within. my temple doors are open and i need to stay in. what’s wrong with my head? don’t you see, i was already dead. i’ve gone beyond death-i’ve conquered myself. i want to sell myself away. let me just fade away. let me just be here alone. i will pine. . .pine. i will pine. this is fine.

the rain stops. i never even cried. i crawl back in my broken statue and piece it back together. i breathe in the air, full of exhaust. if this is anything, it’s rigormortis. this is the hardness of death, and how strong it makes me. i’ve gone beyond. i am king of what i see. i rule this dirt mound. the worms, they all squirm, and i pluck them in my hands. some of them have so much potential. they will go beyond with me. it’s back to my stone skin. i’m back within, extrovert, schizoid, immaculate in my presentation. i dislike this civilization in my head, so i paint myself another picture as i lie here in bed. i am flying tonight, and i have no wings. i am going on a magic carpet ride. i’m setting the controls of the heart to the sun, it’s to the great gig in the sky. future, past, present, it all goes by. i never knew each one and i never will. it all happens as it happens, an endless time machine an endless dream. all this is is a dream. i dreamt the same thing i did last time i dreamed. i feel the end is a rubber band of this beginning, and it will come back and wound my soft skin.

stone wings that aren’t even there, i fly back up and perch myself on the building’s top. i look over and look around. down there the busy scuttle. they move and go about their way. i feel isolated, what dismay. this is goodbye, for today.

on my bed, i fly away, close these two eyes i’d like to call windows to the soul. and on these windows i shut the blinds, and i keep everything going on. outside it’s too fastidious for me. too meticulous, tedious, too crowded with suffering. so i cover it all up with imagination, with dreams. this somnambulist is me. i’m sleeping beauty. the world better open its eyes and get ready, because i’ve got lots of things to say. i will show them all one day how i can change it all. i will make my mark and count it in this prison cell, this neon distraction we call Earth.

get ready, get wide, i’m gonna do some surgery. the scalpel will cut away the terminally ill, and will make an incision to your heart. you’ll feel it, and everything that’s your foundation will fall apart. this world’s gotta get a little work done, and i’m just the man. this is the plan.

today i walked till sweat blushed my face. my feet moved all over the place and i was off in my own space. i will show you all this place, i will give you it like a waitress giving a plate, like a caveman writing on his slate, like the killing hand of fate, like the warmness of a handshake. i will give you a taste. put it on down and swallow.

this is my moving temple. worship me. pray for me. one day we will meet. one day my name will come to you. one day they will all know my name. it won’t be fame, it will be my will done. it will be my perseverance sung. it will be my intuition, what i deserve. so get down, let’s serve.

we’re servile, ancillary, helpless, hopeless, hapless catering creatures. what monsters are meant to be. let’s shout this discourse, our wounded, beheaded dreams. there is no american dream, there is only this dream. dream with me higher than the stars. higher than mars. higher than you can.

i have these wishes and these wishes will be real. this gargoyle goes on, surveying.
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Friday, June 4, 2004

F.U.B.A.R.

M	Mystical
I	Influential
T	Tough
C	Creepy
H	Handsome
E	Entertaining
L	Loud
L	Legendary
G	Glorious
R	Refreshing
A	Adventurous
N	Normal
T	Tasty
S	Square
M	Meek
I	Important
T	Temperamental
H	Healthy

Name / Username:

Name Acronym Generator
From Go-Quiz.com

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A Perfect Circle- Magdalena

Ooo-ooo-oovercome by your
Mo-oo-ooving temple
Ooo-oo-oovercome by this
Hoo-oo-ooliest of altaaaars

So pure
So rare
To witness such an earthly goddess
That I've lost my self control
Beyond compelled to throw this dollar down before your
Hooo-oo-ooliest of altaaars

I'd sell
My soul
My self-esteem a dollar at a time

One chance
One kiss
One taste of you my magdalena

I bear witness
To this place, this prayer, so long forgotten
So pure
So rare
To witness such an earthly goddess

That I'd sell
My soul
My self-esteem a dollar at a time
For one chance
One kiss
One taste of you my black madonna

I'd sell
My soul
My self-esteem a dollar at a time

One taste
One taste
One taste of you my Magdalena

---

If you want an amazing album, which continually grows on you, purchase Mer de Noms.

This is one of my more favorite songs, and it says how I feel lately well.

Maynard James Keenan, the vocalist for Tool, as well as this band, does an amazing job on this song. I tried my best to show you how he sings the parts such as "holiest" and "moving," but you'll only understand once you listen to the song.

Keenan is one of my favorite vocalists. I still like him better on Tool, though, and I hope he makes a follow-up to 2000's Lateralus, which was amazing.
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Tuesday, June 1, 2004

Jack Off Jill- Vivica

Oh Vivica I wish you well
I watch you burn in human hell
No sleeping pills no old tattoos
will save you now

He'll never change he's just too vague
he'll never say you're beautiful
Oh Vivica I wish you well I really do, I really do

The apple falls far from the tree
she's rotten and so beautiful
I'd like to keep her here with me
and tell her that she's beautiful
She takes the pills to fall asleep
and dreams that she's invisible
Tormented dreams she stays awake
recalls when she was capable...

Oh Vivica I wish you well
I watch you sit I watch you dwell
No crooked spine no torn up rag
will save you now

He'll never change he's not that brave
He'll never say you're beautiful
Oh Vivica I wish you well I really do, I really do

The apple falls far from the tree
she's rotten and so beautiful
I'd like to keep her here with me
and tell her that she's beautiful
She takes the pills to fall asleep
and dreams that she's invisible
Tormented dreams she stays awake
recalls when she was capable...

Oh Vivica I wish you well
I'll sit right here I'll never tell
no tender scar no twist of fate
will save you now

He'll never change he's just not there
He'll never say you're beautiful
Oh Vivica I wish you will I really do, I really do

The apple falls far from the tree
she's rotten and so beautiful
I'd like to keep her here with me
and tell her that she's beautiful
She takes the pills to fall asleep
and dreams that she's invisible
Tormented dreams she stays awake
recalls when she was capable...

She's empty and so beautiful
I'll keep her here with me

---

After listening more, some of this album's great. This is one of the better songs.

I plan on doing a full-fledged review of the CD, so check back sometime if you're interested.

Also, I'll be talking about what happened on my little voyeur to Fargo. Should be some quirky stuff, especially if you like my cynical, sarcastic humor.
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Monday, May 31, 2004

*pops on computer in Fargo hotel*

I've finally gotten some new music, after a long hiatus of not having enough money to purchase some CDs.

At the K-mart in Bismarck, quite amazingly (and I really stress that), I found A Perfect Circle's Mer de Noms for $11. Honestly, I've never known a K-mart to carry anything worth purchasing, let alone a CD I've been dying to buy--but hadn't--because it costed around $18 where I had seen it.

I haven't listened to it too much yet, but I was listening to it on the way here to Fargo, and it is pretty amazing stuff; much better than their newest album, Thirteenth Step. I am just glad to have found this CD most of all, because many people have told me it is a great CD.

Today I went up to Media Play and got two more CDs. A Jack Off Jill CD. I don't remember its exact title, but it's something-hearts-and-grey-flowers. I'm sure Tony knows the album I'm speaking of.

I wanted to get Scarling's album, but wasn't able to because they did not have it from what I understood.

From what I have listened to from that CD, I don't like it as much as the A Perfect Circle CD I bought, but it's decent--maybe average to me at this point.

The other CD I bought was Black Sabbath's Greatest Hits, which was cheap. Of course that CD is good, even though I haven't listened to it. Black Sabbath is the root of heavy metal as we know it today, and without them I probably wouldn't have some of my more favorite bands--such as Tool--and music would be different as we know it today.

Well, that's about all I've got today.
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