Monday, May 17, 2004

Suck me dry

For this first poem, I already have a vision for it as a song.

It started when I was listening to Tool while I was walking. I began trying to put the instrumentals for "Schism" into words, and then I noticed that a sound to place on a certain way you hit the drums. It sounds like "kiss," you know, it's that upper-thing you hit on a drum that makes that "kssss" sound when you hit it. I don't know how better to describe it.

Well, that's how this song would be like. On the drums, there would be "bang, bang, kiss" with the drums, and it would follow right along with the lyrics. So while the drums went "bang, bang, kiss" so would the vocalist (which would be me, of course, because I wrote this song so screw you who wants to sing it). Add to this an electric guitar, perhaps, making as close a sound to "bang bang kiss" as possible. But make it louder than the drums and the vocals, of course. Then along with the song there can be a bit of variety in its sound. . .but there you have it. That's my song.

Tony, think of the possibilties. We can start up Boldly Going Nowhere, and with my lyrical genius, and my vision, we can be the next best since you know who. Imagine, if you will, our first single, "Bang Bang Kiss," and how much it will appeal to the masses and become a classic song heard for years to come.

Also, a question. Does anyone ever make up their own lyrics to instrumental songs? I do. I was listening to the Parasite Eve Theme, something along those lines, and I was making my own lyrics for it. It's quite an interesting thing to do, really, making your own lyrics for just an instrumental song.

bang bang kiss
bang bang, kiss
bang bang kiss
this
bang bang, kiss
bang bang—kiss
this is, this is how i feel

bang bang
bang bang kiss
can you
bang bang, kiss
resist?

this, bang bang kiss
this is how i feel
can you feel—
can you feel what i feel?
or does it bang bang, kiss
does it cause you to
bang bang kiss
(does it cause you to
desist)

don’t let this
exist,
don’t let this
twist you down
riding a spiral—
you’ve just go to
bang bang, kiss
you’ve just gotta—
bang bang kiss

and i do believe
your lips
and i do believe
your hips
and i do believe i came to know and i do believe i can go. . .
so let’s get the hell outta this show
let’s come to grips

cause what i’m feeling’s not a certain one
it’s just something i shoulda done
one of those things that never gets going, never gets sun. . .
sorta sits there in the dark meek and proud,
waiting till it goes down.

it’s just a. . .just a
bang bang, kiss
bang bang kiss; this
it’s just a. . .just a
bang bang, kiss; this
it’s just a. . .just a
bang bang, kiss; and
don’t let this cyst
grow too large. . .
and don’t let; bang, bang kiss
don’t let this fist punch you raw
let’s just gnaw; i’ve got the
teeth; i’ve got the beast
insida me
i can be
an animal
can be so free. . .
can just make em bleed
can be your king. . .
get on the floor; i’ll make it more
it’s just a. . .just a; bang bang kiss
it’s just a. . .just a; bang, bang kiss
and this; it’s just a. . .just a
bang bang kiss, this is just a
it’s a bang bang kiss.
it’s gonna shoot you up; it’s gonna. . .
gonna mess you up; gonna shake you up;
gonna fake you up; it’s gonna take you off. . .
gonna make you mine, and that’s fine;
bang bang, kiss, this, it’s gonna. . .gonna
take you to me; don’t resist
i feel it insida me
i wanna have you feel it too
get down get up get true
i’m gonna shoot you.

i can feel it insida me.
you better eat the bullets
cause the bullets’ll eat you.
this’s the way, that’s how—
down on the ground, can see
it all spread; i bet you can’t believe
and this’s how it’s supposed ta be
you and me; this bang bang, kiss
you and me, just our guns—our lips,
and the way it sorta slips; bang bang, kiss;
and the way it sorta slips. . .sorta grips,
sorta has an insinuation; bang bang kiss;
bang bang shoot it all down so it’ll break down
so it’ll hit the ground.
get down get up true
i’m gonna shoot you. . .and i’m all outta bullets.
i’m gonna shoot you. . .and i’m all outta bullets.

never knew how ta make you bleed. . .now i can feel it on my face.
you better know what base
you’re trying to make it to.
cause now i know how ta make you bleed.
so i’m just gonna shoot you. . .and i’m all outta bullets.
i’m just gonna give you a bang bang, kiss
somethin you can’t resist; it’ll make this—
these long hours of hell and shit—
it’ll make it all feel like it never happened
and it’ll feel like; bang, bang kiss;
just you and me and only the feeling. . .
and i don’t think these bullets can miss.
so open up wide and smile for me babe
and feel this; feel this bang bang kiss.
this bang, bang kiss. . .feel this; bang bang
kiss; this. . .bang bang kiss; bang bang kiss
feel this bang bang kiss.

one of us now
hey you hey you i don’t think you’re through
hey now hey now it’s gonna go on. . .and on. . .andonandonandon
hey you hey you i don’t think you’re through
get em up against the wall! make him naked make him right in my eyes!
he’s got my prize!
that fucker’s gotta learn how to compramize! gotta learntoknowhowtoshowhisdisguise!
hey now let’s make him touch the sky! make him feel the cloudsandhowtheycry!
i sure want him to die! let’s have some fun with him—let’s mess with this guy!
it’ll be so fun, i can’t believe our luck today! ohhowgooditfeelstohaveitthisway!
oh. . .how good. . .it feels to have it this way—oh, let’s have some fun.

hey here you are here you go i’ve got something to show you my friend
this is when i do the hat trick. . .when i show you where the rabbit’s at, how far it goes—howmuchicanmakeitexposed!
lookey here, as i reach on in your chest—see this, CANYOUSEEMEREACHINGIN?
“the grimace on your face lets me know that i need you, it lets me know i could never leave you
the touch of the hand ripping your chest shows you how far it goes”—hahahah, can’t i sing?
did you like that little song? it’s the only way i can numb the pain! otherwise you gotta see it all!

ah, here we are—i feel it underneath my hands, i’m pulling it out!
nice! he’s screaming, shouting it out!

hey look here now, i’ve got your heart. . .let’s see how far i can TAKEITAPART!
how much i can make it BROKEN make it FALLENtoNOTHING. . .
do not worry, we shall replace your hearT, shall replace it with our metal parTS!
installation’s the gain of the world! it’s making it all worth its time!
and now, it is time for you to be sedated, to sleep awaythelonghoursofthisoperation,
this surgery, this hospitalization.

your eyes’re shutting ri-ght n-ow
a. . .r. . .e. . .y. . .o. . .u. . .r. . .e. . .a. . .d. . .y?
BR--. .. bring ov. . .er—the trans. . .pla. . .nt!
he’s fal-lin. .g as. .l,. . .eep—th. . .e. . .re
(there, his eyes’re closed, he’s out! let’s begin!)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . .(the dead cogs of time, please! the monkey wrench please!)
. . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
(there, that about does it—just need to screw this screw in here, push this over since it’s askew, there, that about does it! it’s done)

(now WAKE UP! WAKEY WAKEY MY FRIEND)
(WAKEY) wa. . .ke. . y My. . .FrIe. . .N. . .D!
The—re he’s. . .com. . .ing to US now! Hah. . ah!
there, his eyes’re open.
ah. . .the glow in them eyes! it makes me so proud!
and look—the way he cranes his neck now! perfect, perfect!
that’s it!

youare one of us now
youareoneofusnow!
welcome, welcome
youareoneofusnow!
the machines. . .the robots. . .androids. . .
look, look at all us! the crowds

you are one of us now; are one of us now; are one of us now;
you are; are one of us now; one of us now
you are one of us now.
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Sunday, May 16, 2004

The End is Near, but the Beginning is Far.

Full Name: Mitchell Grant Smith
Age: -23243242432423432432432432432432.23232322
Hair: Brown.
Eyes: Green.
Sex: All the time.

Seven things that scare you...
1. I'm scared of the fact that it's 2:52, and my mom's not home yet. . .
2. I am not scared. That makes me scared.
3. I'm scared of the real world, it could be said, if I must give you reasons whereby I am scared.
4. Clowns.
5. Children.
6. Your mom.
7. This scares me.

Seven things that make you laugh...
1. Your mom.
2. Sarcasm.
3. Cynicism.
4. Optimistic people.
5. Closed-minded people.
6. That "Summer of 69" song, since I know what it's really about.
7. How stupid the world is.

Seven things you LOVE...
1. Walking.
2. Your mom.
3. Nothing.
4. Agent Smith.
5. Good-looking women.
6. Milk.
7. Dying.

Seven things you hate...
1. Your mom.
2. Optimists.
3. Bastards.
4. The world.
5. Idiots.
6. Children.
7. People who are condescending.

Seven things you don't understand...
1. The world.
2. Your mom.
3. How you can believe in God.
4. Hope.
5. Reason.
6. Humanity.
7. Purpose.

Seven facts about you...
1. I am more than me.
2. Once upon a time I was free, now I'm just dead.
3. The phone is ringing, it must be my mom.
4. I hate you.
5. I died long ago.
7. I have no family.

Seven things you plan to do before you die...
1. Die.
2. Love.
3. Sex.
4. Novel.
5. Kill.
6. Destroy.
7. Impregnate.

Seven things you can do...
1. Your mom.
2. Die.
3. Feel.
4. Not feel.
5. Kill.
6. Feel pleasure.
7. My mom wants to talk to me on the phone. . .

Seven Things You Can't Do or Can't Do Well...
1. Live.
2. Have hope.
3. Think.
4. Speak.
5. Do this thing.
6. Six.
7. Seven.

Seven things you say the most...
1. Your mom.
2. Hell.
3. Ah well.
4. Whatever.
5. Mhm.
6. Who cares.
7. Yes.

Ten things that you look for in the opposite/same sex...
I only want you because I can ruin you because I can desecrate you because I can make you break you because I can shake you and I can scar you forever I only want you so I can feel your warm skin against me so I can know I am not alone so I can feel but feel through you I just want your body I just want your heart I just want to rip you all apart.
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Alone Down There

Today (more like yesterday now, but whatever) was the best day I've had in a while. Despite being yelled at my dad in the earlier part of it, I went to this church picnic at Seratoma (or however it's spelled) Park with Ryan. It was turkey there. . .I didn't really care for the food, but it was nice to get out and to be with Ryan, because Ryan's a good guy.

There's an amusement park open over a ways away from the park. Ryan and I walked on over there, went in and checked it out in the boredom of waiting for his parents to finish eating and conversing.

As we went past the "super slide" and came to one of those rock climbing walls--with the grooves in it that you can climb in on--there's this little girl standing there, wearing a black shirt. She's got blonde hair, and it says on her shirt, "Ask me if i care," with the "i" like that. I looked at her and wondered if either a) she had chosen the shirt herself or b) her parents had gotten it for her. Either way, that little girl's ahead of things. Far ahead. She's already apathetical and she's 4 years old or so. That's the way I'm going to raise my kids if I have any--I'm going to make them wear cool shirts like that, proclaiming to the world our apathy and our cynicism and our unhope. It'll be the best.

When I came home I was yelled at a bit more by my dad, and it was no big deal. But what's annoying is that for whatever reason my brother's sleeping downstairs on the blow-up bed, and my room's right beside it down there, so is my dad's. So I'm sitting there playing Heroes of Might and Magic IV and the volume's really low. My brother opens my door and tells me I need to turn it down. "It's not even loud," I say, but turn it down more anyway. He leaves, and even though I've turned it down, he goes in my dad's room and says, "Dad, he won't turn it down!" and I hear from outside him saying, "Turn it down, Mitchell!" and so I turn it down more again, and my dad comes in anyway and says, "Mute it. It's 1 AM and you should be sleeping," and so I do that, and I tell my dad, "He's just doing this so I'll get in trouble, you know. And you're falling for it."

My brother can be like that sometimes. He has my dad like a puppet, knows how to move the wires.

Apparently it's also going to be a "look for a job day" tomorrow. I'm not going to Ryan's. As my dad said, "Your job tomorrow is to look for a job." Honestly, I don't know where I'm going to work. I won't be working at fast food if I can help it. . .but that seems like the only place that'll hire me. I just hate the way the world works. I can write amazing things sometimes, I am very adept at writing. . .but at this point it's useless. It's always climbing up the walls.

Lately, I don't even feel like writing. I sense that it's going away from me. Maybe that's the truth.

I have no clue where I'm going to go look for a job. All I can hope is I get a job somewhere and it's not too bad. That is all. And hope is a stupid thing, and thus I do not believe in it. I do not have confidence in myself, either.

I don't want to go to sleep. Tomorrow's another day closer to another day of school (hell). And close to school ending and me without a job, and just my senior year left.

For all you people graduating, good luck. Because I think you're SOL, really. It is too bad the world's the way it is, and I feel your pain. . .and next year this time, I'll be feeling it even more. I'll be feeling it as realistic as I can. As is possible.
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Different City

Wow, Modest Mouse is amazing. I really need to get some of their records.
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Saturday, May 15, 2004

Is it good enough for you this time?

I don't even want to write this in here, since it's nothing new to me at all, but why not.

I cleaned the house yesterday right after school since my dad had ordered me to. I thought I did a decent job--I mean, there's not much to expect. . .you just vacuum the floors, clean the bathrooms, and it's cleaner than it was before.

A bit ago I'm sitting down in my room and I hear my dad yell, "MITCHELL, GET UP HERE!" and I already knew where this was going.

I came up here to our bathroom, and he began yelling at me because I had not cleaned the bathroom good enough for him. He ranted and raved that I never cleaned up after myself, that he's tired of saying the same thing over and over again, and then he ordered me to reclean the bathroom's counter, then vacuum in there, then vacuum my mother's computer room, take out my mother's trash. So I did this, all the while being ranted and raved at. About the only thing I said is that he gets all angry about such trivial matters.

I mean, am I supposed to really care when I clean the house? No, and he shouldn't expect me to. If he actually understood how I feel most of the time, and actually understood what it's like to be seventeen again, he wouldn't sit here and do what he does to me every day at least once. I could care less about cleaning. It's a useless, trivial process. Everything that's clean gets dirty again, therefore requiring it be cleaned once more, and it goes around in an endless circle. Clean, get dirty, clean, get dirty. The entire aspect of cleaning itself is a mundane, tedious task which I loathe doing. . .but at this point don't even care any more. I just do it because I'm told to, and because if I do it I get a little money for it. And that's it. I no longer hate it. . .I'm just apathetical about it and do it to get it done, just like I do about everything else. This is just my mentality.

By doing this, my dad perpetually shows me I'm not good enough at anything to excel in it; and nor am I good enough for him, and let alone anyone else. It makes me realize how useless and trivial my existence is, how fleeting. But of course, none of this will get in his head. He'll just continue to go on and on with his temper tantrum, while I sit there and give my "Mmhm," and let him take his blows. I used to fight back, but it did nothing. At one point, we got into a physical confrontation which felt very petty and pointless. So there's no reason to even fight back, and at this point I don't even listen to his crap. I don't deserve to be yelled at like this, and it leads me to hunger to get back at him in my clever, small ways.

Earlier this week I could not go anywhere because he did not like "the way I was talking to them." Them being my parents. So I was stuck to sit at home, and instead of sitting there, I went for walks and did not say a thing.

Every little thing I say to my father he seems to take as "sas." Or "disrespect." The main reason I was said to "speak nicer to them" was because when my dad came home one day, and came upstairs where I was, and my mom was, my mom said, "This computer's not working," and since there was no one else to blame, I was blamed for it. I told her she hadn't restarted the computer in weeks, and said I had not done it, but I was immediately yelled at by my dad. My dad was also looking for the phone, and seemed to think I had lost it when I knew I hadn't. Again, a trivial matter, but he kept going, turning to me, "Where's the phone?" endlessly. I responded with my sarcasm and of course that was being "disrespectful." So that's mainly what lead to "not talking to my parents correctly."

Well, if he understood the logistics of the situations that are presented between us, he would realize I'm merely playing a game with him. I find it fun to just fuck with him, since he likes to sit here and badger me over small, stupid things.

Why, when I was a child, he would constantly get angry over trivial things even then. Say I spill some milk? He gets all angry about that and acts like it's the end of the world. He'd even sit there and tell me I wasn't sitting in my chair right, too, when I was smaller. I never knew there was a certain way you sit in a chair. Did you? I know I didn't.

He also slapped me once, as a child, when I broke a hole in this really thin part of the wall in my room. I find that somewhat understandable, but it's certainly not nice to be slapped, anyone can agree.

He would also grab me constantly, physically try to force me to listen to what he says. He no longer does this, because he realizes I'm actually strong now, but he used to do it. It was never too hard, but still, that's not the way you treat a child.

My father is a good parent, he just doesn't control himself enough.

Whenever he goes off on his yelling and ranting and raving to me now, I just take it and don't say a thing and do what he says. I see no reason to fight back. He's not going to change. All it does is make me bitter towards him, to the point where sometimes I'll just sit downstairs fucking with him--playing his game, as it is, with him.

I did that one time this week. It was that day he said I couldn't go anywhere, and was forced to hand over my car keys, because I had talked up at him. I sat there and told him that I cannot believe how he wastes his life. He basically comes home each day from work, sits there and watches TV, or reads his newspaper. Then he'll make dinner. Then on the weekdays, he'll do the stupid, petty tasks of mowing the grass, cleaning the house. And that's his life right there. That is it--other than maybe going golfing sometimes, or going to get a drink with his alcoholic friend George Stroh, who's his boss. And he sits here and tells me I'm wasting me life. He always tells me that high school was "the best time of his life," as if I'm supposed to totally feel the same thing. He mentions I should be "going to my school's sports activities" or that I should be "more ambitious."

To put it down simply, he's very closed-minded, which is an annoying aspect. When I told him that I didn't believe in God, it was the biggest deal on this Earth. He told me that "someone who doesn't have faith won't make it through life," and that "he doesn't understand how I cannot believe in God." He's a very traditional man in the sense of religion. When I try to explain why I don't and can't believe in God, he doesn't even listen.

He never listens to me. When I'm actually speaking my heart to him, and telling him what he needs to do to be a better person, it's "psycho babble." My father's taught me how any average person is toward any other average person. . .they treat them like crap, they don't give a shit what they say, and they just want to be better than you, and have control of you.

After I had done all he had asked me to do today, he then proceeded to give me one last low blow. "When you do a job, you have to do it how they ask. How they want. I think that's why you got fired from KFC." He constantly brings up KFC just to hit me where it hurts, and at this point it does nothing anymore. I just hear it, but I don't really care.

I used to work at KFC--for 4 weeks--and then I was fired. I was not, however, fired because I wasn't doing my job. The main reason I was fired was because Diane, the manager, had too many people working, and I was the newest and probably the most timid. She said that "I should have known how to work the till" when she fired me. What's funny is they never even showed me how to work the till, I didn't even get a chance. Diane herself had been on vacation when I was hired, and when she came back was when I was fired.

Most of the other people there weren't "doing things as they were told," as my dad seems to insinuate. Most of the time they would stand around and talk. But no, apparently I got fired because of what my dad says, because my dad understands this situation entirely even though I've never even really explained it to him. He doesn't have the right to put words in my mouth--tell me why I was fired--and use it as some tool to pry me open with. But there's not much I can do, so I just take it--along with everything else he does--like a man.

The main thing is my dad doesn't understand me. We never talk one-on-one about what we think because he's so closed-minded that when I do do that, he doesn't even listen. I do love him, but at the same time I can't stand him. But I guess that is love right there.

I've forgiven him too much for all the things he's done. I'd say that, at least partially, how cynical I am and how sarcastic I am is because of him. The blame isn't completely hoistered by him, but he's made me what I am, it's certain, among other things that have too.

I just wish he would stop yelling and getting mad over stupid, petty, trivial things all the time. He acts like it's the end of the world if something's not done to his exact expectations. He's somewhat of a perfectionist in this light, and that is the complete opposite of me. I could care less if something's clean or not, as long as it's cleaned from time to time. I find there's organization that's far more beautiful in chaos. I don't like things to be so clear cut, I don't like wasting my time watching TV and sitting there reading the newspaper, reading about petty world events that mostly don't matter. I don't like golfing. I don't like so many things he likes.

It's much the same with my mom. I never talk to my mom, and when she talks to me she still talks to me like I'm some little child. And when my father and I argue--moreover, he argues with me--she immediately overreacts and runs away. I often wonder how my mom's made it through life with the way she handles things. When there's an immediate point of conflict, all she does is run away, and tell the conflict to stop. It's too bad conflict is one of the superoccuring things of this human world.

By yelling at me my dad only makes me bitter and not want to do anything. By incessantly telling me, when I come home, that "I need a job," it only makes me bitter about it more. It's kind of like, "No shit, I know I need a job. . .so quit telling me." He needs to learn to control his temper. He needs to learn to be diplomatic, like me. He needs to learn that yelling doesn't work. That it's not communication. That the only way to get me to listen is to actually listen to me more than himself.

Then there's another aspect to it, too. After every single time he blows up at me, or does what he does, he'll come back and talk to me like nothing's happened and tell me he's sorry. It's starting to feel a little routine. It doesn't even feel like he's sorry. I've heard "I'm sorry about this and that and this" so much so many places that I realize telling someone that does nothing, because when my dad tells me he's sorry it doesn't do much. It does do something--I forgive him--but it's a stupid forgiveness. It doesn't last. As soon as I forgive him, it'll cease. It's ephemeral because eventually he'll yell at me again, or do something to me, and it'll all happen over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. . .just like everything.

I do think he understands the extent of what he does to me somewhat, but he definitely isn't as good at empathy as me, and I can tell he can't grasp what I'm feeling. Ever. Or how what he does changes me. Ever.

In the end, it's no longer a big deal to me. I just brush it all aside and go on, and realize that's just my dad, and he's more of a dad to me than my real dad, Tom Smith, sure as hell ever was. And in the end, it's just an endless soap opera that I'm sick of participating in.
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This body, this body holding me. Reminding me that I'm not alone. This pain is only an illusion.

First, I love Tool.

Second, a poem, from a while ago.

metalhandtakesmeaway
"Get a job."

"Get a job."

"Get a job."

"Get a job."

"Get a job."

"Get a job."

"Get a job."

"Get a job."

"Get a job."

"Get a job." "Get a job."

"Get a job." "Get a job."

"Get a job." "Get a job."

"Get a job." "Get a job."

"Get a job." "Get a job."

"Get a job." "Get a job."

"Get a job." "Get a job."

"Get a job." "Get a job."

"Get a job." "Get a job."

"Get a job."

"How many. . ."

"How many. . ."

"How many times have I. . ."

"How many times have I. . .Have I. . ."

"How many. . .how many. . .times have I. . ."

". . .Told you. . .how many times have I. . ."

"It never gets. . .it never. . ."

". . .Never gets through your. . ."

". . .Never gets through your head. . ."

". . .Head."

"Head."

"Never gets through your. . .head. Head."

"You're so immature, you. . .you're so immature. . ."

"You have no ambition. . .have no ambition. . .have no. . ."

"Do you think. . .think. . .think it will. . .will. . .all go."

"Do you think. . .it will all go away. . .away?"

Away, away,
do you think
it will all
go
Away, away?

". . .away."

whatifidontwantajobwhatifiwanttobemyselfwhatifiwantedtobreathewantedtolivewhatifiwantedtobewhoiwantedtobeanditsnotgoodenoughforyou

what if what if what if what if. . .
and this is [is] wasting a life
away. away.

{And death is release,
a bloodsoaked fan.
Thank god (whatever God there is, for i spit upon him all) for that much to have had.)

grabbing onto the ceiling i get this feeling i hold myself willing and jump in healing nothing as i am killing every part of me that was living and i am feeling grabbing onto this ceiling i feel it take me away

below me i shudder the fan, blood all over, spins and spins and spins its blades full of everything i ever was everything i will ever be
and i cannot smile, and i cannot
and i cannot cry, cannot cry, because
there is nothing to cry over, and
there is nothing but the fan, blowing
harder than it ever had before, and there
is only one arm holding me here and in, his hand
there is a pencil and with it,
he writes this story and with it, it
is all a dream, and i cannot smile, cannot
and i cannot feel, and i cannot see, anymore
and i feel i am freefalling, because
it is starting to win me over, win me in,
and i can feel the killing i go in willing, in
the jaws i hang on this revealing i am not going to
be able to hold on for longer and i feel weak never stronger

the fan's blades shimmer, catch my eye, glint and hum
this thing has so many inside,
and i let myself go i feel i can hold no longer,
the hand lets go but i am choked as i go, i am going to explode
i look over and there are chains around my neck, around
my torso around my eye around my legs around me,
and a metal hand begins to grab me away

Away, away
do you think. . .
do you think it will just go
Away.

"Get a job."

"Get a job."

"Get a job."

"Get a job."

"Get a job."

"Get a job."

"Get a job."

"Get a job."

"Get a job."

Slob, get a job,
you're too much in the mob
don't sob,
don't dare rob me
of what is here.
Slob, get a job
you're too much in the mob
don't sob,
don't dare rob me
of what is here.
of what is. . .
of what is here.

"Get a job," says my father's face says the robot's face says the deadly displace says the endless rolling going exposing
it is growing, the weed, it is growing, the need, it is growing, the seed, it is growing, the feed, it is growing, the greed,
it is growing, flowing, bellowing, going,

the fan
continues to blow,
the blood on its blades,
and i, held back
in these chains

(i felt it change
felt it make felt it take
i felt it tame, felt it
blame i felt it drain i felt it shame
i am in these chains)

ifeelitalldieandifeelthehumanqueueofsurvivaltakeitsprecendenceandtrytograbaholdofmeandmakemestaylongerthaniwantedto

andifeelthephoenixrisefrommycarcassmydeadcarcassandifeelitgrabmeawayandthrowmeinthefanandifeeliamnolongerhere

this isn't me, isn't
this isn't, isn't
me isn't me isn't me
ISN'T ME ISN'T ME ISN'T
mE IsN't Me, this is not is NOT issss NOTTTTT meee, mee,
this IS NOT ME

ego sum, ego sum nihil, ego sum nihil
i am, i am nothing, i am nothing
nihil, nothing, ego sum, i am, ego i sum am nothing nihil.

ego sum nemo nemo NEMO, ego sum nemo nemo nemo,
i am no one no one NO ONE, i am no one no one no one,

est scelestus, it is, est scelestus
it is wicked wicked wicked it is wicked, wicked
est scelestus scelestus scelestus.

DEATH
IS RELEASE
A BLOOD SOAKED FAN

ilookatmeandicannotseeasmyeyesareCHOPPEDOFF
ilookatmeandicannotfeelanymoremyfeelingsareILLICIT
ilookatmeandicannotmovemyhandstoCREATEmyimaginationisDEAD
ilookatmeandicannotbelievewhatihaveBECOMEandilookandSUCCUMB

A BLOOD SOAKED FAN
IS RELEASE
DEATH

ilookatmeanditisn'tMEitISN'TME
and i do believe, idobelieve i have died.
the metal hand takes me away.

it takes me away, muttering, stabbing in,
"Get a job," in a monotone voice.
"Your grades are falling," in a choice.
"You have no ambition," in a stealing voice.
and it goes on and on and onandonandonandonandonandon on and on and on and on and on and on

and the metal
hand
takes me
away
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Friday, May 14, 2004

Where is My Mind?

Hobo Bob walks out on the train tracks. He's been here many times.

Often, as people walk out of the train, they'll smoke. Hobo Bob has found that if he takes 8 cigarette butts, he can make a cigarette.

If on this day Hobo Bob gets 64 butts, how many cigarettes can he smoke?

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Tuesday, May 11, 2004

the fall of the empire of the fire and desire
my dreams they fall to the dirt.
your voice is escaping slowly scraping
over me.
your footprints scar they crater the ground.
your voice is beautiful sorrow so full
i wish i could borrow
be here tomorrow.
(just be here tomorrow)

my dreams they have nothing left
your lips are slowly moving are doing
them away.
i have nothing left to hold today
but feeling, the endless killing, emotions
which scatter to me.
(your lips they are pressed
they are caressed
they are blessed.)
and i thought angels had wings.
(i thought angels had wings)

my dreams they hit the ceiling
they fall down willing
my dreams they are undergoing killing
it is all wingless slaughter
down on the dirt with worms they land.

and many dreams go up too high,
so many dreams are denied,
and so many dreams fall.
and the dirt is weighted
by those dreams’ hollow skins.

i sell them away i see them on their way
i feel them fall to the ground
your hand is pressing is very professing
their untimely demise.
i cannot help but feel it is worthless
it is so birthless to give them away
your lips move they say their
lost loveful eating.
i can feel you gaining on me.
it is desire for the fire the one dire defeating.
we are lovers and lovers fight wars.
we must give each other our beatings
and my bashes are scars on my gashes
where many dreams left me.

your face is beautiful
but are you beautiful
do you feel suitable
for what we have to do?
is it disputable ?
this bruisable?
so dutiful
to be what it is—
a loveless love.

and there is existing
an unresisting
to just be drifting
--just be in those arms—
i feel part of me die and part live,
and many dreams touch the sky,
and many dreams don’t hide,
and my dreams have turned to one singular
anomaly that is you.

this desire for this fire,
this passionate need to be entire
is a foolish empire
that will fall before the end.
love is not real there is only the feeling
the hopeless helpless weeding
of the feelings most primal and bleeding--
open from the wounded ache of a broken,
torn and consumed need.
and she,
you are so free, so innocent and in you
there is glee,
you are happy. (are happy)
and love is a weed, sappy
it’ll suck the nutrients dry.
the very entire of this so tired root where i lie,
it is in the dirt with the dreams i lose.
how am i to conspire to not break you when i let
you make me grow?
and how am i to tell you what we have is wilted, is tilted
in a deathly bloom?
(for love does not last it is only a feeling is only a killing
is only a reaction to a need)
and she,
she is much better so more alive than me.

and i thought angels had wings,
but now i know they are scabbed all over
with sores that ache one breathless screaming pain.
it is all in vain.
she will quench my want and it will expire
it will relinquish a sorrow a no tomorrow,
the only thing i want is her.
(i just want to touch her) that is all
(i just want to have her against me) it is all
(i just want to desecrate her) i will ruin her.
(all i have is the primal drive of release
by way of pleasure’s teasing lease) she is beautiful
she is complete.
(so innocent so ignorant so dumbstruck such a child)
she tries to hurt herself to get my attention to have my direction
(so beautiful so pretty so young)
she tries to feel it but knows it to kill it
(it is all in vain the way she carries herself
i want to shield her not let it kill her
i want her to be what i wanted to be) i sometimes do wonder
whatever happened to me.
that thing was obsolete
i long ago died.

it is just an empire,
a fleshly indulgence
an open acknowledge
of this bondage
(this coalescion)
of two to one.

it just an empire
waging war over the years
the war is quite dire
is quite entire
is global in every way
it is over fire over desire
over something that tires
of what it does.
it will
one day
fall.

my dreams they fall to the dirt
your voice is escaping is scraping
my heart.
one day it will fall apart
it will all fall apart
(will all fall apart)
and i thought angels had wings.
they are scabbed beings.
(and it will fall
apart)
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You are so small and you are so big, and I think you're the bestest pig. Stupid child learn to talk, stupid child put away the chalk. Learn to speak and learn to say that you need not be this way.

Cold lips, they are the quivering,
somber red that need kiss.
Cold lips, they are so soft,
you cannot resist.
Cold lips, to be warmed,
need other lips
to warm.
Cold lips, they are shivering,
are red and hypothermia,
they need resuscitation.
They need not rust and need not chill.

Cold lips, they are so soft,
you cannot resist.
Cold lips, take it in
take it in and blow.
And warm that cold bungalow.
And warm those cold open windows.
And warm those cold red dead lips.

Warm those cold red dead lips,
warm those cold dead red lips,
cold dead red, warm those lips
Warm those cold red dead lips,
warm those cold dead red lips.

Cold dead red, warm those lips.

Cold
Dead
Red
Warm those lips.
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Monday, May 10, 2004

A Word of Advice

Call this angst, call this devoid, call this empty, call this hopeless, call this cold-hearted, call this wilted, call this gone, call this depressed, call this cynical, call this anti, call this broken, call this faithless, call this godless, call this without ambition, call this abnormal, call this somber, call this sad, call this naturalistic, call this catatonic, call this paranoid, call this deathly, call this falling, call this crushed, call this loveless, call this unemotioned, call this unfeeling, call this apathetical, call this isolated, call this provincial, call this doubtful, call this sheltered, call this bitter, call this dreamy, call this ignorant, call this shameful, call this contemptual, call this pulped, call this bloodied, call this wounded, call it sore, call it faltered, call it ceaseless, call it unwhole, call it unhealthy, call it a phase, call it a moment, call it a time, call this a lament, call this broken-hearted, call this unusual, call this strange, bizarre, call it odd, call it cracked, call it insane, call it schizoid, call it nihilistic, call it negated, call it abated, negative, call it breathless, caustic, manical, call it unseeing, call it unliving, torturous, bludgeoned, silent, call this hapless, call it selfish, egomancial, hubrant, egotistical, inward, extroverted, losing, helpless, childish, small, call this unworldy, unable, sharded, shot, barred, chained, call this taken, lost, missing, unhitting, abashed, hyperbole, overstatement, hateful, call it trodden, call it caustic, catharsis, unenlightened. Call it any word you well please within that mind of yours you have.

This is the truth. It is the bare-bones skeleton of life. It has holes, going ever on, where its eyes would be. It has no skin upon its form. It has no organs to sustain its life. It has no brain within its empty echoing skull.

It has ribs. It has no heart. It looks like it will fall apart. It has a pelvic bone. It has a spineless spine. It sits in front of all your eyes, and mine, and some pass it by, do not want to see, do not want to know. This skeleton is without the diversions of life, it is without the petty moments in our heads--those rememberancers--those nostalgic hells. One look at this skeleton and you know what it is, and it lodges in your throat, and it grabs what heart you have left. That hasn't been taken by the smiley-open grabbing groping world.

This bare-bones skeleton is what you once will be, and it is what you will see. Eventually. It is that everything good shall do its way, shall die one day, shall pass away; shall cease to have, go gray, wilt to nothing and be gone. Like a rose life seems, but I see the thorns. The beautiful is the superficial outer shell--the skin which holds this fleshly weak, fleshly infirm being. This body is just a machine.

Life is good great and grand, and has much to have had, and has so much to see. But this thing we are is all we'll ever be. And our time here is wasted on the pettier things, on love and what this world's sold us to.

If you look to the stars, and the sky, and you zoom out until the Earth is very far away, you are so small, so little in the picture of things. And one day your survival will end.

So get your jobs, and get yor cash. And get your ladies--grab that lass. And love her like there's nothing left.

So waste your life away for this world. Don't be you, just be what they want you to be. And waste your time in this useless world. See all it's got to offer, see all it's got to hurl.

So grow old and do nothing at all, and find out that after you retire and you've got the time to be who you are that the you who you were died. And find out so soon after your let off this working world that there's nothing left. And look in the mirror and see your face, lined and dying and all over the place. Realize that's not you, never was never will never ever shall.

So go to school and learn the facts. Find out they steal your mind. Find out it's not even about what you want.

I see it all, I see the way it is. You'll struggle think it's all happy all's good. You're just another idiot that's fallen to this world--the way it is. It could be so much more. But you let it be this way, all of you you status quos.

I know I died that night, and I'll never be brought back to life. Once again I know. It is me that died that night, and I have no fight. I have nothing left that is right.

And do you see the truth, or are you blinded by your want for it to be what you want it to be?
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