Saturday, December 28, 2013

a would-be tweet, the first such.

controlled by hatred and the solar winds, star winds, gently pulled by
the huge tide through the ether that is slowly collapsing all bodies
to the center of reality. Is Mister God there, collecting the stellar
material, ready to remake creation into something new, something he's
pondered for a good while-a better thing?

a would-be tweet, the first such.

controlled by hatred and the solar winds, gently pulled by the huge
tide through the ether that is slowly collapsing all bodies to the
center of reality. Is Mister God there, collecting the stellar
material, ready to remake creation into something new, something he's
pondered for a good while-a better thing?

Thursday, December 12, 2013

as the birds fry, second.

Dewey Marshpants: leviathan, titan, practically a pharoah of food
service. Self-indulgent and wealthy: an unfortunate combination.
After loving his hunting dogs in ways that defy legality: "hold up
that paper target, there jesu" says dewey marsh, bow in one hand,
arrow in the other. "im gonna put one sinner mace." "no sabe" says
jesu, with a light coating of nervous sweat. "cuando comprehendo,
jesu?" asks dewey, but before the words are pronounced jesu wisely
foots it out of sight. "gonna need another jesu" says dewey m,
somberly and only to himself.

Sunday, December 1, 2013

vanishing point redux:film treatment

a film that asks the big questions, like 'why bother'? A cop of a
nebulous sort of character, like the original killer, who finds that
he just doesnt have a place in this cold, cruel world. Pop quiz: life
fizzled, ur bored with seemingly no options, so what do you do? Two
words: mopar muscle. Id definitely reenvision the scene with the
naturalist blonde. Make her scream, i would. And that radio guy, on
the jazz, yearning for a big gulp of shutup juice. No need to have
the trophys inscribed just yet, folks; wait for me to get a budget for
this vision.

Friday, November 8, 2013

as the birds fry

Dewey m wanders his yard, has romantic trysts with his hunting dogs
and has archery practice with his immigrant personal attendants.
Meanwhile, elda joyance merange stuffings watches a 45-minute
orientation video. The ghost of frank purple stuffings is on her
shoulder whispering softly : "get through they mess bebbe and we go
get ahs cream." she does, learning anew how to wash her hands and
count numbers.

Sunday, August 4, 2013

perspective varies(8.4.13)

two authors, same subject. Ayn Rand writes The Fountainhead, a
monolithic book with a strong philosophical bent. TC Boyle writes The
Women, a truly forgetable lump of petty crap that passes itself off as
a character study("mesmerizing", one critic said, and i say maybe so,
like an ugly drunk chick marching by with no top on).

Monday, July 15, 2013

she(mgrhII)

in a scenic locale, relieved of funds and my erotic entertainment...
I know she found someone new, another loser(for every loser, a match,
a counteracting force, so that the universe doesn't get indigestion
from all the negative energy). My adoration. Listening to her
disorganized dreams, ego unchained with a psychedelic bent-things that
would make you hang yourself if you read it on a fortune cookie.
Kisses, wherever you are.

Friday, July 12, 2013

a delicate sound of blunder

"here lies abaddon1215. Laudible and filled with merit and mirth.
Ran away with the married woman down the street(darla grymgorge), but
dont judge him harshly, because he paid dearly for that escapade. He
thought the dog would only bite his leg, but he was wrong, again.
Remember that when you remember him; he was wrong, again."

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Mrs. Grymgorge revenges herself.(I)

I think she's unconscious, lying beside me, but i hear her voice:
"your a** will wear out before my foot will", and i know that pesky
thing called impulse control has failed me. I want to believe i
delivered her from the clutches of something detestable-her
significant other-into a more epicurean lifestyle(dont overanalyze
that) of delights and leisure. That love: at first intense, but now,
as enthusiastic as a bag of wet leaves.

Sunday, June 30, 2013

8:13: the poetic odyssey

tyger, tyger/burning bright/in the forests of the night/what the
hell?/my eyes water from that smell/like a corpse ate a corpse then
fart/what jumble what sightful schism what delusive spark!/bet you
never need a flashlight/when you carry babies off in the night/did he
who made the lamb make thee?/damnedest thing i ever see/he obviously
took a devious turn/to make a creaturefroth and burn/tyger, tyger,
burning bright/in the forests of the night/sure hope you cant climb
this here tree, dude

Friday, June 28, 2013

note 6.28.13

dear diary: sometimes a familiar chord is pleasant, even here in the
depths of the eyegouger and spitter ward, where we are all deranged
plants in poor soil fed swill, rank swill, listening to the contanst
clamor up and down our halls, words for ghosts and such. To think that
sh*t makes corn, corn makes pork, and someday we have a feast!

Sunday, June 23, 2013

because i can(third time, no less)

I struggle within myself, and it comes to me that life itself is
struggle: a struggle and some sweetness. Where is my sweetness, i
wonder? So tired and bored with having my face in the dirt. Tired
and bored, and losing enthusiasm. But i know, somewhere inside, there
will be other hitchhikers, and i will show them something they have
never seen before. Got a little peice of god between my ears, i say.

Thursday, June 20, 2013

"armload of trash" special

i will now push the dumpster to the front of the building and charge
customers five dollars for the opportunity to climb in and lay claim
to whatever they can hold onto with both arms. -thank you.

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

the continuing adventures 6.19.13

(let me say this another way: being a victim of surveillance can be
amusing. Let me extend that point and say, it could be the most
amusing thing in the universe. Just saying.)

note 6.19.13

I have a "reasonable expectation of privacy", a sense of humor, and a
desire to sing the song "as tears go by" in an english accent. I am
content to sit behind the counter here, woolgathering, staring into
the dingy, filthy waters of my mop bucket. Another day, i say, and my
ship will come in.

Thursday, June 13, 2013

film treatment: old yeller 2

here it is: wounded after the first film, smarting, touched with the
hydrophobia, left for dead like the discarded remains of a picnic.
But things improve, because he's tough where it counts(in spirit). He
gets a mobile home, a broke-down chevy malibu with a stereo worth more
than the car, and several white girlfriends. But, this aint a love
story; this is revenge. Spud the mountain man will explain that "he
come back mean" and soon all hell breaks loose, because he's learned
to shoot, too. (ive yet to figure how he uses a gun with no hands...
but its mere details)

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

some days, better than..

I'm taken with writing pieces that describe a given day, and i am both
blessed and cursed to remember some interesting ones. Like "the day
they put me to sleep for thirty hours"-anyone would be pissed about
that one. Be a nice man, i tell myself. But i was, with a plan to
sit alone drinking beer, away from it all-just a man and his deformed
imagination, emotions magnified, whims grown to necessities. Thinking
it was just weeks prior that i had a life plan, and then i just sat.
Better to have gotten captured by the nazis, i say in retrospect.
Hell, they wouldnt even need to ask me to crawl into the furnace;
theyd find me there in only my underwear waiting, with that nonplussed
look on my face.

Sunday, June 9, 2013

great moments in futnuckery

walk with me for a minute. You noticed i'm walking funny again...
Yeah, i've been putting things into my garbage duct again, mostly as a
challenge to durned "personal limitations". Been using the prep-h
regular, too, and getting it all over everything. Messy. It's like a
j**ked-off one of those big dinosaurs in here. Well. And once you
get that crap out of the tube, its mighty difficult to put it back in.

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

my baloney has a first name...

"enos." mad. Not mad. Laughing, mad. Laughing, not mad. Chasing
my tail, then getting tired and falling to sleep-the untroubled sleep
of an evil child or a grown maniac, entertained by dreams foolish and
fantastic.

Sunday, June 2, 2013

how easily, a life tossed away.

Blinded by urges, i say to her "let me put mustard on that biscuit",
and soon enough, she's in my home, hunting a corner, where she makes a
mound of loose sand and dust, and, to my dismay, begans plopping out
her perfectly-shaped slime-covered eggs. Then she insists that she
wants to be "mrs. Abaddon1215", and i see this is the stuff of a
lifetime of nightmares. "you'll always just be telulah forthright", i
says, "so the decent fellas know to avoid you, like an abandoned well
with a large sign which reads 'danger: filled with mice' ", and in my
mind, i've already gathered her old tee shirts and threadbare
undergarments, and tossed them in the yard.

Saturday, June 1, 2013

suffering for your art

It happens. I see the world's most complicated fart joke, but, i say
what's the point if no one would appreciate it? That sense of
accomplishment, which was sort of like what one feels when leaving a
restaurant or pushing me out of a ruined bedroom? I suffers, i say,
but i have that sense, almost to say 'it smells like.... Victory".

Thursday, May 30, 2013

hah hah!

By coincidence, chance and neither with intent nor design, i nearly
accomplished two of my life's goals a few days ago. Should i weep,
having been so close to something beautiful, or should i rejoice that
it happened at all? I laugh heartily! This stagnant pool we call
life! I should dig up walt whitman and make him the guest of honor at
a celebratory cook-out!

Monday, May 27, 2013

(a brief editorial jotting, 5/27/13)

I feel like i need to apologize to someone, but since i dont care, i
suppose i wont. As im horrified by the vulgarity of television, so
too am i horrified by such in my own creative output. This culminated
with an unwritten joke featuring nancy pelosi, the cookie monster, and
a frozen gargoyle. There are standards of decency that i wont cross,
usually long after everyone else has puked and cried for their souls.
There but for the grace of God.

Sunday, May 26, 2013

motormouth: vacation '73

"so there i was, in vegas with a whole week's pay. Soon, i'd had too
many drinks and got my hand smashed by mob goons because i won 12k at
blackjack. They took my money, too, so i wouldnt be welcome at the
sporting houses, which made my damaged hand all the more unfortunate,
because i liked to use both hands, like a big production, with
pinching and teasing. I'd even surprise myself sometimes, lying in
the dark, saying to myself "what's that?" or "that was most
unexpected. More please."

motormouth, a veritable variable

"I had a coffee farm one time. It was good. I lunched on soup with
my migrants, and their wives knitted me things, like leggings which i
would tuck under my workshirt and stretch over the tops of my
boots(because of the pythons; first it was rabbits, then came the
pythons to eat the rabbits). I didn't get indecent with them often,
only with those with dull, vacant stares, because that sort of thing
'puts lead in my pencil' better than any wonder drug ever could."

Friday, May 24, 2013

my heart of darkness

(relax your muscles. Itll make this feel better.) "dear diary: its
been a long discouraging winter. Had to cut off several unnecessary
body parts and eat them. Unfortuantely, dont know yet how best to
season them. Almost fell in love with myself again. No bigger waste
of time and effort, be assured. Look forward to limping into the
sunlight, supported by remaining superfluous appendages."

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Popular people.(part one)

Danica and her popularity: somewhat nice, has a private life, talented, modest, and seemingly a hard worker. Role model? Type A female. Beyond that I say, I drive a Fiat by day, but I dream about that Ferrari every night.

Monday, May 20, 2013

conspiracy: they're all around you.

At times, it becomes a great puzzle as to how i should conduct myself
around people that dont like me. Should i poke them through the bars
of their cages with a mop handle? Should i be mr. Friendly? Shower
them with kisses? Wash their feet in oil? Other things that would
make a decent girl vomit? I'll be both a crazy and stupid bastard for
all my days, but it amuses me to think of myself repulsing others. So
maybe i'd suck tongue with someone i hate-maybe sneezing in their
mouth. But to kill with kindness? No sir. I fancy myself as a
junkyard dog-and this is my yard.

Friday, May 17, 2013

note 5.17.13

me and my memory: a small oaf gazing into a pond. Look, on the
brackish water-it's me!(vonnegut: "That was i. That was me") There
is also all the things i bring with me, and the sunlight, the trees,
and beneath are the little microorganisms that make the pondwater
taste good, and make it soft on the skin when i wash myself(i do
that). Sometimes it makes the bathroom hurt(enough of that, now).
The things i bring with me: vignettes with a touch of impressionism.
There are no ugly women, no evil people, no uncomfortable sweating, no
sleepless nights, and the milk is always fresh. Never am i next to
falling to pieces from the innertension. Me and my memory: a man as
content as a child squashing kittens with a hammer.

Saturday, May 11, 2013

love: that stray toenail in the bed sheets

her beauty: why, i need two of her/in case i break one/her smile: like
a frightened, wounded animal/120 lbs. of stupid in a bag of
coarse-woven manhatred/don't know why some want to grab hold of things
disliked/i was the only one/who shewed an interest in her/no one
better wanted her, maybe/tell her you love her then she'll never
leave(dammit)/every loser has a match, some say/don't like to be
reminded of my mistakes/what bliss-all my faults, explained/in one
angry sitting/can she dodge a lamp?/thinking "i shouldnta showed her
where i live"/if i cause amnesia on her/can i pretend she's someone
else?

Monday, March 25, 2013

because i'm alive(again?)

What makes the monster so vile? What makes the beautiful interesting?
What makes you so loved and i so feared? What makes the sphincter
suck up like its tasted lemon? Who is hiding all the new film ideas
and forcing us to put up with series's of episodic bullsh*t and
remakes(try buying an original screenplay)? I've concluded that i am
not the victim of demonic possession, but lately i've thought that i
need spanking... (?)

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

note 3.6.13

"All beauty comes from beautiful blood and a beautiful brain. If the
greatness are in conjunction in a man or woman, it is enough-the fact
will prevail through the universe: but the gaggery and gilt of a
million years will not prevail. Who troubles himself about his
ornaments or fluency is lost."

Friday, March 1, 2013

conspiracy: sense and the insensible

If they were out to get you, believe me, i would tell you. It seems
to me i detect a certain demonic quality in myself, in that i tend to
enjoy confusion. It comes to me that sins are confusion. Im not
explaining that remark. No better entertainment, though. Do you
wonder now if i would tell you the truth about them getting you?
Pssh.

Monday, February 11, 2013

the old colonel

"He reached up and found an odd thing on his mouth. A smile. He put
his hand up to catch it, and, if possible, examine it."

Sunday, February 10, 2013

love, a poem

my love is tornado filled with roofing tacks/i love my love with a
love that loves/i love inside her love until i love over and over
again/sometimes we have to discard the bedsheets from all the love
spilled/when i love late she loves me out the door for a while/she
complains that i love too much on the sofa/and i love all about the
house/i love her hair, her tummy, her fingers and toes/loving lovely
loves for my loving-eyed love-love/but as for me, i just want
something to love in....

nekked statuary in a motif

So i get in contact with Claus of Innsbruck(
abangnotawhimper@sprysculptre), and request a nude, one that looks the
result of myself(a rotund being) mating with a giant marshmallow, or
perhaps the michelin man, if he picked up a grocery store, tilted it
and let all the contents pour out into his gullet. This is not me,
mind, but is instead a serious artistic charicature meant to convey
meaning instead of portraying true dietary habit. The eyes hint
things that make even the most jaded pee themselves, the posture
implies a schizoid gulf between the being and reality, the horrified
genitalia frantically try to escape the host being, and the hands-the
tools of the creature-the arsenal of disorganized dreams.

Saturday, February 9, 2013

memoirs of a nude statue

Again. I was reviewing pages of my memoir("abaddon: 1996-2010"). I
noticed that the piece had the tone of a peeved drunk; in place of the
everyman's "quiet desperation", i filled the tome with pessimistic
anger. Otherwise, it was a unique piece of work. I recounted hours
of surfing porn with a certain poetic lyricism. Imagine me dozing
after, with fog-laden scenes of copulation floating through my mind,
and on the desk before me, a mama turtle piles my dreams in a bunch
with her flippers, positions her hind end over the top, and deposits
her eggs in the works-not that i would pay money to watch something
like that. There is a stunning realization in the last chapter:
"they"(this group is undefined the memoir), like a pack of jackals,
are just waiting for me to show any sign of weakness-a limp, a
sniffle, anything-so they can sling dirt over me. Sheesh.

Sunday, January 27, 2013

Words on my stone, perhaps.

"...there is no make-believe about heaven, future bliss, and
compensation, to alleviate the bitter majesty, but only utter
darkness, the void of unfulfillment, to receive and eat back the lives
that have been tossed forth from the womb only to fail. In comparison
with all this, our little stories of achievement seem pitiful."

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

the rime of miss litterbox(II)

the source of her ails/that cave of sorrows/chamber of the unkillable
itch/her fist-fights, arrests, banishments/those juices have flowed
for Maury and Jerry Springer/liquid stink gravy dripping insanely
oozing/forming a sh*t-colored crust around the rim/and the mold!/as if
she gorged on ranch dressing/then had diarrhea all over the under/the
secret flesh livid/"dear lord, i cant do what she asks"/like she sat
on a lasagna/made from week-dead summer roadkill....

the rime of miss litterbox

Telulah Forthright, that sorry ass b*tch/gonna get outta bed
soon/sometime before the world ends/out one stupor, into
another/stumble around like she hurt/a wood-frame contraption covered
in glue and sand/brittle, parts in danger of falling off/musta spillt
vinegar on herself again/wont run that mouth/till after she drink
something/the yelling, the slapping matches and stand-offs/funny she
wanna live with/the person she hate most/her good hateful
advice:/"stop porking Mama behind my back"/"wear your good shirt/when
you go to Wallmart"/f*ck that/gotta give me something to get
behind/that doesnt smell like it died last month

Sunday, January 20, 2013

being wicked(or a life in phases)

First, the youngers years are spent ruthlessly pursuing pleasure, and
maybe teachings of social contrivances will stay with one, or not.
Second, the being standing on it's own two legs for the first time
buys five acres of land, and builds a five-room shack, with little
help. There would be a wood heater(a portly iron beast on the floor
of the small sitting room) for the winter and small electric fans with
metal blades that turn lazily during the summer. The being sits clad
only in underwear, in the sunlight on the uncovered porch, with a
quarterly puzzle magazine resting on the right thigh. Food: any fare
in a bag, maybe a big bag, a bulk size, servings dispensed with a
glass measuring cup. Chips, grits, etc. Griddle cakes with burn
marks. It is a time not for pleasure, but for self-absorption. If
the being had younglings, he would beat them, to prepare them for the
hardships of life, and after a time maybe his own weariness and
skittish floundering would imprint upon them.

Saturday, January 19, 2013

being wicked...

So i compared personal enlightenment to sh*tting. That is both classy
and relatable to everyday life. One moment, you're reading walden,
thinking 'gee, this is gonna change my perspective on everything',
meanwhile it looks like your colon burst. Or you're reading the sex
feind Ayn Rand and thinking you don't need a moral code in your life,
only a purpose, then: CLEAN UP ON AISLE 3!!! It looks like someone
put Chewbacca through a juicer.... Or, on the subtle side, you open
your holy book one day and notice the pages are covered with
fingerprints in the color of chocolate... and all the while you feel
as if you have improved yourself in some way, though you're not sure
how....

Thursday, January 17, 2013

they call me Mr. Abaddon...

i had a profoundly positive feeling recently, and was made silent by
it. Still, if you look around, you see the world is poo. Poo stacked
on poo. Poo folded and tucked, starched and pressed, and maybe with
an occasional floral arrangement. At the same time, I was reading a
book about the future, in which the author hinted at all sorts of
wonderous advancements. There were beings that transcended existence
as we know it(turns out they had been sucked into a very advanced
computer-and luckily they only needed ten terabytes for storing
themselves!). One moment i'm thinking of some vaguely hopeful future
in which man supercedes himself, and the next moment, i'm plastering
the bathroom(a movement), here on earth. I wonder what a criminal
investigator would think of the aftermath of one of my bathroom
excursions.....

Saturday, January 12, 2013

the one with many names

b d
apa thy paynow
worrylater loser **relativismequivocationidolatry**
*heyurnottoodrunktoodrivethecar* ivegottalentipocketedataconvenience
storeinnevadaihadacoffeefarmonetimeitwasgoodcantdiscusswhatwedidonthebackacrehundredsofchannelsoffallfailcheatswindleglorifyyourselfwatch
withdroolrunningdownyourchinth efirstdosewonthurtyou

Thursday, January 10, 2013

conspiracy: zero dark fifteen

artless film coming? I've decided to work on a musical screenplay
entitled "bite my bag"(just the working title, mind). Themes will be
thus: what motivated ubl, the irrelevance of oscars and golden globes,
my thoughts on taking breaks at work, hair cuts, anne hathaway's eyes,
take-out food, and more, because, goshdarnit, my experience has been
unique, i think. Your mileage may vary, objects in mirror may be
closer than they appear, hurt locker sucked, "i went mad at the
mountain", it only makes sense if you don't think about it, when i
claim apathy i'm actually totally enraged, but i still love you, and
our marriage is worth fighting for. Good day.

Monday, January 7, 2013

to shine in a dim place(III)

(aside)to all things, Marcus/a bright beginning/glistening with
promise/I shall coax forth all my analytic/joust that one's demons/and
finally forecast his stars/then set him adrift to the fates/(to
Marcus)your mother.../"a right goodly gal"/a passive silence/you need
to tell about her/"she reared me good as any/taught me to be good/a
good citizen/then she did not wake up/just set there right
still"/that's terrible/"I know full well that much/but could you stop
such a thing?"/I suppose not...

Sunday, January 6, 2013

to shine in a dim place(II)

the room nondescript/table, two chairs/and the murderer/slouching/a
haphazard pile of evil/safely tucked away now/the eyes-old
pebbles/lifeless lights/that may have once held dancing flames/but
that furnace has grown cold/the face once tense/now relaxed with a
chemical haze/its folds and lumps/telling a story itself/of a shadowy
place that births/such quiet monsters/as i take my seat/he mumbles
something/"none of this matters"/and it stops me/only for a moment/but
i'm not deterred/if i must i'll hold/him in the air by his feet/and
fill him with my queries/then sift through the/bile and mucus that
oozes from him/for my answers!

Thursday, January 3, 2013

2013: such as it as.

you're welcome. sic vita. will i sell a story entitled "Sh*thouse"
in 2013? Pure profit, that. Confuseus say: "ha-ppiness is to lay
defeat upon thin women at beach volleyball". I will develop my own
absurd metrics to quantify my bliss sometime this year. I'll take an
overview of my soul, instead of an analysis of my emotions, and, if
I'm honest about the thing, I expect to be surprised. Sometimes it
feels like, like, I have a twisted version of the Avengers in my
head... Until then, in the words of Chester Burnett: "if anybody else
comes, tell em I'm going to bed."

to shine in a dim place(I)

the sanitarium/no mid-morning touches/just cheap lights/drab walls/me
with a hot beverage/and a sweet pastry/with filling like jam/must not
allow myself to fatigue/"dinks needs you"/so i go to the very end/of
the top hall/like jack climbing the beanstalk/to stare at the shiny,
oiled/scalpflesh of Dinks/"you are asked to consult/try, with your
numb brain/to analyze/for we must diagnose/that marcus
dumpchorkle"/who, you say, sir?/"the Fukkee Valley killer!"/my career,
my reputation/made on one patient,/the famous one!/my own clinic built
off/one who made over a hundred/just disappear/like magic/and i, a
showman, revealing/the alien creases of that mind

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

2012:such is the way, again.

monster year, in a way. Began 2012 reading "the haunting of hill
house", and ended the year reading "pylon". Saw films from the
ancient Day of Wrath to the more recent Moneyball. I found i enjoy
composing sociopathic poetry-giving the activity only a few moments
thought each time. I increased the odds that i will write a
pornographic screenplay in the new year. Blood will flow, drink will
spill, i suppose. Wrist will tire...