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".