| Wisestone |
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| 07:39pm 13/11/2005 |
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Finally I have my site up, though there is much to be added. The Charbo link is to my personal music. Eventually I will have links to artists that I have produced.
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| Chasing Paper/On Our Way |
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| 09:13pm 08/11/2005 |
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music: Charbo-Allentown Road-Chasing Paper
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If you take this road
you might lose your soul
left out in the cold
dreams fade from the mind
steal across the sky
might force flung far and wide
standard set to fly
doom of man give it a try
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Tread this awkward path
to a living nightmare
shadows wander round
in absence of time
pain grips the display
and you fall from grace
to find yourself again
wandering this same old road |
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Read 2 - Post |
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| Exiled Love |
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| 09:05pm 08/11/2005 |
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music: Chelsea Labate-Demo[Final]-Falling
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Sending us to our doom
a man locked in his room
kept apart from the true
spoken to by the few
he'll take away bind your soul
And throw you into the fold
As an exiled love
Banished from the heart
You come in horror
And tear away the start
No remorse for those who died
caring only for his prize
this horror of our days
backward in his vile ways
beware a look toward hope
for all is lost on this route
As an exiled love
Banished from the heart
You come in horror
And tear away the start |
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Read 1 - Post |
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| Pushed Against The Fence (re-worked) |
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| 08:53pm 08/11/2005 |
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music: Jellyfish-Spilt Milk-The Glutton Of Sympathy
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Not Without the Fight, he reaches for the door, books decay, lights went out,
Tissue Paper still clinging, tuesday comes around, this forever, is laughable,
Picnic meadow in sight, wishing for friendship, sell yourself easy,we all walk away,
Hallways painted misery,no more hurtful curses, liver pills are enough, fish fry,
Ready Your Tears,
For I Wake Pity
Meager Lifetime,
Pushed Against the Fence
Punch you in the face, run away in fear, nine plus four, no one knows
Look out for the knife, rain coming down, shun his piety, put away your threats,
Screaming murder, what is the message, candle spills turn my back,
shoes always go missing, no use in arguing, we were wrong, both wrong,
Ready Your Tears,
For I Wake Pity
Meager Lifetime,
Pushed Against the Fence |
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| 05:39pm 01/09/2005 |
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music: Radiohead-Amnesiac-Pulk/Pull Revolving Doors
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Not without the fight. Solid reaches door knob, books decay. Lights went out. Tissue paper stilling clinging. Tuesday comes round again. This forever is laughable.
Ready your tears, for I wake pity and absence, meager lifetime, pushed against this fence.
Picnic meadow in sight. Wish for friendship, sell yourself easy. We all walk away. Down hallways painted with our misery. No more hurtful curses. Liver pills are enough.
Ready your tears, for I wake pity and absence, meager lifetime, pushed against this fence.
Punch your face. Desktop shadows going at it, nine plus four. With your supple little frame. Rain coming down with out delay. Shun his pity. Put away your threats. Fish in the oven.
Ready your tears, for I wake pity and absence, meager lifetime, pushed against this fence.
Screaming murder. Toilet bowl receiving the message, candle spills. Turn my back to you. Shoes always go missing. No use in arguing anymore. We were both wrong. |
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| 01:44am 19/03/2005 |
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music: People Like Us + Kenny G-Live on WFMU, May 2003-8-CountingTime
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Shuttering with a panic that arises the moment when you realize it is forever, O, my how it turns my stomach, eager jittering, and festering heartache. And the honor that was shown, and me alone to wallow in the misery of my own pathetic attempts, I am failure in comparison. Agony my only companion now. Fury unknown rages within me, it will be forever. Parting, separating, release and let go. With my ending so goes the world, so goes all pain. I wish it could have been different. Coming to the understanding that I have fucked my life. Damn. |
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Read 2 - Post |
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| 12:48am 16/03/2005 |
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music: Broken Social Scene-Feel Good Lost-I Slept With Bonhomme At The Cbc
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Abiding sanctuary carved in mental separation, slow psychic caressing and true showman like force. Ambient sole vocality produced from multiplicity, words in dream flow canopy of invocational response system, otherwise known as fluttering passages in aural visitations. To many voices, to many opinions and ideas about this and that and now distorted ramifications blurring footsteps, walking blindly into the future. Obligations confronted in this monstrous, godless world, obstacles to knowledge, conceptualizations of magnetic intrusions, soul bound in iceberg destiny, collision inevitable as is the infinite totality of this finite world, this pyramid inverted and reaching its zenith. Elemental construction, pure in the pitiless source, functional as migraines in the wilderness of Sycamores and granite speckled canyons. Ow, tap foot, ouch, pulsing, walking, halt. Chattering bells birds ring hurried messages in pure land encoded mystery truth, to hear to listen to know. It is this, it is that. No one talks to me anymore. I seem to gather apathy and misdirected hygiene to forward eerie inarching of pantomime's fierce sucking of detachable, well, you know. The return lacks strength promised, slowly corroding, we shall retire into darkness and shadow, rocket-ships to the moon and other such fanciful notions of space and time. What is it that you believe? Collection of concepts, philosophical inquires and other such mayhem of the human mind? Can we not accept the ineffable? Must we continue to reject the fanciful? To raise the bar, to deepen the awareness, what are we to do, what are we to establish? Books? Words? These things are not that, are not the blessing indeed. Oh sure, no mistake, no mistake, relax, its OK, I am sure it is, but there must be something to it right. I mean why all this speculation if there really is just nothing? No Thing, its stupid to even consider, just as it is stupid to consider it's opposite. Little particles burnt in your retort, some sort of solution, minor directional indicator, maze lifter and bassoon lesson on the side. Woman, epicure in nature, its a shame really, tis the basest of all notions, addicted as you are, but shame on me for telling the truth, banished to hell as I am I might as well take a few with me, right? Jawbreaker, core whipping sanctuary destruction, lost in pain and misery. Why do we suffer, ever wonder about that? Now with scattered life and unfolding rippling of stupid ideation, I find I can not help but blame myself. Am I actually grasping at these sounds coming out of this tweeter, a mature tweek indeed, I find this lacking in common sense. Two Way beeping, as if there were someone on the other end, but as I said before no one talks to me anymore. Who are you anyways? Dichotomy, I talk to myself, you know that right, its your face I see in the mirror, growing older, those brown eyes wither day by day, I see their failure back there, hidden in the slow stillness of time. Yelling, as I do, for this change that has been waiting life time after life time. Is this one going to be another waste. Sounds attracting attention again, me sitting on the couch, wasting time again. Will I ever sacrifice, give the ultimate offering. I doubt it, time and time again you have failed me. I trust you shall once again. Public disassociation of this vile and intolerable manhood and blasphemous cruelty that we profess. I'll just sit and wait my turn, sorry that I couldn't do anymore for you. |
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| 05:03pm 13/03/2005 |
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music: Aceyalone-A Book Of Human Language-Human Language
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Disdainful youth, those weak days of old, have I grown? Fury, rage, its not known. Wisdom, character, its consolidation and sharp struggles. They who have only leisure lack in the intimate knowledge of life and pain, what do they wish to escape? Blurred monopoly seizure and procurement, hands down arbitration and cheese biting voyages. Lake born soliloquy, masterful reproach, implementing cankerous fibroses though and though. Slow waving of hands in the air, in some sort of vain attempt to block the basket in sports unknown to me, in athletic abandon that I just cannot relate to. How is it that mankind can endlessly find distraction. Even here, as I sit, I am not here, only lost in fate's furrows, immutable sodium indeed.
Little trees across the way, slender, forgiving. Onward to youth's rapid decline, onward to the descent into this adult clutching tightly to the concepts created, the habitual unforgiving destruction of forests and lovely meadows. Denial of the broken nail, soon it'll come down to fakes, no way to avoid it. Another farm lost to the Pleasants, another home built for the hateful unawares. Resent their money, their ability to procreate and die, resent their blindness. Cursed with this hair in the eye. Rapture ever unknown. That poor friend shall be hewn in this suburban terror.
Enough pretending this sieve is a diadem, pride compelling stupidity, this game is getting a bit hairy, to close to the mark, to close for comfort. Wanting to be home, in bed, tired after days of restless alcohol binge. But even then it is a pain. There is no escaping this suffering. All consuming. Home, away, with you, alone, in bed, in arms, grasping myself, its all mired in this anguish. Will there ever be ease? Misery? Is it really that bad? Ask yourself in a few years, you'll see. This withering is not for me alone, the magazines, they tell you what to do, read 'em. Cunning the way you hide the contraceptives in his codpiece, like a subtle hint at his unusual disgrace, shame and forgetful gladiator stance and traces left on the kitchen table. Your girlhood apprentice limping sternly through the portal-less hall ways in your so called mindless drug induced trance. You are not the you that you think you are. Yes, its pretty clear, but this plural dichotomy of mes and yous is a bit confusing. Just my hokum, nothing to make a fuss out of, no shame involved.
Sustaining bridge of transference, why lord did you put me here? All I have known is failure, I have accomplished nothing. Sustaining loss and torrid falls into longer and longer periods of misericord, into utter abandon. The threat of a leech upon my back worries me further, was that what I had, addicted to a drug, now free, but seeking more? Sycophant planting absence, lacking and burning crops of wholesome virtue. Gaps in process, in the wake of sheer insanity, mindless grasping and morbid licking of rotting membranes, as if there were some sort of development in that practice. Some! Tainted eye-shadow, dripping in her liquid soulful fashion, morning! To find her body limp and pale next to me in frightful death scene, similar to his last moments a prince, yet due to my lack of training I fail to fathom the lessons presented before me, instead I rub myself on her and encourage a headache less coitus and lustful encroaching of annexation. |
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| 03:28am 11/03/2005 |
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music: I, Parasite-On This Cold Floor-Spoke
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An attempt; stillness and calm. No malicious intent. Nights still yet sleepless, terror on the passing, the intermediate gap between momentary instances of consciousness, as if awareness of will slaughters the existence. But then what is the problem, ego can parish, life can continue? This morbid carnation, solid and real, is certainly not what you are.
Hanging here by the silver thread, pondering the twisting and turning of infinite lives lost in the mire, we are tiring our will and losing potential. Down we must return to the finite and return the favor. Let the hand caress those in need and still the flight of tears. Let the shinning light from above sooth the wounds we have created in this autoerotic cycle and vibration of sensual misapprehension. Let the timbre of clear trumpets call them to their home and quiet this awful roar.
As fleshy members flung in the muscular discourse of elemental carnage, we solidify again and again in failure to see the grasp as the cause, as the free flowing energy of light, as the rainbow and crystal entwined in wakeful play. We continue to pile shit, rubbish, vomit, puss, blood and foul liquids on to this jewel, again and again in desirous abandon, when, when shall we see? The temporal remnant of an infinite whole, we lie in the shadow of a simplicity; basic space of phenomena, relax. |
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| Thus Spoke... |
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| 12:43am 07/03/2005 |
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music: The Beastie Boys-The In Sound From Way Out!-Eugene's Lament
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It begins as a simple tone, an e pull on the string, an e tone on the percussive imbalance. Homage paid in the wallowing tonality of bath tub clowns, bleeding, and spilling cough syrup on the floor. It takes a lot to remove the stains, I wish he'd be more careful. Carpet is already such a disaster, too much, all at once for her ears, heard enough already. Damn its been nothing but mallets forever, pounding over and over, like a hell, repetition.
Then the violin comes screaming in... its speaks:
As a single unifying cosmic force, beyond space and time, there is no conception of direction, spatial relation, moral necessity, choice, acceptance, rejection, right or wrong, finger, toe, body, me. All is spontaneously perfect in that single state. Manifestation is the division of this singularity into its multidimensional, multi-apparitional display that is subsumed within this singularity, is not separated from yet is wholly unique. Manifestation is the interconnected arising of simplicity into its variegated and infinite designs. Man is naturally perfected without need of recourse or ideation, yet conceptual patterns themselves are none other than the arising of this divine ordering principle. Become aware by looking into the words written upon water, awake to the original purity that is our spontaneous presence, timeless and complete. |
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| 03:16am 03/03/2005 |
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music: Gong-Radio Gnome Invisible Part 2 - Angel's Egg-Other Side Of The Sky
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In lives forgotten I have sought you. Ever wakeful of your presence, your taste upon my lips, I have poured forth my struggles, yet to no avail. Despair is the fruit of vain efforts, and indeed all movements have been a chill reminder I am indeed flawed. I apologize. In watchful trances I have longed for your acceptance, please hear my cries across time and space. I know your heart, I feel its rhythms within me, flowing through me, now let me see your face, let me hear your voice! |
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| Is it Mary? |
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| 01:42am 02/03/2005 |
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music: People Like Us-Beware The Whim Reaper-People Like Us
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Oh, the shallow grave, buried insecurities, tomb of youth, wherein lies the stolen textures wrapped gracefully in the morning air. Lost in reflection, holding on to this last hope. Disgraced momentum, downward and falling, to many steps in that wrong direction. As knife sawing across the throat, this is panic and failure.
Pawn moves ever into peril, but for the greater good. I stumble ever downward, and for what gain? Tell me the decisions were correct, as Knulp, in the snow, and I will be whole again. Yet I suspect no honor in that greatest of moments. What are friends when they are gone, when they abandon you for sullen games and wanton restlessness? I want to write what I think, yet I am compelled by some vain notions that it might offend. Sitting by the window, gazing out on the bustling streets, I see your budding frame signaling my much needed finances.
No mail today, no snakes, no patches, torn pajamas, soiled wash cloth full of seed and vomit, crusty with the lonesome forsaken phone call distraction. Deer caught within chasm, between welcomed rummage and disdainful courage. Glasses broken, try fitting these, certain attempts at peace and comfort. Broader knowledge, but less than desirable. What is most important? Apparently not. Lacking and tossed aside, it seems common, patterns emerge, should I worry?
No more time to study the margins left behind in the grace that was alloted us, solid is the failure ahead. In the passing of every step we are drawing closer to that doom. If only there were a hand to share this with, to help ease the passage. Alas I am destined to tread alone, as usual, as is typical in these waning days. Collapsed mothering, falling short of the tragic needs, oh your worry and your doubt. Lust left on the floor to fester and linger. Creating disease and penance, hunchback strolling alone, behind me in his storied maneuvers. Knots coalescing in the nerves from lack of control, slouching and stale, it is not to hard to see why there is depression and lost ambition. But who ever knows themselves, much less controls their own mind? |
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| 07:12pm 25/02/2005 |
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Wake is heated by the plastic that is radiating through out this complex maze of mason-less hybrid theories. Palms sweating and clenched, nails digging deeply into the flesh. Can it really be so late? Where is the life force, the energy? Wind is gone, drive is dead. Another wake-less rising, to drift on the interconnected bead game ad infinitum, breakfast of tea, not eggs again, please no.
Stealth encouragement of disbelief, but the coin said it was so. She can not be, its impossible and it can't be mine. Enduring the struggle of pestilence, the rot at the core of my being you placed in this pretense of affection and concern. Now the hurt shall rise in your womb to fulfill the chosen lack of discipline. The seed is not of my own, not of my heart, its the play, endless and dynamic, do what you will and as I know you shall, but know that it is a gesture of doubt and failure.
Woe is the satirical approach of ruin or rather appears as a rising doom, to be e-prime about it. Your theatrics and my resolution toward kindness make for folly and thick mistakes. Mistakes are for the ordinary, those who are already dead. A vanishing act inoculated by our present predicament, the defective conceptual elaboration sponsoring the ill fated acceptance of right and wrong. Our folly, is my joyous laugh at the inevitable dispense of erratic bondage.
Onward toward Whiskey and Hennessey, to unshackle the spirit and die another day in this last walk upon concrete and black top. Missing the tall figures and beauty that is your heart, I shall not forget what I learned here, I shall not forget. Turmoil no more, you spoke the new day and it has become. Self-liberation, how simple yet so hard to grasp, you have vividly projected this wisdom and now its clear, you are glory itself and I will not forget.
I now rejoice in my final hours, thank you and I'll see you soon! |
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Read 3 - Post |
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| 05:58am 25/02/2005 |
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music: Elegant Transaction-Loose Fur-Loose Fur
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Bright is the morning after snow, white is the light that has fallen, clear is the transaction, the common mode rejection, lost in the previous process. Quarter on the floor, crumpled paper left to hide rejected thoughts, old CDs piled and left forgotten, sign of the revolution, the compression that is no less wakeful than the rising that is done at this hour. Putting them together again, the instruments of time and embodiment of final binary encryption. Ballistic corruption spoken again through the halls of dead yesterdays, the tomb of morrows long forgotten. And stumbling in doubt we make way through change.
Guided onward the hand is there, joy is not something alien, though certainly not common. Triumph sparked ideation and motive, lost now, but still active, thankful and attentive, there is much to be done. Redemption on the lips of the coming stray, bereft of true feeling but along now in the wake. Tide changes as guardians hold fort upon rambling penetration, to attach to strongly is to fail, yet here is victory.
Crowded debate, to go or to stay? Tis life and steps proceed with or without participation. I hand ye the scepter, walk now, wandering warrior, clear the way, clear the way. |
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| 02:04am 23/02/2005 |
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It spills in cosmic ambience, like withering dew awaiting its pure abode, thine grasp is loosening, feel it, as a shunned gossip walking silently through the night, this slow release comes subtly to mind. They speak of paragraphs missing, some sort of English school paper perfectionism, I’ll show them paragraphs:
Foolish adultery supplanting majestic homogenous plant forms in cloistered questioning, very resilient this functioning of heartache, to rummage in the blossoming of torn affection.
OK, how about another? Its maddening this sense of perfection, aye, you often question the very experience itself a dualism left over and further compounding habitual patterns. It is so sad. It’s a shame really. But enough of that, how about another?
Hardcore shifting of pelvic vibrations, they say its like a dance, push me, and then just touch me, until I get my satisfaction. Rumbling from core, insidious telling of subtle physical secrets, embarrassed, yet, say its neither here nor there, thoughts ever widening the divide. Tactile expression of misconceptions, impurity, this unwelcome charlatan messing with rippling effects as if doom was visible.
Hark! Gracious lady, where in hurried bows do you wander? Haunt and gallop, tis sordid vision aloft in quivering lips. Skins pounding, sleepish rhythms, contagious moaning, her whisper ever heard in coveted sanctuary of caresses, a memory left on the doorstep of her castle, awake in agony, as knight twas thrown away. To tremble as if one freed the oxen of the sun, for in time the cause shall mature indeed, and seedling shall swallow curse that twas brought upon thineself.
Fumble with the meaning, never known this truth, these words written on the staircase, as graffiti marking the white visitation, where ecocide runs in tandem with fallacious discoveries bent in the corridors of her erroneous sense of divine therapy. Total abandon reeking as forage left to putrefy while her guest assumes positional heritage that is canvassed in blankets, smothering the cries let fly in released tension, with itch that goes scratching again and again to never find peace with agonizing indecision, to change or to rot or to grow or to die, its all the same in my eye. Distance, money, why in the planting rest we find solemn functions left behind in primordial imbalance, being virtuous isn’t constantly killing yourself, rapture departs in his Jeta, forgetting not the sentences lingering inches from your mouth. Remorse anyone? Think I’ll have mine after tea. Pour forth your jelly; we’ll use it like pantry escapism, put it on the nose, calms down the hysteria, hamster raised on that sort of chemical reaction. Mango created vicious indecision canceling keen youthful delicacy, winged forbearance of the spacious relationship; it’s not anything new, no doubt. Damn bots, I wish they would go away, this ringing and attempts to act like they know me. GO AWAY!!! Walk into the bar and they swarm you like bees to honey, more like razor bent on the cavernous enclosures they produce in the snail like secretion that seeps from their asses. Just ignore them and they will go away, apparently I did go to school, once. I remember those drugs, like candy for me, oh youth, those days are over now, light years away now in the pantomime’s ineptitude for true love. Friction is the only possible recourse, drama that is unspoken yet rising exponential in the blockage that is dualism and wrong view. Disaster and vivid idiots can’t keep you further from the truth, but still it’s in the palm, no less, so the further away you are the closer you get, odd ain’t it? Health issue engulfing the typically unconscious spell bound youth; care is less than normal in this present state and wakeful concern is even less so. But yet, the eyes and the cancerous history are compelling and curiosity isn’t a hard thing to kill, only arrogance and superficiality block such wondrous states from flowering, her grandmother was close to dying, this shows me how I am both intimately familiar with that family and how I have overcome much through this pretentious tumult. Power plant creating its typical electronic vibration and frequencies, has a certain geeky feeling that you almost want to wiggle to, but you know that jiving to such ridiculousness would be looked down upon by others and mocked, but then, who are they and what do you care, why not just be whatever you wanna be, as opposed to blockage cause by delusional ideas of mental powers and clairvoyant behaviorism that cannot possible be? Or at least that’s what they tell you, prefer the paranoid psychotic moment to the subscription they shoved down my throat like bots trying to push their pornography on me. Visions of goblins and demons or visions induced by leaping over the thought that was cut through, what’s the difference? Look at it beyond time, not much in the way of difference. Perhaps it’s the missing idea that vow’s ineluctability constantly keep you under watch even beyond the grave and beyond the master’s hand, they’ll be there to supplant the doom, in the end. I don’t worry, it’s all the same in the end, you’ll see, we’ll have a grand old laugh at this, you and me, Yes you, yes I am talking to YOU, we’ll be there, with bells on and all giddy from the freedom and the peace. No doubt. Certain ideation sweeps upon the fallen angels and a tear can be seen rising in the morning kindling rejection and spaceships to take hip hoppers off in their graveyard shift. In the fish tank again, looks like I’ll be sleeping here, doghouse is full. More Bangkok news, Kent goes to the show, 1 cm, should have just got the DVD, no bouncing hassles, or was that bouncer? Mmm, Eple, its like a drug, gets me all happy and bouncing, flowing more in time to the lost sync and endless beeps and whistles, slide back and feel the ever widening, wow, don’t repeat yourself now, not in one, save that for another day, it’ll be fun to mess with the redundancy. Apple screaming artist’s forbidden pregnancy, it’s a prediction, fear and craving, it’ll soon be a month, sold to the highest chad, highest face floating off in the headless abandon, nothing left to find, but still we find it every time, I didn’t make that up either so don’t get any ideas. That slipping is a nice feeling, calm in a way, I don’t wake up with the stomach all a wreck like I was the first few days apart. Soiled jeans on the floor, it must have been some night, debauchery on the rise in the earlier attempts to forego ring passage and bondage, yet it bothers me not, attempts to rationalize have proven their resolve and resourcefulness. Be strong and let go, that’s what the Wiboy mother’s maid said in her oft causal way, the deadpan jolting me into release and dissolving patterns. The lack of content makes the slipping all the more compelling, eventually it’ll turn into hate and eventually it’ll all rise into the purity that is release, or awake, or whatever. Great to speak to the forgetful one, made me laugh, how aptly she picked up on the juvenile behavior, the dull ignorance and the rather pathetic mistake that was made, but we just laughed at how life rolls on and its fun to see that all wounds will heal. Fluid this exonerated moment as social kindred bestows alignment with terraces in hayfield lost to the suburban inevitability. Downtown Sci-Fi garage movements with snow falling and mileage accumulated by the cold rejection and words almost spoken, but I don’t want to induce another long and toiled closeness that dies cause of its own nature. Statue Of Liberty in the distance, nice view from her apartment, laying on the bed listening to the euphoric sounds in the post refraction, always something to enjoy, that sound, punishing cause I want it too, but they are the ones who derive the most pleasure from annexation of being. Like I said, another long walk in the snow after intimacy seems to be a pattern, some sort of ritual. Chicken legs spilling on the floor, $.39 per lbs, not a bad deal, except for the salmonella on the feet, it’s a good bargain. Oh shit! I forgot the paragraphs! They are going to kill me.
But
you
don’t
get
it
do
you
?
Its on again and I can’t resist, this pop star freedom of the mind when I hear it, it bounces and then it dies, like ambient sheets covering the solid rays in photon divided by the cosmic energy, a dance and interplay of the divine within us all. Forgetful of the moment’s absolute truth we wallow without rhythm in the imbalance that is ideation and misconception. Where is the compassion, the truthful embrace in blissful distinction, celestial voyage through the total of its wondrous perfection and yet not overwhelming compassion, it is not a feeling, it is not a noun, this day on the brink of starvation, not including the hamster food and the waning pillage of store front tiles. His lost cornerstone fragment in the shuttling that was once her ironic use of electronic means for ruining happiness and searching for coins, of course you are going to find them. It’s all in your mind, as George said in his multi-colored rainbow carriage. |
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| 02:10am 16/02/2005 |
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Hoarse whisper coming over the intercom, like a ghost from past days spent dwelling on the cosmic forbearance of sign posts encountered in the slow walks took last year in dry gulch nowhere land. Significance of such conceptual consequences is still out of reach, but so are the tantalizing sacks that hang on everyone as eggplant embryos lost in the still chasm of your lingering doubt. So what is the point to dwell over relative and absolute principles when the cane-tapping beach combing still proves to negate the locomotive ideation behind surreal contortions performed in the closed door of your mind? Don’t hit the curb, pay attention, it could be dangerous walking without mindfulness, this city and its’ carnivorous high school children, running into and out of the mystery with their organs all aloft in sensual hormones on the brain, they eat fools like me for breakfast in there cold self destructive sort of way. All you have to do is get from point A to point B, but this damn charnel ground of walking corpses interferes with the simplicity of a wandering notion, that folly brings harmonic inconsistencies, a filtering if you will, of the choices narrowed to the slender stereotypical premonitions that I sought Friday and Saturday as rendezvous unlooked for in the alleyway, like two doped whores in a Cadillac. Jesus! Get it together, this is simple, just walk, ok? Just be, don’t try to fly away into landscapes already traversed, he died alright, that is all that is necessary, this preoccupation with supernatural forecasts left over with a meteorite scepter controlling the balance of communication, this echelon of sinister mechanisms distorting your basic function will never cease to amaze one in the wondrous display that they have created. Ah, where was I going, damn it, these drugs, keep forgetting, electro potation, how strong you are, falling by the wayside, taxis always curse their horns, well its not as bad as motorcycles, those damn machines, so loud, to go on without hearing them again would be grand indeed. Vegetation is the only result, fry the brain, they say, burning cells or something, strange its addictive too, like many things, manic and blind calling out in the sheepish way to that woman over there, man, when will the day come? Models and actresses thousands, all that is needed is one, one to make this being whole. Alas, tis folly, again, dear, cannot its forbidden, like hope, it’s a doom onto itself. OK, almost there, won’t be long now, the Bunker, huddle on down in this poetic landscape of the old beat, it’ll be nice to see again, still biting that tongue, must be rather rotten these days, John always was a funny sort of guy. Diamond hidden too, but we all are. This is it, been so long, ok, the door is a bit different, wonder if this is the right place, lost, nah the traitorous weapons of old still hang in the meandering kitchen sets that they hawk on this street. Punk origin still laying back over in the shadows, like a phantom bellowing its loathsome forces into the aftermath of cocaine hygiene and disco-balls twirling in the 9 little halls that were thought of a movement in itself. Well in we go to another sort of list-full afternoon in the old fashioned ways of my youth, as shadows pass ever onward to the white shores and green country that lies beyond the pale suddenness of the last moment, but it’ll be good again to hear the truth, wonder if knees will hold out, man its been to long. Ok enough turn off your mind and float downstream, or something like that. |
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| 12:09am 15/02/2005 |
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Balcony is covered in a moist film, the kind of shimmering dew that you would find in the gentle reaches of the world, but somehow it makes its way to this side. As a ray of hope in the cold gray stillness of your regret, the totality of grim insidious remarks on the flatbed of distant sponsorship, I welcomed lost concepts on the heart bent indecent following to gestate sinews and rejuvenate hollow indecision. It began in the month of change, that transitional unbalancing into the water poison of exposed ramblings. Expression of attraction and mutual interest should have seen it coming this blanket of the mind. Fall in love to easily, as if there is some sort of urgency. Just seeking the hand, my friend, just looking for her, the one that I will honor and who will honor me. Isn’t it what we seek, to be respected, to be known, to be vindicated and to be comforted but also to provide that to another? Alas, I sit and watch it unfolding in my mind, the love that creeps up on me, seeming to be the rising of the sun, but then its not, its just headlights of a distant car, traveling down a different road. The film is nothing more than illusion how could there be such beauty in this life, I must be one of the few who will never know the touch of a lover. Eyeballs in red spotted German backward lingo, electronic heavy and engulfed in the yearning and fearful bent of hope. Hope is the rot of a being, a cancer, destroyer of truth and reality. Hope is a delusion and a bile leftover of rotten plagues sent on to man. You know of what I speak, the box upon which all was induced, and she was the deliverer. It’s always her, they think that they are so special, so important, but they are nothing more than a curse, a demon sent to destroy us all. And hope is the worst of them all; hope is the one thing that will eradicate all possibilities. There is no hope here in this circumstance, yet here I am full of it, yes full of hope and full of shit. We will wait here days if need be and not a thought will enter her mind, no word I write no hope I speak of, no lovely comment made will ever bring the one to me. Yet I will wait, in hope that some day she will manifest. This is the delusion of my being, rotting away, I will lie on my deathbed full of regret cause she was never here. I will throw up the sushi of yesterday’s pleasure without the help of a friend, without the comfort of your presence. Panic escapism, full of concepts about the truth, full of misconceptions of the people I know, a system of judgment and exploitation. Honor the pillow and the blanket, honor the silicon, plastic model of her and be content, there is no happiness in those arms, just the forthcoming pain of rejection again and again. I care not for the judgment, for the potential seeing through these words and knowing their true meaning, it’s obvious, so understand. I walk this world, as I am, never hiding myself from anyone, I am that I am and there is no apology. Do I hurt you, myself others in the process? Yes, of course, and it is life, we all are the source and the end, the truth and the light, here we are to learn, we can not change what we have been given, just what to do with it, how to use it. My choice is to love, to be kind, to work on myself and to become a beacon of certainty. Radiating a clear space for all beings to tap into. The problem is that I am blinded by hope, I love to easy, I yearn for love and thus I wither, I give too much, and leave nothing to myself. As the mother has said: “Onen i-Estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim.” I as the mother of all beings, Ha! Mothers, women, yeah, its all the twisting memorial of some forgotten ritual, the harmonious juncture of red and white, now it’s a dichotomy bound to decay and doom. They have lost themselves to this terror this equality this sick unbalanced running off into the bedrooms of some other leftover carpet that can only be thought of as trash in the stairways of urban husbandry. Brats, nothing more, immature and foolish, as if it were some sort of liberated state, just the stupidly of this later day, the egg leaving its goo on the counter, spilling more rancid ideas into the next generation, how are they going to be? This is all going downhill so fast, so we will be dwarfed in the pleasure seeking melancholy. The world will end in fire, but not before man dooms himself in the jungle of carnal abandon. The law is still the law, real or not; we are still in this relative world. Wasted words are these; knitting would be a better use of my time. Everything falls on deaf eyes. No one wants to hear that it’s in their hands and that all they have to do is look at themselves and work it out. Its just to raw, they’d rather have fun and do their drugs, cloud their minds and rot away into some sort of Nihilistic doom that they think is freedom. Missing the light, missing the clarity, missing the compassion, to wander on and on in the cycle ever clouded in these delusions. Makes me sad, makes me weep, cause there is so much waste, my children. Shake the leg, move the body, stand up and dance around, feel that its true, as a marionette of the divine, stand there in the short form balance, know that it is there, the being of light, the intent shall move you. Flow on and on in the ever-dynamic expression of beauty that is presence, that is whole and pristine, now, and forever, there is nothing more than this. Hand wrapping slowing around the keyboard, in this ever forward movement of clarity, allowing it all to flow, as these words fall from the fingers, takes sometime to adjust to the different medium, but its all the same in the end. All these letters reminding me of worlds, English is all in the teeth, use the whole organ and experience the wholeness of sound. Beefheart playing makes me smile, this doctor mix, yo man its rather enticing, the up and down movements in this candy corn bat chain puller, puller. Oh I remember the first time those words were spoken, such a laugh, just is the moon light on the mind, ever widening the sanctioned dictionary fun, well you know, the go on get of the hay board spelling contest. As if. Yeah, the prancing total affliction, blood continues its flow, the lamb awaiting its eyeballz fuck and blow. Soft conservative banter off on the cell phone newism, jester walking alone down Bleeker, just one more day, just one more ray of hope to give to these children then its all over, shot myself in the hotel, no suicide note, for there are no friends who care. Sad, sad clown with the circus broke down. Can’t bunker down and be, its just to much sometime, I feel it, I understand, oh I do. And for some reason I just can’t get over it, I just allow the love, the attachment to fester here and kindle this hope, its going to destroy me. Haven’t heard this in a long time, red wine, I must have been eight or nine when I first heard it, those stupid bus rides to school, those horrible girls who would pick on me, them, all far from beauty as if they were so cool, me, as I always am, myself, never wrapped in these attempts to be something I am not, laughable isn’t it. Oh well, I will never be cool, and I am forced to deal with the torment, but at least I am not trying to be anything but myself. Trying to make it real compared to what? Now I am lost, forgot what I was talking about, oh well, it usually goes this way, anyhow. Alone again this morning, well, this late afternoon when I woke up. Didn’t eat breakfast and now I am starved. Suzie will deliver, I am sure. But still alone after all that, its not free nor last the night. Still, its fun, to be here with this sort of laughable approach to life, it makes me laugh, it makes me cry, right. It is funny, as she said today, yea, the dearest one, she said that, and its true, it is funny cause it’s a double standard, go ahead get mad, get whatever, its all sort of a lie anyway, cause I don’t know what I am saying it is all just the play of fingers on this random qwerty keyboard, so how can I defend that? Its illusion too, Ha! Gotta love it as an excuse, this scattered unencumbered dance in the halls ways of doors and locks, the shuffling forward and back between patterns and chaos, in this playful excited meandering through and away as wind escapes the mouth. |
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| 04:59am 11/02/2005 |
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“She walks in beauty, like the night…” Battering down upon his mind, ripping in to the reason, the why and the wherefore. How is it that he allowed it? How long? Aye, it’s telling in melancholy friction. He didn’t mean to destroy. Just luck, just fucking stupid, pain, yesterday, held, and now look, it was nothing, it was stupid, zero in on the fountains, shinning silver of tomorrow. How many days was it held? Countless hours wasted in this toil to win her heart. When he hears the ringing of the bells he shall weep for the romance lost by the wayside, by the stupidity that he produced. Stab you in the eyes, bastard for you seem to not see correctly anyways. “His slow feet walked him riverward, reading. Are you saved? All are washed in the blood of the lamb. God wants blood victim. Birth, hymen, martyr, war, foundation of a building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering, druid's altars. Elijah is coming.” Fool, goddamn you and your manipulation. Spike slowly pushing deeper into the skull, he will be this pain, fear his mind killer. Lips bleed in the sudden jerk of machines; remorse is not enough to bring learning to this being. He is always committing the same crime over and over again. Maybe death is better for him, to fracture this being into morsels of regret that can be the only resolve. March of doom, the rising distrust of the soul, the slow bleeding in the torture chamber, biting on the arm for painful release, stomping on the skulls of former friends, in that soft sort of man like flow of pain, to move it from one concentrated region to another area that is lacking. Its not enough to suffocate anymore, he needs the spike, the jerking in and pulling out of this rancid device. Like a clamp, it’ll push together and crush. The bones will break and the marrow will spill. I bet you do. Entrails leaking their matter, their soiled layers of fat and digested maggots, for we only feed them the rot of other’s doom. Must consume the excretions, as pudding for the solid parts of what we know as anatomy. Fragile, oh so sorry, this is neither the time nor the place. You are going to break, “U.P: up” Trying to get that rise out aye? It’s no use, fool, the destruction you face is down, down and out, the terror you feel is below, below and beyond your possible dreams. Pulsing of this spike upon the temples, it’ll be over soon and you will feel much better, I suspect. |
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| 2-29-04 aka "32" |
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| 11:29pm 10/02/2005 |
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Sad escape rushing porous daily, monsoon toward reaches unsheathed in gossamer due drops, the rose in two lipped openings, to inject, often raped, the piercing newness of tomorrow, swollen feet soaking in the pond of toad blossom ironic distance. She splinters Tuesday in black gown bastards to gather sheltered doorstep bent forgotten my total devotion, eject, eject, its over into fortunate darkness, to think ultimate landscapes for honey bound misery, the razor slicing the rapture of my excretion, to smear and wallow. Pop, placid grope, to massage the organ, to finger the lonesome corner habitation on gifted plaster, a wishing for her presence a box upon which worldly destiny is thoroughly transmuted, it’s the flesh of the dismembered, of course its 5 its gotta be. You never suck the juice like you used to… Lick, lick the splinter of his wish, that eyeless dictionary pony in the distance, riding hard through the long open door step, the mantra of a system long forgotten, Eris throwing open the violence of war and its tragic miscarriage. Horse begotten the soldiers of intelligence, the bounce of lonesome Paul, who leads up further, into plasma, into organic matter that left silent to rot in the corner like a child forgotten and weeping. Her darkness surrounds but I yield and gather arms in wholesome pureness to curtail pain and vanquish hate, it is love today, the ginger stone mop that fathered vengeance into witchcraft lockets, the kaleidoscope vision of Hansel into fire pit oven cooked goodness, Ya! Ya! It’s whole-wheat! Purity in the gallows, to splatter more of himself on the wall, but possibly the next incarnation will be halted by the dynamic incision I made into his mother’s lapel, toadstool track finding, goat looker, its another sunshine day dream to fill your head, the two of us, yes Nick, I do not forget. Its just possible to ransom hospital bills for coalmining giantism the feeling, yeah, its bulletproof fortune in the dualistic nightmare. O, open the door, mama! The toothless monstrosity of a welcomed inbred, the lip smacking playful punishment spanking red sunshine in widowed looseness, it’s the pressure, Johnny, your daddy’s under a lot of pressure. Two step pointed in the melon suction pulling me future today, today it’s future, the day of two futures, oh will someone stop? It’s certain the spell whispered in mailroom prepared for dancehall crimson spillage, the moon opened forth in waxing escapism, leaving her bloody again and again. Cyclic vibration, honey muffin did you find the plaster? What? Curious, it’s almost freezing in the storeroom. Floor tiles shattered in the sanctuary of her bosom, spelled incorrectly, as usual. Wistfulness, to drink whiskey in the corner barstool lonesome, as in migraine with the pills doomed to recreate the fractured picture of freedom, but its only a temporary illusion of some sort of wanton fulfillment. I grabbed her virgin lips in the soft quakes of punctured flight, oh yeah, it’s a fuck, it’s a tight daydream of random mayhem, but spelled backwards I read the rum in soldiers panicked ejaculation because of the death. Its almost the hard-on in catacombs lingering in the distant memory that pushed Icarus onward toward meltdown, but why bother, he was known in the sudden blasphemous way to steal bread at the Eucharist, to bite into the tit of his confused bar maiden. Pork chops rotting in the workforce, spasms recreating the original womb once again, but does it ever stop? Does life ever beget her bigot? Does she ever melt in the wondrous wounds of her pained release? It’s a pain, its an ass, it’s a pain in the ass, your mystery Eris, licking the organ again for my self-esteem. She who battles Hades in the grappling spring newness, the flowing into tomorrow, as logo erupts in the fountains of Tuesday’s unknown rupture. Ergot, the wisdom long forgotten, oh mercy upon this child who bays in the pale coolness of your moonlight, did it ever recede into the darkness, the moment between light and dark, that is her home, yours of true delight. The fishing hole of total destruction, insurance put up its fight. Yea, my claim! Yea, you can’t escape, forgetful whore, for in fractured tomorrow I rob thee of heart and tongue, I insert my death and seed its pillow for his coming, but don’t cry out, tongue less wretch for all goats lick furiously when hungered by noise. Pick, pick in the berry field, I know, I know, you beginning to wonder how a little one could sicken you so painfully, but its not really meant to go in there anyways so its quite obvious it would hurt. The pain of injection, I radiate the phantom orgy of liquid nightmares to shun the total of her barren landscape. She lied in the future to steal my time and essence, alone in tomorrow, I heard the ransom posted by scientific jar monger, to put in puberty sudden fixation of Lysergic, the grappling off of splintered teeth, ripping the spinal occasion, I seek her yawn, her fingerless erection, to bisect the yard stream shimmering. Tomorrow, tomorrow, what’s your speed, the open lips accepting him again, its no wonder I forget to put tomatoes on the doorstep of retarded neighbors, Candy left over, yea, someone already said that. I sometimes want to jump off the balcony, but now my ear is hurting. How did her daddy live without the lust, to many goats for my own good, she widowed his unborn yesterday in order to release my swollen apathy for your slow maneuvers, the day creeks in slowly and soon we will part, forgive my blunt ejection, just let us be here in the day, for a romance never sheathed again, I almost ate it, almost swallowed more of you and what shall we do?
http://www.myspace.com/charbo |
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| 2-14-04 |
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| 10:01pm 10/02/2005 |
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To linger in anxious void only to find complete loss an opening to new foot holds on the pathway. Freedom, oh its close, its sudden, its close, I wait, I seek. Misshaped shades of gold and peach descending into languid pool of tear dropped gluttony. Rapture found only in the quick-footed escape into groovalistic dichotomy, a swollen pant leg of mango juice, pulp concentrating ferociously on the forehead imprint. Crossing pastures unlike golden wishes. Push, push to panicked gladdened slopes of razor bristles, she wept and I held her, the betrayal! I stabbed and gutted whores in pelvic thrusts, opening gateways of menstrual condensation, my couch, my cane, my overlooked indecision, its only void in hollowed stairways, down badger canyon to begotten soil held softly in the native foolishness, believing lies and myths, dualism of the mind, to seek dualities to vindicate their ego. |
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yeshe's journal