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|Sunday, March 9th, 2008|
"The burning conviction that we have a holy duty towards others is often a way of attatching our drowning selves to a passing raft. What looks like giving a hand is often a holding on for dear life... There is no doubt that in exchanging a self-centered for a selfless life we gain enormously in self-esteem. The vanity of the selfless, even those who practice utmost humility, is boundless.
- Eric Hoffer, The True Believer
|Friday, July 13th, 2007|
There are words that stutter and there are words that fault. I've never heard them from your mouth, but I may be mistaken; it's been a few years. Time slips through the cracks, and it may bear light or deny it on an absolute whim, and that's sure as shit not an excuse, but really - what demands justification these days? A jaundiced eye or the Manifest Destiny sensibilities of a poisonous, dwarf-armed tyrant too malignant to realize that his lumbering dinosaur gait was obsolete 50 fucking years ago? If they razed your home, then you raised a world; and that's more than I can say for all the Cash Money Hustlers; more than I can say for the pockets full of dot.com severance checks; for the 30 Rock smoldering in solid gold suburban crack pipes; for lower back tattoos and NEFA grants; for Yemeni software executives on badly cut MDMA; for guilt and insufficiency masked as an allegedly biting sarcasm; for limousines scoping out drag queens; for state of the art hotels and declining literacy rates; for pretentious mama's boys drunk on their own corpulence; for grown men paid millions of dollars to chase a fucking ball around; for black-outs in the White Room and White-Out in the Men's Room; for corporate funded progressive newspapers; and for my own mortality. And yes, the Pope's an absolutely ridiculous bastard, but no one gets to Zion without paying some kind of fee, be it Hepatitis C or singing the No Pussy Blues. And lightning can strike once, twice, or 50 times again. And trains can run void of course. And God can trample underfoot. And old gods can die. And new gods can be still born. And regret can bear its own children. Is this persistence? Is this song? Despite ourselves, we witness the transformation of a human into an object. So much for subtlety.
Look; we all know altruism is not only a front, but an affront. And while an affront is not necessarily a reason to fret, it's also certainly not a reason to take another's trust in good faith. And time's probably too short to worry about the consequences, either. Bad taste is always a prerequisite for inter-personal relationships. Staying alive requires a much greater cruelty.
Hey, it helped us get both get laid once or twice, right?
Actually, I don't even want to think about that. At least, not now
Because they will never keep their eyes off of you. Because they will steal your vision faster than you can blink. Because they will piss all over that last remaining shred of dignity with smug impunity. Because they will find any square inch of your body to exploit in lieu of their absolute inadequacy. Because they don't even have a memory of their own to even trust. Because theirs is simply not a fair fight - it never has been, and it never will be.Namaste
, Behemoth Angel. Thanks to you, my fingers are no longer afraid of their shadows. Requiscat et Pace.
|Thursday, June 28th, 2007|
PS If you don't get it, you don't get it
, AND NO FuCKING VOICE-OVER WILL EVER CHANGE IT. If you don't dig, you don't DIG. Sorry you're you
|Wednesday, June 6th, 2007|
|A Blacker Shade of Brown
Caveat: The following is an EXTREMELY GRAPHIC venting of personal frustration, and squeamish types would be much better off reading someone else’s blog on their fondness for Chai Tea or Rufus Wainwright. But it represents a growing epidemic in today’s Business sector, and I’d feel remiss if I did not bring it to someone’s attention (even if it is only the attention of a terminal Insomniac with too much free time on their hands). Be forewarned, paleface.
Corporate Sabotage takes on any number of curious releases, from Photoshopped “FBI Most Wanted” lists to creative Advertising campaigns. Typically its covert nature is predicated on anonymity, unless the culprit plans on standing in line at the DET between Scooter Libby and any member of the Black Eyed Peas (with the possible exception of Fergie). However, there is no more potent and subversive avenue of enraging your co-workers and higher ups than the most ironically flagrant locale: the shared Office bathroom. And while biological routines of nature may cause a hysteric of laughing conniptions in your padded skull, have you stopped to consider the poor bastards in the office down the hall from you, you fucking uni-celled piece of rotting offal? Yes, Motherfucker, I’m talking to YOU
. I don’t give a fuck how law sales returns were for your bullshit Mobile Marketing scam last quarter, E-P_CKET
; it does not excusing wading ankle deep in cavernous pools of your fetid, Red Bull-smelling urine as a result of you late night binge of Klonopins and Zima. I know that you might not believe in Global Warming, and your obsessively liberal abuse of paper towels is an adequate enough admission; must I wade now wade through gargantuan mountains of used toilet paper, thoughtfully stained with God only knows what, in addition to wading through your inane extrapolations on Red Sox scores and the graphic illustrations on the other night’s truly porcine rutting with an underage BU girl you picked up at a T.G.I.Friday’s? I know it’s a depressing thought that Promotions for a “Here-Today-Bankrupt-Today” start-up company is the highest aspiration you a degree from Bunker Hill Community College can hope to buy, and that painful fact leads you to ingest a truly heroic mound of badly-cut Bolivian Nose Candy you purchased from the Cleaning Lady; must you leave it’s remnants on the bathroom wall for her to clean up as mute artistic testimony to your inadequacy? And I’m really, really
fucking sorry that the red-head with the ass doesn’t swallow; but leaving a massively coiling, solidifying, PIPE-CHOKING HUNK OF FECAL MATTER
, not IN THE BOWL
, (where, presumably those of us granted with the awe-inspiring gift of disposable thumbs would perform that Herculean task of pressing that funny little lever that make sound go “whoosh!”), not only ON THE FLOOR
as well, but DIRECTLY ON THE FUCKING TOILET SEAT
is not, I most emphatically repeat, fucking NOT
going to win her back.
Look; I know it’s easy enough to blame the Spanish General Consul. Dude just looks shady, and if anyone’s guilty of fecal incontinence, it’s him. In fact, if anyone’s guilty of dressing up in a bonnet and diaper only to be suckled by a Puerto Rican Leather-Boy on Angel Dust, it probably him. But such kinks demand the highest secrecy and delicacy, especially being in such a position of precarious public image that his ass could be handed over to the Basque Separatist Union for the price of a Jelly Doughnut (although, admittedly, that would probably be one tasty Jelly Doughnut). And seeing that our only neighbors in this corridor seem to be your sorry Five For Fighting-loving asses, le digit l'accusation tombe sur vous. It’s fairly fucking obvious that you need an absolute boat’s load of help, and it’s obvious that therapy and anti-psychotics are simply not going to help. In fact I think there’s only one way out of the predicament of spending the rest of your sad little nights alone with a TV dinner in front of a Seinfeld re-run armed with a 30 pack of Bud Light: Michael McDermott. Think about it, you overpaid Code Jockey. And while your at it, instead of investing in Big Macs and Cheetos, try investing in a colostomy bag, you Fat Prick.
|Monday, May 14th, 2007|
In the church of my nerves, God is illiterate. Fingers tremble with a dumb electricity like some virgin’s obscure eruption and I am confused by my own thirst. This is the canon of forged accusation: bronzed dictums of petulant murmurs and wilted erections: a flaccid parasite that you’re never gonna shake off, despite the doe-eyed gaze of the stranger across bar towards the benumbed skull of some gay divorcee for whom a smile or a time card is never going to be adequate enough compensation. So yes, practically everybody knows that the game is fixed. And yes, you’re conceding to the role of target without any real accountability to show for it. But, lacking the need for sensation, the long run seems less enviable than quicksilver; and anyways, it makes for a less complicated form of derision. But, just like the old man said, you’re never going to step into the same river twice, and if that tune seems a bit too
familiar, it’s only an inability to adapt that you can find fault in.
Hotel Room, 1998. Starfire and Star-spit. Eyes shielded by a miasma of sperm, turpentine and consumption. A fixed image, but anonymous. The body of a stranger. The body of a mirror. Undefined, but insistent. The wail of gnashing teeth. Paralysis of still life and untangled webs. Each thread of hair a secret epithet, glistening like shiny metallic teeth. You can feel their burrowings inside of you, wild gyrations of obscene contortions and flagrant innuendos dancing a staccato so strong you can forget about any broken down elevator: any forced entry: any scabbed-up tattoo: any child’s faith.
Impassivity implies a certain cruelty; a certain inertia in the face of gravity and a disallowance towards clarity. You can only put your trust in mirrors for so long before you find yourself violating their fidelity with a lie. The chameleon sheds his skin, and his bones jut out like a 3 AM razor. An invisible man never gives away any of his secrets – for fear of infinity.
The tracks cross each other with an almost sinister ingenuity somewhere between here and ambiguity. I can feel the glare of the sun lodged into the backs of my eyelids like a crackling ember, mocking callously and leaving none for want. A cleansing spell of cold white flame and I wonder is motion has a future; I wonder about all the saints I never knew and whether or not I really wanted to; about the swiftness of mercy; about the weather in San Juan this time of year; and at what point did God refuse to take himself so seriously.
A face takes on all the incongruities of a preterhuman incarnation with each moment passed in close proximity. With a tap of the finger, I take witness to a medieval court in which inaptness is meted out with the remorseless malice as a jester’s smirk The disavowal of time to account for anything more than a self-imposed reminder of context requires the same stoic attention span as lust; which isn’t to imply that one’s loins are subject to the same mercies as, say a Doctor’s exam or closing time. At least, not necessarily
. But then again, there aren’t a whole lot of other career opportunities for eunuchs these days.
Insinuation walks in wraith-like confidence here, with all the intimacy of a pillar of salt. It’s easy enough to blur the lines between self-preservation and derangement; it’s a lot harder to transform them into anything but a target; into anything but an antiquated relic, glistening like an ape’s shiny imitation of God.
I curse the body erotic. A tongue in cheek dream… limbs constrained into a highly stylized imitation of aggression. They jerk sideways, erecting a trance of curious import; each tremor a devotion to a memory long obscured by its substitute. Line against line, body against body. And there’s no act of moral reproach to claim witness to; simply the sheer tenacity to obscure our sensations from themselves. And there’s no form of persistence so brave that someone could not put a price on it. And there’s no reason for expression to be anything but
It is not the fault of the present to admonish the past for indecision. An old ghost, like an icon or compassion, rarely outlives its usefulness. You can’t blame daylight savings time for a change of heart, the sulphur of cunt or someone else’s bad taste. Memory transforms itself into an art that excuses history from its limitations rapidly by means of a curious alchemy. And its only right to expect a mutual reciprocation after robbing your own youth of its charms.
Then again, sometimes an action can lead to a magnificent absence of consequences.
The dream of beasts continue their gaping parade, irrespective of origin. From illusion to hysteria. From doubt to devotion. From fear to retribution. Neither intentional nor accidental. Fermentation and seed. Nerve and marrow. The murderer’s tenable faith in his own sanction. Mobility. Stasis. Christ. Priapus. The tyranny of reflection. Forked tongue of a priest. Not waving, but murmuring. Clear light of augury casting its commanding spell over discarded rooftops. License and incapacity. A jealous god’s painted fingertips. Bane and spittle. Silence and slur. Premonition squandered on a dim star. Ya’Allah
. The spurt of orgasm. I have always been autistic. I have always been here before
Nothing defies reason quite like the obvious. If it concedes to anonymity, it’s on account of a built-in safeguard. Infinity is always a dangerous proposition. No matter what
amount of license you refuse to give to consequence. Anything less would be a false compromise. Anything less means waking up on the wrong side of the bed. Anything more means dreaming true.
I see the violence as a viscous acid, neither subtle nor idiotic, but porous. It oozes out of the body, without coercion, as thin as the tears of a stranger, corroding both deliberation and sense. It’s a highly contested commodity, a jewel as blatant and garish as the smear of crimson adorning those hollowed cheekbones like some ironic highway sign. But who’s to barter? Collapsed stairwells and cataract ducts always make for stranger bedfellows than trust, no matter how tentative the grasp. And even if sex betrays its own lack of import, its still a more viable weapon than discretion. I wait for a hole in the veneer – an admission of the tongue or a slip of envy. But shame’s an even more impregnable bulwark than cheap perfume. Sometimes your own voyeurism is even more answerable to luck than your own resolution.
I want an action that will not repudiate itself by questioning its origin. I want a pillar, not of strength, or flame, but pure, unadulterated pique. I want an expression that does not succumb to a spiritless poverty. I want a word that will not turn transparent by its exposure. I want truth to finally admit its tyranny over meaning
|Tuesday, April 24th, 2007|
|Wrongs of Spring
You can tell Summer’s imminent approach here in Boston from a purely sensual vantage point. And for once, its triumphant herald is not to be found in the odor of sweat dripping from the thighs of artificially bronzed paralegals baring far more flesh than their combined net worth should allow; not in the shuffling, gelatinous movements of flustered, flab-ridden and forsaken public notaries from Delaware who gawk in sheer mongoloid wonder at the prospect of one of them new-fangled subway cars; not in the guttural, crotch-enamored declarations of violence on behalf of shaved, sub-Neanderthal work release pProgrammers from Malden nourished by a steady diet of Southern Comfort and child abuse; not by the morass of adolescent bloodstains that paint the sidewalks and subway cars of the city a deep crimson, like some garishly ironic graffiti that no influx of Guardian Angels ™ or cheap Oxycontin can quell; but with the gaudy, triumphant return of the crack-head’s emaciated shadow emerging from his hibernation at the YMCA, resplendent in his trumpet-call of inarticulate bellows and tin-foil crowns. His is a secret and heady succor, more bewildering than any Breakfast at Tiffany’s or Holiday in Seattle, and his jaundiced eyes are the phosphorescent lanterns that guide the paths of weary pilgrims, from Perth Amboy to Petaluma, through the highways and by-ways of this fair city, straight to the not-so-Elysian fields of that curious landmark whose road sign bears the legend “Disappointment”.
I first met Reginald shortly after ensconcing myself in the Sisyphian limbo of collective corporate gang-rapery on St. James Ave. roughly 4 years ago. That particular morning I had emerged, bleary-eyed and forlorn despite a hearty ration of caffeine, ginseng and impure thoughts towards John Silbers’ bloated corpse, from the sort of jaunty subway ride which more resembled a refugee camp in Kosovo at the height of the war than anything resembling an efficient public transportation system (although surprisingly comfortable given the level of standards for the MBTA) onto the Berkeley St. exit. It was that bitter sort of late Autumn day in Boston, the sort that doesn’t seem inappropriate for a Dostoevsky novel or a morticians’ bris ceremony. Amid the howling vacuum of winds threatening to topple over news stands or the average anorexic frame of Newbury St. floral assistants, the sun insisted on imposing its mocking, Melanoma-inducing tyranny directly on my fevered eyelids like some sort of planetary coup d’etat. Shielding my fragile, red-gleamed corneas from its unfathomable Helio-Fascist grip, it took a split second of an instant before blindly toppling from sidewalk to curbside, from curbside straight into a tangled cluster of bells, whistles, spokes, rubber and a spirited, if indecipherable rendition of what appeared to be “Double Vision”, Foreigner’s turgid ode to domestic violence. Momentarily dazed, both by the sudden impact as well as the sudden resurgence of the previous night’s 6 Whiskey Sour-minimum, I promptly brushed off the ashes from my already soiled lapel and, muttering silent novenas invoking Sweet Lady Ass Cancer on my unknown assailant under my frozen breath, meandered onward, only to spy the apparition of my afore-mentioned assailant bicycling towards me from the opposite direction of Arlington St., seemingly oblivious to my presence, the blur of his dusky body jerking in taut, erratic spasms. As he raced past me in likely Strychnine-cut bliss, I could identify several distinguishing characteristics about this phantom cyclist:
a.) It was indeed the barrel chested bravado of Foreigner my nemesis had been bellowing at the top of his lungs, accompanied by a ramshackle orchestra of bicycle whistles and thigh-slaps.
b.) Despite the frigid Tundra of Boston in mid-November, my antagonist was clad only in a pair of skin-tight denim cut-offs, allowing the hodgepodge of anemic drops of burnt-aluminum scented perspiration, jailhouse tattoos and needle tracks dotting his arms like sleeping termites to stand out like a gigantic neon billboard announcing the demise of urban renewal against the abscessed mahogany of his skin.
c.) Every inch of this man’s existence, from the fluorescent lemon of his eyes to the frenzied staccato of his malnourished body, seemed to have been prefabricated to allow for the college education any number of Medelin cartels’ or CIA operatives’ progeny.( Read moreCollapse )
|Sunday, December 31st, 2006|
|A poem for Augusto Pinochet
I remember the night
we fucked mercy
High above the shacks
of Buenos Aires
Oblivious to cries of dissent
while below a farmer writhed,
contorted in stoic agony
to the tune of 'Gloomy Sunday'
blaring out of cheap loudspeakers
Your lips were like an amber coil
and reeked of cheap grappa
the taste of a worm
bloated by arrogance,
Your body emitting a cold fusion
that never amounted
the enabling of your own
curious scar on history
If you are in Hell
Thatcher says she's sorry
Can I have my 5 dollars now?
|Monday, October 23rd, 2006|
|"God Will Pardon Me. After All, It's His Trade."
An hour. Hardly enough time to murder the past 3 decades, but too much time to forget history. And it’s not like either are implicit enough modes of vanity; in fact an hour can hardly contain all the reflections of all the mirrors in the world. But an hour is just enough time to make out the shrill chant of doves, so serene and justified in their foolishness that every drop of blood ever shed is nothing more than a particle of dust. And an hour is enough of a diversion to make you forget yourself
for a change.
So who really needs sleep? Who needs faith, or nourishment, or a touch, or a smile, or a heart, or every single god-damned trifle that is never gonna keep you at peace? Even your boredom and frustration’s nothing more than a cheap trinket you gaudily adorn yourself with, like some faint and exhausted whore. And strip yourself away from that
, and there’s little more than the dumb idiot leer of impulse, grinning his obscene satyr’s indulgence. And while his hooves are not wholly immune to your vulnerability, your charms are not exactly secure from his. So you hum that melody to yourself, feeling it burrow down into your bones like some kind of foreign cancer, firmly attaching its unshakable grip upon you. But you’re still alone, and the Earth isn’t going to stop spinning on account of any number of empty bottles or good intention. And the Earth is not going to stop spinning on account of a pair of brown eyes. But neither is your head, so you pace up and down and up and down and up and down and then - THEN
- where are your expectations going to run to? What else do you have left to offer? Your spite? Your sickness? Your collected sense of wounded pride that rips you in two? And does it really matter if your doubts might be well founded? And does it really matter if that voice at the back of your brain is a lie? And does it really matter if each sensation is a faith so strong that it can cut through your delusion?
And now, you’re trembling. Now, you’ve gone and fucked the whole thing up again. But who’s to answer? There isn’t even a dusk too deep to lose yourself into. Who are you fooling? You were born into this. And you chose
to concede to that cliché. And you chose
to spill your guts out, like some priest guilty of his own self-righteousness. And you chose
that pair of brown eyes.
Or did you?
Look – there’s no man alive who would ever want to forfeit that claim against gravity. And you want to question it! As if it could purpose or reason could ever defeat meaning. As if it could ever account for a loss of time. As if it could ever even call you by your name.
I watch the blood seep out of every fiber in this image, and this time, it’s easy to see that it’s not a question of desire; not a question of blame; it’s not even a question you could ever hope to discern. And not even some lousy Disco song is gonna justify you with an answer. Neither is your fear. Neither is hell freezing over. And neither is yesterday.
But it snaps, just like a stalk of wheat, or that fragile little spine of yours. And it doesn’t matter if there’s smoke in your eyes, or arson on your brain, if it’s good intentions, or just plain irony; you chose that dagger dipping into your veins like some softly muttered curse, and you wouldn’t want it any other way. Not if you were living in some sleepy New England town that time forgot, or stranded at a bus terminal, or breaking your back on a Southern plantation. And this time, there’s no excuse; not a broken heart, or a lonely prick, or the threat of keeping an obligation, or the even the threat of making an excuse at all. So what’s there left to do? Are you going to sift through the wreckage to find a martyr for her? Are you going to crucify your lust on a 10 Point plan? Are you going to beat your chest like some rabid ape drunk on his own impertinence? Are you going to crawl through pools of cold, impermeable flame to salvage a single, solitary pearl? Or are you going to fade into the background, like the protagonist of some long-forgotten myth?
This is the incarnation of the last moment in the world. This is the incarnation of the first moment in the world. And neither are sufficient enough distractions from the hallucination of sex, but neither are sufficient enough mechanisms of defense, either. Like you never even thought to extirpate yourself of understanding others wrong natures. Maybe electricity isn’t so foreign, after all.
And so it comes around again, the frigid rhythm of accidents. You stretch out your paws in hopes to clutch an immaculate flaw, a sublime wound, any defect your short-sightedness can hope to discern; but it’s already out of your hands, transformed, sanctioned by lunar flares and magnetic fields; by God’s irrelevancy, and his moronic little cherubs; by time and its lack of accountability. And the city keeps that rhythm intact, regardless of your cries of protest or love-sick wails. And there’s always going to be another to take your place; but even if that myth fails to enact itself, you thrust your own self into this; the interrogation lamp’s shining right in your face, so you better open up, be it to squeal or to sing, because even if no one is looking, you’ve still got to answer to something
in the morning. Even if it’s an exposed nerve. Even if it’s your own fortune. Even if it’s a pair of brown eyes.
|Monday, October 9th, 2006|
|Stranded Somewhere East Of Nowhere
There will be fire and there will be noise. There will be sound and there will be fury. There will be long, humid nights: nights drenched in tears and salt and wine. There will be forgiveness and there will be sacrifice. There will be dancers and there will be slaves. And neither are gonna take the fall for you, and neither are gonna have a shoulder to lean on. In fact, neither are going to make you whole, but hell, it was your decision to step onto the fucking bus
, and no, it’s not a fair fight, and no, it never will be, but does it really matter? You’ve got your youth, you’ve got your looks, you’ve got your human frailty, so FUCK IT, Rock & Roll, you’re on the fucking bus, you made
that conscious decision, it wasn’t the drugs, it wasn’t the liquor, it was your own naivety, it was your own gullible your charm that you wave about you like some wide-eyed child’s toy, your own narcissism, your own sickly little lusts; and just like that, the days turn to nights, you’re 30, and you’re staring in her eyes
. And suddenly, that self-important little ego of yours doesn’t mean a damn thing, those voices nagging at the back of your brain don’t seem quite so nagging anymore – oh, bullSHIT, they still do – and that shaking doesn’t come on quite so strong now; so who gives a shit if there’s an army on the dance floor, or a junta in your living room, or if the nut ward is full; you’re staring in her eyes, you don’t have a cent in your pocket, you’re sweating in purely moronic frenzy like some crippled beast in fear of a master, and there’s not even a cellar left to crawl into and disappear. So now you get on your knees, like that hackneyed old cliché that you really are, and confess every single misgrievance that floated through those macerated brain cells of yours to an absolute stranger. Because even if it’s your penance, it’s also your prayer
. And it’s chafing your bones like gun powder. And the friction between you both is not going to save the world; in fact it probably won’t even save yourselves. But you’re staring in her eyes, you’re on your back, your limbs raised to the sun like some dying insect, and you CHOSE that option. And that makes all those old ridiculous songs you used to pine over absolutely fucking meaningless. So you might as well kiss composure goodbye, you might as well give poignancy the slip, because she – SHE – is coursing through your veins like some kind of primeval smoke, you’re lying on the floor, you’re staring in her eyes, and all your bronze idols, all the world’s tears, all the filthy money lining the pockets of the big fat fucks who have no time to spare, are never going to change that. They never have, and they never will
. So how much time is left? 5 years? 30? 10 seconds? You don’t even know, you don’t even care, the neighbors are passed out drunk on their lawns, their children aren’t really sleeping, your family is right to be ashamed of you, and everything you taught was wrong, dead wrong. And there’s no reason for your histories to merge, and there’s no reason for them not to, in fact, there’s no reason for reason – at all; no reason for prayer; no reason for penance; no reason for sacrifice; no reason for forgiveness; no reason for either of you at all. So why are you lying on the floor and staring in her eyes? Because you can
. Because neither time nor distance holds any power anymore. Because friction is the only tangible reaction to the absurdity of your sense. Because her skin is that ancient wine that simply will not run dry. Because history is the most futile ambition that either of you could ever hope to share. Because the cards are on the table, the curtains are drawn, and there’s nothing left to do but
|Sunday, October 1st, 2006|
is not enough time
to experience the history of the world
is far too much time
to let your self-importance
by the mystery of Truth
God's kind of
|Monday, September 25th, 2006|
|Even Hunchbacks Sing The Blues
Most people will buy just about anything. Does Death have a future?
Pour some sugar on me. Shit, it’s neither Summer nor Fall, and I don’t even know if I’m at the train station or on a train, and it’s not like a pretty face is sufficient impetus to leave town, but really, just about anything could be
, so it really doesn’t matter if that’s an aureole of pure flame crowning her head, she’s nameless, faceless, spaceless, sexless and hexless, you’re on a train and you don’t even know if you’re gonna stay on or get off. So once again that sickly little fly in the ointment raises it’s surly little head, only this time it’s you, yes it’s always been YOU. You always take things so personally – well this time, you’re right
; you have the proof written on your wine stained lips, its pitiful truth ricocheting off the shivering of your teeth. Now you can tell her how you really feel. And how do you really
feel? Do you want to plead to a complete stranger for forgiveness? Do you want to make her an offer she should
refuse? Do you want to get her high? Or do you want to get her – low
? Do you want to make her writhe? Do you want to make her come? Do you want to make her cry? Or do you want to make her – seethe
Its mornings like these when you can’t even afford the sheer gravity of your surroundings. So it really doesn’t matter if you coat is soaked in a heady mixture of gin, ashes and insomnia, or if you haven’t got time to pay attention to that threat of latent violence forever nipping at the heels of your feet like some mischievous imp, persistence is all, even if it’s never really good for your health. But few things are these days, so who cares if you’re feeling lucky or if you’ve got a song in your heart and a grin on your lips, you’re completely, irrevocably, irredeemably FUCKED, you’re on a train, and you don’t quite know how you got there, and you don’t even know which way you’re going, you resigned
yourself to being there, and you ran out of excuses quite some time ago. And that’s the bee sting – bitch of a thing to wake up to first thing in the morning. So you might as well sing another song, because those nagging little voices aren’t going to stifle themselves. And, just like that, it comes around, just like a bad kiss, the days start turning into night, inheriting nothing but another sullen slip into the years until you can’t even tell whether or not you’re watching your dissolution reflecting itself or your reflection dissolving itself. And even Cain has to wear a smirk sometimes…
I watch the inky scroll of language smeared across her eyelids like henna. It floats past me like some grotesque mirage, the various hands of murder shaking, brought to life on her pores, enacting sacred rituals of forms better left unknown; from fratricide to regicide, from regicide to genocide. Body to Body, Child to Child. And it’s not like either is ever going to be significant enough reimbursement, but there are moments when it’s better to play hostage to the diversions of another than it is to concede.
Nostalgia is always going to cheat you after the fact. There’s no rationale for the refraction of an image into desire, but that’s still not an excuse either. God knows that motion isn’t everything, but everything isn’t simply mobile. And it’s never easy to remain in one fixed place for any given amount of time.
Reductio et absurdio… the acetylene torches glowering and spitting like the distant chant of beneficient spirits. It grown stronger and stronger with each step backwards and sideways, faster and faster, until the churning becomes a cold, gaping and welcome maw – the burial plot of ever dried up sperm, every salty little tear, every blood-stained tissue that you forced yourself to exert. You’re so easy sometimes. You give it way for free.
The sirens sing their frail panegyric to emergency, and each movement is no longer sanctioned. I can see the glint in their eyes – contracted, senseless, a pale insult beyond both reproach and origin. It betrays a lack of control, and I can feel the spittle landing at my feet like a garland of white lilies. I let it linger a second longer than I should, fluid and out of place. I let its derision crown my limbs with its obscene supernova, so cruel in its brilliance that I almost feel pure again. Then I remember how easy I am. I give it away for free.
|Thursday, August 24th, 2006|
|"Hi. I'm My Own Better Half."
Your Art is never gonna save you. It’s never going to comfort you and it’s never going to be sufficient impetus towards prolonging your miserable hand to mouth existence – in fact, neither is forging bad checks, picking up bored Soccer Moms in supermarket aisles, or shoplifting suppositories from pharmacies; if fact, nothing really will, except for Celebritism; that’s right, only your vicarious fellatio of Celebrity Dong-age is the only driving explanation as to why you haven’t pulled a Fassbinder into your nearest Emergency Ward – but it does
make an excellent Lover; in fact, it’s the only one you can really trust, and that’s more than I can say for any of you broke-ass motherfuckers. So who gives a shit if that girl kind of looks like a Greek Statue, or if she comes from money, or if her heart belongs to Daddy – there’s really no alternative, because your spending your Friday Nights slapping around nail polish onto a broken TV screen like a retard who just discovered masturbation or writing anonymous death threats in Iambic pentameter to random strangers from phone books. And you know what? That
is a medium that always
puts out (sometimes). No questions asked, minimal down payment – I mean your sanity and sense of emotional stability are small sacrifices to pay for a multi-colored hunk of cardboard and filling notebook after notebook with an indecipherable chicken scratching that resembles some 16 year old white boy’s graffiti tag – and you’re left with the penultimate satisfaction of being flat broke, anonymous, unpublished, and pretty much unemployable. But you’ve still got your looks. So fuck it, who really needs food, sleep or a sense of moral responsibility when your muse – as haggard, pock-marked and syphilitic as the bitch may be – is able to dictate why, just fucking WHY your family is right to be ashamed of you and the police are justified in physically abusing you. Because you can’t even act rude to wait staff with impunity anymore these days, and those days of fucking strung-out Eurotrash ended once you turned 25 and realized that you’re never really going to enact that whole 4-Legged Beast Drunk on Leather and Bad Scotch trip, anyways. And there are probably more fulfilling options to kill time with – scratching your ass, or beating up tourists, it’s all the same thing – but, hey, you resigned yourself to being here. And it’s not like you really exist anyways, so what’s your fucking excuse?
Well, what is
your excuse, anyways? When you stop to ponder the myriad layers of evolutionary transformations necessary to arrive at the current Human visage, it becomes obvious that our ancestral origins do not lie in a Simian forebearer – much to the relief of Pat Robertson – but a Porcine one; subsequently, any dietary restriction against the consumption of pork is not based on religious initiative but an unconscious resistance against consuming personal memories. Prove me wrong. Prove me fucking wrong
I watch the faces lose distinction and decide that it’s probably better that way. It allows for any potential chance, any unbridled impulse to take it’s place, just pluck one out at random, like a Tarot card or stray pubic hair, and WHAM! Just like some medieval scholar, you’ve rearranged the history of the world by the sheer dint of accident. But you can’t even remember how you got there
Old Prick. Shit, I’ve lived out this whole Derangement of the Senses gig for the majority of my adult like, only to walk that fine line between compromise and surrender; but in this feedbag, this fucking parasite who will simply not shut up, no matter which way is up, it is celebrated as a right of privilege, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve failed again, because I’m still too old to fall back on something and to young to know any better. I mean, when you’re stewing in Bug-House Envy, instead of learning to grin and bear it, it kind of makes that whole “portent on mortality” talk irrelevant, now doesn’t it?
Look, if you’ve got to cop to something, you might as well cop to your own bad taste. And that’s what you paid the tickets to come see, right?
|Tuesday, August 22nd, 2006|
|Love Letter to a Snuff Film Actress
Even if I was
the Last Man in Earth, you would still take your tattoos far too literally. And it’s probably to the credit of apology that there is no barrier too tight that excuses can’t squeeze through. And it’s tough shit if you realize that these receipts are still past due, but I’m not going to be held accountable for your lack of judgment.Your tears
. Am I the only person in this barroom who is not oblivious to them? Even your escorts – a collective millstone of purely masculine bravado and impotent aggression, flaunted by the banner of Straight Boi chic cunningly emphasized by the telltale pock marks of Steroid abuse – seem more concerned with the beleaguered demerits of Jimmy Page’s bloated necrophilia than your vulnerability. Which is probably as it should be. Your agitation is a transparent halo, an erstwhile companion to the rings of inky vanity deeply etched into your eyelids like some ancient petroglyph. You see, dear – this is your mythology, and you don’t even realize it
I’m just as susceptible to impulse as anyone else, but that
motherfucker’s never trustworthy. You always make that mistake, confusing imitation with experience, but you still wonder why you’re morally bankrupt.
Whatever it is, I don’t wanna know about it.
This is not a fair fight. This will never BE a fair fight. In lieu of uppercuts and left hooks, you want to use assumption as a predominate form of self expression. I can see it on your lips, as still-born and awkward as your clumsily applied lip gloss. Sure, we’re all granted a stretch of good fortune once in a while, but we’re still subject to it’s inexorable pull. It’s only an allowance for time to pass us by with little or nothing to show for it.
Oh, the Great Architects of Youth! They mask themselves behind the jaundice of their eyes, secure in an apathy that they were never even given a choice to refute. Neither was I, but absence does make the heart grow fonder.
Words build upon themselves, slowly and awkwardly, as hesitant as the fingers wrapped around your wine glass, subdued little convulsions that never quite seem to find their place. You’re shaking as bad as I am, but for all the wrong reasons
. Ever seen a blind man cry? Well, neither have I, but there’s always something to look forward to, even if it means excusing your cruelty for the sake of a meaningless spectacle.
Jesus, they’re playing that song again. That fucking song
. Tell me you wanna dance. Tell me you wanna spit in my face. Tell me a lie about your childhood. Tell me how much you love your job. Tell me how much you admire the Marines. Tell me you take pride in your composure. Tell me you have a future. Tell me – I don’t
Leer, cut and pan out of focus: amphetaminetingedeyescuttingswathesofpur
tsinover10years. From this perspective, we share everything in common. From this perspective, we share nothing. Our greed is an immaculate and highly sensitive barter. We’ll only cheat each other out of it in the end, even if we have to bide time through a dozen divine comedies.
There isn’t a stranger alive so immune that he can’t be ripped off.
Where are all those flowers gonna fade to once you hit 30? How many friends do you have left to turn to? Just how much time do you have left, anyways? 5 years? 15? Half your Earthly life? Don’t even answer…. Don’t even say another fucking word. You’ll always find an escape clause to cling to, even if it isn’t yours to give.
Some people try. They try and they plot and they conceal, without ever really realizing how much they’ve given away in the process. Hubris. You’re shaking even worse than I am, but for all the wrong reasons
. Play that funky music, white boy. Don’t play it too loud, and don’t play it too slow. Us old folks gotta get up early in the morning, and your probably saving the last dance – for yourselves.
Since it’s a game you want, let’s try “True Confessions”. As always, I’ll begin. Yes, I’ve paid for sex before. Yes, your scarf is hideous. Yes, that dress makes you look fat. Yes, I’m frightened of my own shadow. Yes, money does make the world go round. Yes, there is a Santa Claus. Yes, I’m drunk right now. Yes, I wanna kill your boyfriend. Yes, each word I speak is an incontrovertible lie. No, better days are probably not ahead of us. No, your parents lied to you. No, I’m not to be trusted. No, there’s no reason to continue with this hideous charade any further, because at any given moment you know that both either you or I could slip out a vial full of viscous and highly incendiary gelatine, and with a real simple flick of a match, blow this over-priced shit heap every which way from here to Winter Hill, not for the sake of a territorial imperative, or for the sake of defending cultural heritage, or even in the name of the Lord Most High, but because it’s all so fucking meaningless
, as meaningless as the smug animal grin stealing across your face like a refugee, as meaningless and the manicure staining your fingertips like primal, oxidized blood, as meaningless as that goddamned stupid fucking rip in your stocking, because this is not a protest, this is most emphatically
NOT A FUCKING PROTEST, it’s a surrender to the inevitable, a fulfillment of that little fucking game you play, and I really don’t give a fuck about your contrived sympathy, your whispered reassurances, or the arrogance of your eye shadow anyways, because – well, this is your mythology and you don't even realize it
But – perhaps I spoke too soon. My tongue tends to get carried away sometimes. You’d probably know better than I would know. Even if I was the Last Man on Earth.
|Friday, August 18th, 2006|
|Fervently Bitch-Fucking the Corpse of American Bandstand with a Heart Full of Bourbon Princess
I swear to fucking God – no, nut just God, but Allah, Jesus, Madonna, Oludumare, in fact any fucking tribal fetish that you can think up in that pointy little dome of yours – that Monique Ortiz is gonna make the world revolve around her
, because mine sure as hell does
, in fact the sun rises and sets in her no doubt shiny and flawless asshole for me because, hey, a chanteuse is a dime a dozen, but a force of nature is not only a rarity, it’s a once in a lifetime phenomenon, an omen for chrissakes, look, you know as well as I do that when she purrs out that line about throwing a “pillowcase/over your handsome head”, she’s probably not talking about me – hell, she’s probably not even talking about Mark Sandman; in fact, she’s probably singing to her mirror – but it doesn’t matter; what matters is the fact that her voice trembles, soars, and makes plaintive the caustic nature of what, in fact, amounts to a form of cultural autism, the sheer affront accorded to one’s self exile by an allowance for communication; and look, you can call me claustrophobic, agoraphobic any other phobic epithet you so cleverly assume to thrust upon me to excuse your own lack of foresight – but you’re all FUCKED, supremely and unquestionably fucked
, you artless, passionate pieces of SHIT, you’ve never felt one goddamned emotion that was pure in your lives – you siphon your existence out of FEAR, I see through you, always have, and I get the feeling Monique Ortiz does as well, so lighten up – go get yourself a tattoo of a star on your arm, drink your cheap-assed Irish whiskey, and put on a Yeah Yeah Yeahs album because, hey, you’ve just ‘discovered’ Tom Waits – fucker’s been around for over 30 years and hasn’t done one goddamned original thing in over a dozen. I mean, just retire with a shred
of dignity, you fucking dinosaur – because it’s all gonna be ooooookkkkkaaaaaaayyyyyy, just keep your head down, smile, hey, you’ve got a job in the IT field, you got yours, buddy – you four-eyed freak
- and it’s not like your stock is gonna go belly up tomorrow and you’ll find yourself homeless and writing for The Weekly Dig
or anything, so who needs art, you’re a commodity, a measly little whore, and you just love
it like that, don’t you, you fucker, and anyways, it’s a bitch of a long time between now and the next Shakira album now isn’t it, and everybody needs a Guardian Angel, and I’m not claiming that Monique Ortiz is mine – hell, I’m not even saying that the Unabomber is, I mean, Fuck, I can’t even put a claim on mine – but I trust Monique more than I trust my own family, which isn’t saying much, but humor me, allow me that child-like need for validation, God knows you sure as shit want to demand it, even though you probably don’t
deserve it, in fact, no one does, but hey, it’s 1991 all over again, and you’re fucked up on Adavan, come on, let’s Rock & Roll, let’s bitch-fuck our egos into oblivion, cuz who needs art anyways, look, if we weren’t living in an illusion of safety, we wouldn’t even need
a chanteuse, but like I said, Monique Ortiz is not some two-bit Nico rip-off, hell, she’s not even a two-bit Kate Bush rip-off, she’s a vibration, a flesh and blood vibration wrapped up in the sexiest beauty mole I’ve ever seen in my life, and I ain’t just saying that cuz I want to fuck her; in fact, I do
want to fuck her, savagely to be precise, even though I get the impression that she’d only be satisfied with herself – but, hey, I’ve got the sort of face that could make a mother cry, no shit, just the other night some fat, drunken, middle-aged barfly told me I looked like Marc Anthony, and that’s an opinion you can take to the bank – just admit it, Monique, for once in your transplanted Pennsylvanian life, that you long for a night of seriously primal rutting – I mean four-legged angel convulsing in epileptic shadow-play rutting – with a really lousy poet recovering from Anorexia Nervosa whose shriveled-up eyelids set the hearts of many a bored housewife a flutter because – that’s right, it’s all about me, me, ME
, and FUCK IT, I’m gonna go get drunk, in fact I’m gonna go get drunk right fucking now
, in fact I’m gonna head over to Strega and act as obnoxious as humanly possible, that’s right, I not only wouldn’t mind, I actually WANT
to hear the kind of music that was playing in the background when I used to shill overprices Platform Boots to gullible Eurotrash 10 fucking years ago
, cuz that’s how much Monique Ortiz’ voice haunts my very soul. Oh, I almost forgot. Tom Waits? Fuck You
|Thursday, August 10th, 2006|
Does it strike you curious that the current "Code Red" scare sparked by recent arrests in London coincides with the premiere of the new Oliver Stone movie? Is cynicism founded in delusion or fact? Does this movie benefit the GOP? Am I Liberal? Am I paranoid? Should art imitate life? Is Oliver Stone an artist? Would this movie be better received if it was directed by Steven Spielberg? Does Oliver Stone speak for America? Does Steven Spielberg? Does anyone?
How do you define obscenity? Is the condensation of tragedy into spectacle for the sake of profit obscene? Why do you revel in it? Is Anne Coulter right? Are widows profiting from tragedy? Am I Republican? Has Oliver Stone ever directed anything
worth watching? Is the guy next to me mildly retarded? Am I?
What does tragedy mean to you? Is American culture really shallow, narcissistic and decadent? Am I a moralist? Am I Moslem? Is Oliver Stone a fat pompous fuck who has far
too much money? Do you care? Do you love
rock & Roll music? So you love explosions, fireworks, and decibel shattering sounds? Do you love America?
Is Helter Skelter coming down? Do you love it? Does it divert you from the drudgery and meaninglessness of your life? Does it make you feel sad? Does it make you feel human? Are you gonna see my baby? Are you gonna come? Are you gonna care? Am I autistic? Does it matter?
Have you never been mellow? Has music really gone downhill since 1982? Is modern culture too fast-paced? Are you taking things too seriously? Should you learn to lighten up? When the bullet enters your skull, will you die with a mute, idiotic smile on your face?
Do you play well with others? Do you trust your family? Do you really
believe every word they told you was true? Do you talk too much? Do you put value on your words? Was Kiss the greatest Rock & Roll band that ever lived? Were the Banana Splits?
|Thursday, August 3rd, 2006|
|Famous Dead Cocks That I Have Never Sucked
Chance in place of any fixed rigid discipline engenders a discipline in and of itself. Fuck, I mean when your this
close to the Muse – a literal gob of spit away – and you can’t even see it before your very eyes, your chump/meat./suckerdom becomes all the more justified in rationalizing why, just fucking why, you’re better suited for manning late-night gas stations on some desolate Indiana highway strip than consummating that union. So you force the bitch via any surreptitious route your grubby, ink-stained paws can cling to, despite 3 hours worth of sleep because your self medication still isn’t going to quell that gaping maw of doubt, despite the ministrations of slack-jawed mouth-breathing scum who struggle with the instructions on the back of a shampoo bottle bleating their sub-Neanderthal dribblings like a war cry, despite the promise that better days probably passed by a long fucking time ago and the whole trip you’re hung up on isn’t going to pay your rent and your family is right no one, fucking no one
considers devotion over comfort or even sanity adequate compensation for “Art” and shouldn’t you get a real job by now, it’s still a cheaper and less complicated alternative to sex, even if it’s not really as fulfilling. But human relations never are, and it’s not for vanity’s sake that you never learned how to adjust to that harsh little truth, but your own goddamned short-sightedness. So tough shit, kid, looks like it’s the slaughterhouse option for you, Muse be damned for all she’s worth – and while we’re at it, might as well squelch that whole business of fucking anyways, because it only gets your sorry Gypsy ass into a heap of trouble – so you might as well get used to the smell.
Flash back 5 years ago to a cluttered ramshackle studio redolent of turpentine and jizz and it’s just that old song about lightning not striking twice again (or even once) and anyways, everything’s just a tired old cliché anyways because it’s 9/11 all over again but it’s no longer so fucking novel and, no there’s absolutely no
reason to trust me, so all your Pop Stars, so mediocre even in their haughtiness, are gonna heal this wound, watch, I just know
they will, a Pop Star’s just another word for a Messiah, and Jehovah be praised because it’s Peace on Earth, just like all those old Charlie Brown Specials taught you, so Thank YOU Stevie Nicks and Thank YOU Elton John and Thank YOU Grace Jones even if I do not know why.
This is only gonna hurt a little. At first
. Didn’t they tell you? Pay Now. Buy Later.
But perhaps I spoke too soon, even if I can’t even trust my own (lack of) standards anymore. Because tonight, she’s coming on like an oracle, murky and submerged beneath endless rings of serpents and flames. I’ve seen these eyes before, but I’ve never seen them up quite so close before, and yeah, it’s easy for me to succumb to a projection of my own complete and utter lack of understanding – what else is new? – and yeah, I’ve got Cunt on my brain – No, really, what else is new? – nothing but Cunt Cunt Cunt not a Shoulder to Cry On not a Back to Lean On not even a Faint Smile to Reassure Me, nothing but Cunt Cunt Cunt, and even if she got off on the fifth floor, I’m getting off NOW. Because it’s Cunt Cunt Cunt, Black Cunt and White Cunt, Fresh Cunt and Wrinkled Cunt, New Cunt and Old Cunt, it’s a World of Laughter. It’s a World of Cunt.
Humor Me. Hey, you wanna be my Muse for an evening? Fuck You, gimme a dollar.
(“Indira Ghandi in full Dominatrix gear being serviced by a team of Third World Street Urchins.” – probably Pat Robertson’s ideal wank fantasy. Come to think of it, the dude can probably get it up without any sort of complications – Lord knows I would if I had his money – the question is can he still come real good?
OK, it’s like this - the blind lead the blind
. I told you it was tired old clichés all the time, but you didn’t want to listen. You never
want to listen. You just want to TALK. And talk and talk and talk
. You’ve got such a pretty little mouth. Why do you waste it by speaking? What are your words worth anyways? You want to live
that fucking song. Such a pretty little mouth. Such a pretty little ego.
When you insinuate, you make it true. Fuck You, gimme a dollar
(I don’t get paid enough
for this shit. I don’t get paid at all
Hey Motherfucker, when I talk to you, COME
. Speak. Say something. Say anything
. Bum a smoke. Take a swig. Pulsate. Choke. What’s your name? You got a job? You got a girl? You come here often? Are you a lie? Are you my dream? Are you real? Real as the Devil? Are you listening? As you even – BORN?
This is only gonna hurt a little bit. At first
. I’m sorry they forgot to tell you. Pay Now. Buy Later.
|Wednesday, August 2nd, 2006|
|I Like it when You Shake That Thing
I can’t really blame the MDC of Boston for a persuasion towards urban congestion – Bullshit, actually, but I like to keep up the illusion of being fair-minded; it has gotten me laid before (I think) – but I can blame the transit system for a monumental inefficiency that amounts to little more than a collective sadism. I mean, at the very least
, Mussolini was able to make the trains run on time, and that
debacle was the apogee of bureaucratic red tape; what’s the MBTA’s excuse? A primarily illiterate workforce whose dominant mode of communication consists of monosyllabic grunts and thinly veiled illusions to physical violence towards paying customers is probably not an adequate response to one of the highest benefit packages in the state, but then again, if my working hours were spent directing hunchbacked shoegazers from Maryland how to walk a straight lien from point A to point B because said hayseeds can’t figure out a fucking road map, I’d have a chip on my shoulder the size of Mel Gibson’s accurately construed bravado, as well.
Summer. It really does bring people together. Just like the Beach Boys sang, we’ll have Fun Fun Fun until Daddy takes the Oxycontin away. And that means flesh
. Lots and lots of flesh. Humid, sweaty flesh. Blistering, heat-rashed flesh. Cracked, boil-ridden flesh. Rotting flesh. Lupine flesh. Flesh covered in bad tribal tattoos and flesh covered in needle tracks. Gelatinous flesh and dough-like flesh and beef-like flesh. Flesh in all its myriad forms, congealing into one collective hive of cancerous jelly. Fun Fun Fun. Flesh Flesh Flesh.
It’s my working hypothesis – and this just might fly in the face of scientific fact, as well as my cultural sensitivity; but that’s O.K., ‘cause I’m probably just an asshole anyways – that heat irreducibly agitates mental contagion. And with the mind/body interface being as fragile as it is as a result of the Post-Industrial Age – and I ain’t making that up, I think I copped it off an H. Ross Perot pamphlet – it stands to reason that that agitation is gonna manifest itself externally in any number of forms, from paranoia to child abuse – and I ain’t naming names, but Paris Hilton’s father has a lot
of explaining to do – to neurological disorders. And it’s a sore spot as any – hell, I’m a walking DSM-IV casebook, and I’ve got nothing buy my own stupidity to blame – but these things happen.
Aren’t I pretty? That seems to be the thought – telepathically transmitted, if need be – running through the ex-con’s dusky, methadone-ridden cranium sitting directly across the aisle from me during this mornings commute. How do I ascertain my new friends lifestyle choices? Well, it’s simple; it was revealed to me unsolicited between some such sage-like ponderings as “Ever been to Fitchburg?” and “Ain’t you hot in that suit?”. Well, Citibank thinks what I think, so there’s no reason not
to converse with strangers, even if I have to emphatically emphasize that not only do I not speak English, but I’m really, really
absorbed in this Lyndon LaRouche pamphlet – and, trust me, political constituency knows no language barriers; not in this case, at least – but this dude’s got one up on the obvious in comparison to me, who’s got one up on the oblivious. So, again, I’m diverted from my morning ritual of shaking off bad hangovers and plotting novel ways of inserting sharp objects into the ear canals of John Silber to exchange pleasantries with a man whose Jack Abbot-like charm probably wore off right around the time that Norman Mailer realized how full of shit he himself was. Now, all that Rainbow Bridge to Building Cultural Diversity crap they feed down to cops in Philadelphia doesn’t quite ring so true these days, but for once, I’m not blaming my paranoia on drugs. Because what’s really driving my neighbor is not the encroaching threat of a potential Armaggedon in the Middle East, or the blatant fallibility of the educational system in the state, or even the state’s failure to meet a severe housing shortage; it’s Grizzly Bears. Fucking Grizzly Bears
. Here it is, the hottest day of the year – I mean, Day of the Trumpet hot, replete with fierce Archangels bearing flaming swords and Rob Halford’s heavenly voice striking the chord for battle – in a cramped train whose serpentine crawl towards the city seems to be approximating the flaccid rutting of a quadriplegic on Dilaudid, and this motherfucker wants to talk about a PBS special he caught in the pen 5 years ago while serving time for forging welfare checks. On Grizzly Bears. Fucking Grizzly Bears
I guess this means I’m a people person – or just some creep whose sunken skin engenders a naïve hospitality from completely anonymous strangers, I don’t really know or even care to right now – but what I do know is more than I ever knew, or even wanted to know about Grizzly Bears, thanks to my new friend who is now 15 minutes into his dialogue imitating the ferocious growl of one of our hirsute marsupial cousins in a tone loud enough to blur the lines between natures curious mysteries and his own staunchly Dominican accent. Trying to divert my attention to the public service ads littering the train like biblical revelations (“Daddy, what’s wrong with that man’s face?”) and my own neighbor’s bloodshot and scizophrerene glare proves vain and futile, for at this point my bulky prophet is now so far gone into his panegyric to Grizzly Bears to be oblivious to my presence, his eyes aflame with the deep reverence of a man truly possessed by the divine – or at the very least, going on the nod, because really, with this sense of physical oppression, there’s really not too many other choices.
Feeling a tender pang of relief from this cessation of marsupial related discussion, I turn my attentions to a more fruitful pastime; namely, mentally undressing the demure looking Hindi girl 2 seats down from me. And it’s a thankless task, but someone’s got to pick up where the paranoia of Visitor’s Centers dropped off. True to form, are shoulders, so cunningly bared by the spaghetti straps of her top, reveal a delicate and geometrically pure landscape, as inviting as a vacation in the Black Sea. But there’s something unsettling looming over her like an unseen cloud. Retrieving the gaze of my metrosexual affections for a brief moment, I notice what appears to be the twitching and clucking facial features of the passenger standing in front of her. And while it’s simply not amusing to poke fun at neurological disturbances such as Epilepsy or Tourette’s Syndrome – after all, those motherfuckers can at least manage to get themselves out the front door long enough to remain gainfully employed; what’s my fucking excuse? – it’s also apparent that this poor bastards spastic gyrations are increasing in both frequency and intensity, drawing the not-so-subtle ire of other passengers, whose Sudoku puzzles and concerted efforts to follow the writing in the Boston Metro
(“the newspaper for people who cannot read”) obviously take precedence over the medical attention of someone whom at any moment could lapse into a Grand Mal seizure.
What these fellow passengers fail to notice is that despite all of his wild gesticulations, despite his mouth-frothing chatterings, his spastic jerks that resemble little more than a child’s playing top gone berserk, he just may have the nicest ass I have ever seen in my life
. I mean, I know it’s crude, objectionable and insulting , but it had to be said. It was an incredible marvel of an ass, of which descriptions like “two kittens fighting under a parachute” cold hardly do justice. It was am archetypal ass; a Platonic Form, owing more to the order of the heavens than the order of heredity. And while I’d be lying if I were to say that I’m not easily impressed, I’m also not overexaggerating the portent of this man’s ass.
Because, when my affections can be so easily dissuaded from a perfectly charming Pakistani girl to a sweaty, epileptic dude solely on account of his posterior, you know that not only are those affections cheap, tawdry and not to be trusted, but that I’m entirely justified in my growing suspicion that not only am I just as base, vulgar and crass as any other motherfucker, I’m even more
so, and it’s absolutely no fucking wonder that I’m probably gonna grow old, stubborn and bitter, drinking white wine spritzers alone with several dozen cats.
Which is a shame, because it was a really nice ass
|Thursday, July 6th, 2006|
|SAVAGELY RIDING THE GREYHOUND BUS TO RELIGIOUS SALVATION GREASED UP ON NANCY KWAN'S PEARL CREAM
Suburbia in the late ‘80’s/early ‘90’s was hardly the citadel of savage banality that VH-1 would lead you to believe. On the contrary, it was hardly anything
; barely constituting a memory, save for yellow ribbons tied around Oak trees and the inexplicable draw of loudly pumping car stereo speakers ricocheting across Dunkin’ Donuts parking lots like Greek Fire (how times have changed), you could say that the 4 year span between decades probably didn’t exist – a collective amnesia, which nonetheless proves a fertile incubator for what-could-have-beens. As a result, any attempts to capitalize on a nostalgia is necessarily going to reveal a profound dearth of imagination, if not downright historical revisionism.
So what else is new? The whole of history can be seen as an attempt to siphon off memories to give form to an otherwise unsubstantial existence, a parasitic need for self validation at its lowest common denominator. So with that kind of logic, then yes, Maxi Priest really does
fulfill the role of cultural signifier as much as Pliny or Heraclitus might have for an earlier epoch (I think). The more things change…
Entertainment as spectacle; it’s the highly dubious specter that haunts this Golden Age of Coca Cola. It implies neither content nor utility, but an endless unraveling of riddles. It’s timeless, really – that if it can be said to belong to a time.
Those of us who grew up in the Hormonal Black Hole of Adolescence during such a cultural zeitgeist didn’t just feel the resulting frustrations and time-sensitive anomie as merely an inevitable and temporary state of flux: to us it was a personal affront and a tangible reaction to the adult milieu of Elvis memorial plates and Condominium booms; of retro Disco and Aaron Spelling; of the War on Drugs and Family Values; and of Nancy Kwan’s Pearl Cream.
Nancy Kwan was a diminutive Chinese actress who first caught the public eye during the mid-‘60’s with her seminal work in the movie “Flower Drum Song”. Never heard of it? Neither have I, but I get the feeling that it was a sort of condensation of popular stereotypes and misconceptions of Asian culture translated into the sort of Song and Dance Show easily digestible to the palates of Hollywood’s peculiar appetites. Whatever the case may be, Ms. Kwan’s career took a bit of a nosedive shortly afterwards, reconciled to a string of B Movies and TV walk-ons where she inevitable filled the role of the mysterious yet alluring dragon Lady of popular prejudice. And by the time the early ‘90’s rolled around, it was time for Ms. Kwan to launch a comeback. Nearing her late 50s, Kwan still possessed the youthful grace and haughty beauty that seems in place only in the context of a Robbe-Grilliet novel. And considering that the only living Asian Americans who came to prominence as Cultural Avatars seemed to be Hong Kong Fooey and Tommy Chong, it was only natural that she was selected as spokesperson for Oriental Pearl Cream.
Oriental Pearl Cream was a mail-order beauty product whose ethnically sensitive description is here quoted verbatim: ”Dear Friend, Have you ever wondered why Chinese women are known for their flawless 'porcelain' complexions? . . . Nancy Kwan is the famed international star best known for her movie roles . . . What she has given our Western World is the Ancient Chinese secret to beautiful skin, combined with 21st Century technology . . . “
. God only knows who it was marketed for: White Trash housewives whose trailers in the Middle of Florida still contain a bare inch of space among the clutter of QVC collectable plates and People magazines are the likely suspects. God knows it wasn’t Asian Americans: the late night ads showed every sort of skewed exaggeration of an alleged “Oriental mystique” that a fresh-faced and round-eyed marketing head whose engorged nostrils are so coated with fresh Columbian Snow (paid for, no doubt, thanks to a family CIA connection) that he can’t even see straight, much less even bear cognizance to reality, could ever hope to dream of.
And Kwan’s endorsement was undoubtedly a move held in great confidence, for apparently said marketing heads were obviously more concerned with laundering funds obtained in questionable Real Estate transactions to notice that her clipped and mellifluous Hong Kong dialect was virtually indecipherable to the average ear of Middle Class America. I mean, when your leading spokesperson clumsily warbles your product as “Nance Kwon’s Puwul Cweem” in a pitch approximating a crazed tit-mouse geezed out on crystal meth – and not as a deliberate reclaiming of a stereotype a la Ice Cube’s much lauded use of the ‘N’ word, but an IRREVERSIBLE LINGUISTIC DIFFERENCE – you have to wonder if those Midwestern Trust Fund dollars spent on bribing the admission heads of Yale would have been better expended into launching a chain of Dairy Queens.
At the time, the only outlet for Oriental Pearl Cream was mail-order – and as far as I know, still is – which was shilled out via the then still-fresh medium of the Late Night Infomercial. The chief rival to Kwan’s much contested 2 am slot was Tom Vu, a Cambodian refugee who had risen to prominent nationwide achievement through a series of successful Real Estate deals along the hurricane-friendly shores of Florida’s Gulf Coast, and was now loudly berating American citizens for their lack of motivation and ambition through a series of national seminars designed to reveal his astonishing overnight success and how you, yes even you
can profit from natural disasters and surround yourself with a luxury cars and a bevy of valium-addled porn star rejects who lined his yacht like barely animated Trilbys in garishly bronzed skin and silicon implants. Given the paranoiac state of mistrust held by most Americans towards the imposition of an alleged Japanese dominance in the business world at the time – an imposition strangely enough stifled by the introduction of NAFTA just a few short years later – and it seems unlikely that any individual of Asian descent could have prospered in this grand nation, especially one whose command of the English language was not only lost in translation, it was fucking NEGATED by it,
But prosper she did, for it seemed like every Suburban household was well equipped with a jar brimming over with petroleum jelly and ancient Chinese secrets, which not only failed to erase the lingering hangovers of self-guilt and bitter divorce hearings, but also did nothing to counteract the increasing ravages of Father Time on the feminine countenance. Because I don’t care how long you bend over a steaming vat of herbs, feverishly muttering incantations derived from Self-Help tapes, a steady diet of Big Macs and wine coolers are still going to indicate the flaws of the human form, no matter how much you conceal yourself from your pocket mirrors.
Vanity never goes out of fashion. And its victim is always gonna be Youth. No one wants to think of the décolletage on some fawned-over, well-pampered starlet when she hits 50; hence the adoption of Dorian Grey chic by the Soccer Mom & Latte sect, no matter how ridiculous it appears on the outside. It’s the Peter Pan complex taken to its most hideous and grotesque conclusion, delivered as social imperative. Sure, it gives jobs to South Jersey factory workers and helps to fulfill a numbing void that not even children, puppies, or torrid affairs with the cable guy can breach, but at what cost? A collective infantile regression to the shiny veneer of keeping up appearances? Your children are probably right by killing you in your sleep.
But I’m digressing from my own narcissism to the narcissism of a bored housewife. Again
. But it’s easy to see that one’s own pretense and assumption is just as valid an alternative to God as anything else, so if the shuffling hordes of Jerusalem Row would-be Jezebels can obtain to faith and redemption through a jar of seaweed-infused cold cream, one can’t really find too much fault in their intentions. And Ms. Kwan’s pretty fly by my standards, but then again, I’ve always played the proverbial Harold for numerous Maudes in my lifetime. So, it’s obvious that it wouldn’t take long for Oriental Pearl Cream to be transformed into a highly contestable cult object – in many ways, a ritual fetish – among the small circles of disaffected teenagers whose capacity for ennui was only surmounted by their enormous capacity for self-rage. And if these days the notion of a pop culture anomaly as some sort of secret esoteric lexicon seems de rigeur, I can assure you at the time, such an allusion was novel.
You see, it’s a real convenient excuse to blame drugs for any youthful follies or misguided judgements. But if blaming human error on the myriad forms of psycho-pharmaceutical abuse is not entirely accurate, it’s not entirely false, either. You see, in those days, the Grateful Dead toured fairly irregularly. And though I need to preempt this with the disclaimer that we were always loath to enter the parking lots of their concerts for fear of contaminating our immaculately cultivated sense of premature cynicism and shallow nihilism with a heady mixture of patchouli, good vibes, and spleen-rupturingly godawful music, it was a small sacrifice to pay for the assurance of countless hours of benumbing, vacant, mind-congealing stupor. But like I said, the Dead toured sporadically and we needed something to do to kill time between concerts and the parole dates of seriously shady, unemployed auto mechanics whose Friday night Lolita cravings for our imaginary girlfriends justified – in their minds, at least – our copious intake of nitrus oxide cartridges, cheap wine, and really, really
Our choice was a deliberate secession to insomnia.
This was in the day when none of us had heard of the magickal benefits of Dramamine; and having had the contents of our stomachs agitated and expelled by jars of nutmeg and Robitussin bottles far too many times for our own good (to speak nothing of the integrity of our 1970’s style wood paneling) we chose the natural route, aided and abetted by popcorn balls of No Doz, washed down by several dozen pots of coffee. After all, once you’ve grown accustomed to the initial frailty of the shattered nervous system, maintaining that state takes top priority over bodily functions.
days, the television was our friend. O, the hours we spent in hyper-caffeinated communion with the ghostly specters flickering off the screen like wild mandalas that seemed to move and sputter with each flicker of our eyelids! We kneeled in humble supplication to the smiling, blissed-out bodies shimmying against the studio floors of Soul Train
like crazed dervishes; made fervent and penitential confession to the puppet-like skull of Chuck Woolery encased in his Formaldehyde crown; and, most importantly, marveled in reverent epiphany at the ineffable splendor and mystery of Nancy Kwan’s Oriental Pearl Cream. It was a rapture we could ill afford. Because when the only recourse left to turn to after the twin monoliths of dignity and order have been rendered impotent is a pidgin-voiced Mandarin doll peddling a magickal curative grease designed solely to combat loneliness and your own insufficiencies, rest assured that your new-found daith is going to take you down some very strange highways, indeed.
Or at least earn you a restraining order.
There’s no moral to this story here, folks. Not even a mindless act of violence to look forward to. Life’s like that sometimes. Sometimes, it’s like the process of aging; slow, painful, and inevitable. And sometimes, it’s like a jar of cold cream.
|Sunday, June 18th, 2006|
OLD FLOWERS FOR A BRAND NEW COAT
The best minds of my generation are neither starving nor hysterical nor naked, but are jerked off as inflatable love dolls to satisfy the coffers of Rupert Murdoch’s illiterate snuff fantasies. The pose is a sublime forfeit to the ink-stained palms of gratuity; but the surrender of instinct is just an elaboration on Hell. Keep believing in that myth of hubris and maybe, just maybe
you’ll fulfill it.
Hey, it’s not my fault; it seduced me
. I was a peasant drowning in the big shitty, faint and exhausted by an illustrious heritage that was never even mine to claim. Lacking the illusion of control – or even proper hygiene (I lie: even in the most abject of surroundings, I am as immaculately coiffed as any royal guardsman. It’s only my nerves
that are filthy) – can I really be blamed for finding enchantment in a convulsive smile designed to cheat dreams from their Herculean grasp on portent?
Of course I can. You would be too, if you had half a mind towards surrender.
(OK: so survival mechanisms aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. And you’ve caught me in another not-so-cunning falsehood. But this scar is almost like an ecstasy, engrossing and imprisoning, and I’ll be damned fit for a corpse the day you expect me to clarify this for you.)
From this ledge, I have command on every fabricated infirmity, every pregnant pause, and every painted tragedy that history chose to stifle. It’s the sort of moment which is only recognizable as a default to routine. The worm is gnawing and revolving in its cave, and even the tourists seem ashamed of their own nakedness. Sometimes, even September girls need to assert their bondage…
Rows of teeth clenched in failed aspirations dotting skylines dusty in the haze of foreign trifles and you can see that this tumor still has a sense of humor. You get the impression that they can taste their own headaches, as jarring as a sudden implosion. Fade away to the silhouette of a thinly veiled innuendo and your trust in sex is not as secure as you once thought. And the past catches up with you, just like that, as insipid and humiliating as any newspaper headline. How does that melody go? And where does it go to
It’s about time I learned to bear grudges more elegantly. But desperate times call for desperate measures…
You underestimate the victim, and give far too much credit to the victor. Energy congeals into a thick red welt: the immaculately scrubbed gardens of a disparity towards spirit: wrinkled blonde cunts feverishly applying make-up in a vain attempt to dissuade the pointed barbs of gap-toothed insurance brokers already half in the bag: the smug, self-satisfied jaws of highly-commissioned probation officers: the shamed impotency of the concierge: cancer and seeing-eye dogs: morning hangovers and disconnected numbers: good intentions and bad intentions and failed intentions and misguided intentions and selfish intentions and fatal intentions and intentional intentions: and the perfect squirm of a naïve smile whose only logic is a refusal of my weakness.
The confidence men wear their hearts on their sleeve. And they never even saw it coming
. I’m not going to justify an inherent lack of invention through a song or a plea or an unguarded emotion; but I will take my confession between their grime-stained palms, clucking my tongue in fervent rapture like some discarded 17th century Castillan peasant. There are not-so-faint tremors of a nightmare coming on, a nightmare both crude and familiar, and it fits me like the folds of a straightjacket, immaculate and affirming. It may be the only touch that’s pure anymore.
Across the block at noon, and the Common seems vague and half-formed, like a tenement left abandoned before it was even finished. There is no naiveté in its charm; it’s actually a mutual reciprocation of your own vulgarity, an empathy not with the shabbiness of your clothes, or the sunken caverns that once housed your eyeballs, but a humid foresight of your own innate will to disappear. Because despite the faint traces of grey surely creeping up on the arches of your cheeks, your youth was paid for you 5 years down the line. And its buyers neither know nor care about imagination; not about validating what could-have-beens; not about a pretty face. It’s only a memory that you can be cheated out of that forces you to endure. Endure to what, however? The only motion left to believe in these days is the pulsebeat of a slave, terminal and paralyzing, like the numbing idiocy of a first kiss. But even that’s an intangible comfort (get your fucking hands off my cunt.)
What good is cowardice if it can’t be exploited to suit someone else’s needs? It’s already tomorrow, and I just wanna be anonymous. And wishing doesn’t make it so.
Promises are never good for one’s karma. Accountability always means an IOU at an exorbitant interest. Even mirrors have their price, and it’s not always consolidated by the debt of flattery. The imaginations curse is an inability to defeat the portrait, as if it were some game of Russian Roulette where the only winning option is predicated by a cheat. Call me Cyclops.
I can make out the vague outline of a photograph from 10 years ago, stark and insistent in a context I never realized or had the ability to. It emits an aura, heady and invigorating, of mildew upon stone and the sweat of anxiety, commingling in my fist like a blasphemy. But excuses are cheap, easily forgotten, and just like a promise, never really meant to be kept. Because no matter how sympathetic that shoulder might be, no matter how moist and sticky, your always gonna have to answer for your own misconceptions. Or at the very least, someone else’s…
The sky outside is Japanese in its austere warmth, and I wanna spit in the face of the girl whose hair is a metallic shimmer, all fluid eruptions and empty words. I can see very plainly from the brass snakes entwining her wrists like some sick fucking joke that she knows neither envy nor forgiveness, and even if I could afford to right now, I don’t really want to put a claim on someone else’s integrity. And it’s not that drugs aren’t a convenient excuse, but when you’ve spent half your earthly life in a concerted effort to rearrange your nervous system into a precise mimicry of a broken mirror, you’ve got to wonder at what point the drive to persist becomes an automatic gesture.
Or maybe it’s just a temporary thing after all.
It’s difficult to maintain impartiality when it seems that you’re living along the length of a tight-rope. God knows that nothing is really ever what it seems, but God is never a casual affair, either. Freedom may be just another word for nothing left to lose – you blithering fucking cow – but ego’s still a sublime pose when you can summon up the effort. Which is to say, hardly ever, but you can’t really be blamed for an apathy that’s probably just a symptom and not a cause.
Or can you? Accusation always deflects to ingress.
Tonight, I am Goya in Hell. Tonight, I am above the need for baptism. Tonight, I can see the rhythm of patters emerge from their slumber, and their power has no vindication over me anymore. Tonight, I kiss a thousand whips, and none of them are yours. Tonight I have an alibi. But tonight, I can’t really afford one. Tonight, I am a bride in mourning. Tonight, I watch the light recede from view, and in its place is a vision without words, without either purpose or absolution. Gravity has no provenance here, and neither necessity or compulsion are going to pull me through. Because tonight is an accidental virgin, unwarranted and true. And its fidelity is a slip of the tongue, another jeweled affront whose affliction I choose to submit to rather than face a clearer light or a way out. Because no matter how shaky its hands, how tenuous its grasp, or fleeting its reason, its touch is never dismissive. At least, not until the morning after.
|Wednesday, May 24th, 2006|
|You Disappear Again
The end of the bar. A solitary Martini. Has to be a Martini - Scotch only dilutes the reflection. Voices tend to lose comprehension that way; subsequnetly, so does intent.
A hair's breadth measures alot more than merely separation. It's the herald of compulsion and the flagrant reminder of an inevitable surrender to your saint - which is to say your curse.
Here, dreams seem to be exiled by their distance. The morass of crumpled up newspapers, lottery tickets and obsessions takes on all the qualities of a Bosch painting, congealing in your veins like quicksilver, radiance from an undiscovered planet. You fix yourself on a mirage that terrifies you to death, shaking like an insect on it's very last lap. It's the logical consequence of prayer.
I watch the light waft in and out of view, slickering spurts of violence casting shadows that know only larceny. The space between us is a tomb, reeking of leather and noxiously sweet cocktails. You keep one eye open, hoping to catch the glimpse of a bare arm or a feigned slip of the tongue. The anticipation is as hard as a diamond, penetrating caverns long grown over by moss and the stifling of words. There are bones buried here, as sharp as the arch of her eyebrow. But their whistling is not so secure any more, and with each slither through their primeval inkiness, I can perceive only the faint outlines that forces me into a limbo more numbling than accusation.
The union of child and desperation, as unutterable as any epithet. It's blemish is a mutual tear - but then again, one man's wine is another's spare change. You can hear it's slow burn percolating across the base of the spine. The line between the ideal and mimicry is so thin at times as to be perceivable only to an unblinking eye. I may not know you, but you sure as
shit didn't know me.
The generator pulsates shamelessly, a thick, humid welt reeking of smoke and possession. I am a dazed animal caught in its rhythm, writhing, perspiring for the sake of a stranger's need for validation. But not even the most ethereal of all vestal virgins would ever place her trust in a myth.
I invoke disassociation like other people invoke their guardian angels. I watch the flecks of light drown in their orbit, opaque and famished, staggering in and out of my reach where neither redemption nor accusation would fulfill me right now. The back of the mirror is a ripped, blonde perjury that holds neither motion nor alibi in its inexorable persuasion. I hear it's melody in each droplet evaporating on my glass. There is no soothing in its touch. At my age, the paradox of sentimentality is both absurd and insulting.
Past the rows of eyes huddled over in half-lethal narcotic sway, I can see the tusks of her ambition peeking through, warranted by the savage grace crowning her head like an onyx aureole. I can practically taste its sulphur oxidizing its legacy onto my tongue, a history I will transmute into a paper-thin notch, patent but devouring, a willful threat towards posterity.
Automatic, Automatic, automatic... that forced smile that could shame a child. I erase the image with every fibre of my being, only to have its ghost sprout up again like a poisonous mushroom. The voice slips, a fracture in a comfort I never really knew. It's a groping towards the intangible, and only my misguidance is pure. If only an imitation could imitate an imitation...
You can't even place trust in someone else's lies anymore. When the dining tray of Salome seems to glow with an almost artificial malice, it becomes obvious that you've spent far too much time sacrificing options for the sake of good intentions.
The procession of rhythms continue, vibrating a subtle hum that neither refutes nor gives sanction to sex. Its jurisdiction is a purloined landscape, painted on through an obligatory cosmetic reconstruction. I find myself groping it's antennae with all the bravado of a slave enchanted by his own violation. It's one of those moments which are so fatal, so calculated, that it's practically comical. My emissions carry on the aroma of an orison, as pungent and thick as a cloud of incense smoke. From my chair, I have command of every subdued impulse in this bar, bubbling under in sullen dismay like some desolate cthonic spirit. A tap of the finger, and the whole stack of cards folds under, spent and wasted, to the floor.
What time is it, anyway? Strange how it has no power - anymore.
You get the feeling that you're just living at the movies sometimes, but the actors are no longer certain in their roles. You clutch the image in the palm of your hand, but it's shape reveals a foreign error, a forced exposure you crawl into in order to redefine it. As if you are secure enough in your words to play God... The end result is, invariably, a forfeit to sight. It is not an immunity.
Honestly, I did not come here to get laid. Or to pilfer desire like the bile of a sparrow. Or to slide across the floor like some shiny harlequin. Or to make amends. Or to apologize for an accident. Or to give lip service to my country. Or to rob the dreams of Goya of their blind assertion. Or to play the man of my dreams. Or to exercise self control.
I want an amnesia that will not lie in waiting. A funny thing; we could easily crawl, but machines make everything so much more efficient. That unguarded impulse, sparkling and translucent, still secedes to an anonymity that is little more than a substitute for a cultivated self awareness. It's alot harder to deny yourself some semblance of forgiveness on account of your pride. You plumb the depths of your posterity, hoping to salvage a forgotten melody or childhood phantom. But your own disaffection chains you down like an anchor, more oppressive than any loveless marriage.
One more word, the only touch that's worth a damn is one of spite.
Jesus, this scene is too familiar even for words
And I still don't have a watch.
I'm trying to force some flicker of recognition through an investment i don't really have to spare. I can feel the poverty tattooed on the lines of my face like some ornate bronze armature; each hollow crevice, each drifiting eyelash, each vein caressing my cheek transmitting an oracle more inured than enacting. It is a myopia that distracts me from the dregs of my Marini, and I'm trembling by the factor of God as a miniature yet infinite contraction.
I welcome the destroyers with their sleek bones of ice and granite. If anything, it proves that she is not as immune to a trespass in atmosphere as her ego assumes her to be. This is not an insult, not a justification, not an accusation - it's a trust in a promise, as naive as it may sound. Because, despite the cruelty of March, there's always gonna be another body to extract sap from. And even if you think you have friends to turn to, you know that they're only connections.
I leave a trail of white glossed over the white of the window. The mask is secure in its truancy - a slow, sepia drawl across pools of flame. I watch the moon flare up in its insipid little pull, and I'm ensnared by a pair of teeth, razor sharp and skewered. They move towards their target with an inhuman sense of aim, placid and self-assured. If time isn't yet frozen, why can I still conjure up my breath?
The process of defacement reveals its own internal lucidity. And I don't care what
sort of self-styled cultural assassin you smugly jerk yourself off on being, you cannot rob it of foresight. You cannot trade it like so much dirty money, you cannot possess it like a bridesmaid, cannot claim it like a self-serving birthright. It is immune to your satisfaction. All of your dreams are just a stationary form of making excuses. Because, in the end, you're as much of its whore and slave as I am. So much for happy birthdays.
Hey, are the Melendez Brothers still locked up?
Master of the obvious, and prince of none. And neither envy nor lassitude accounts for its diminishment. Greed. Avarice. May you only understand mercy. Or understand recognition. Because, despite the evidence, it remains my evaporation, as fluid and wanting as a pair of diamonds scraping knuckles bare on a barroom floor. Here, you're only living to die in somebody else's dream.
I can't let sleeping dogs lie. It's a magnet for me, a scab I can't refrain from peeling off, no matter how infected it might be. At this point, I should've known better by now. But once again, I'm found gripping onto a hidden fetish designed to rob silence of it'=s distinction, looking at a window from the outside in, where spectators pay garish homages to cheap perfumes and lime-tinged stupors. They wrestle like oracles reflecting bloodshed, a stark impetus towards delirium. My hands clutch a straight-razor, forged not of stainless steel, but deceit and the inability to come to a conclusion. Tonight, he's the only dancer left to turn to; neither miniature nor graceful, his motives lay in a different kind of tension. Even if his brains are scattered aimlessly.
Is it a matter of force or necessity?
You only have your own fucking ego
to answer to.
Your sick bed waits for you, solemn and cumbersome, beneath the stains of feigned apologies and predigistations that cover its sheets like jewels, an insult to one's proprietary claim on skin. There are no cherubs bearing swords of flame here; no sacrament to choke on; no absolution to fervently mock. This is not a new song - its melody is as eternal as a paper-cut. But the history of the world is written in charred fingertips and well-worn cunts, not in sickly elevator music and lousy poems that never really mattered. And no amount of wishful thinking's gonna divorce you from the betrayal of someone else's inheiritance, even if it means a kiss. Even if it means a curse.