| (no subject) |
[Jul. 26th, 2009|10:43 pm] |
my silent stoic smile
if i can bring you down
i won't be alone
my eyes the hallow bells
my shiver straightback stance
the gas-leak highway air
days pressured water flow
time coolly running down
i do not care
grand-standing stacks of dots
i do not care
i want them slipping off
of mirror older shine
or making anything
i do not mind
where anybody goes
what next utopia
i do not want to know |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 10th, 2009|11:13 pm] |
you are not the fuel I wanting
fouling said severed feeling.
lightning bolt coursed shimmering
down 'cross the plain of naked bodybreathbrush shift of sheetskin single color wood to walls that glass to widen pinpoint holes on giving hue-storm lightway pouring milky oil ceiling. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 6th, 2009|09:35 pm] |
how could I've known
my walking days
a fray thinless seam
unflattened peace
alongside
in rewound light
I'm seeing
my quietness |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 14th, 2008|11:52 pm] |
The strange pang of longing for home
while in front of my piano.
While past breadth near to parents sleeping,
a desire for home;
found next to an electric heater,
holding night sleep-twitches. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 24th, 2008|12:49 am] |
it's a really large system with many sprouted parts
you shadowed, surface examiner
think that the whole force not composed with motive
we speak of it squeezing, arms fencing territory, disheartening
there's no operator--the wind has no breath and sighs
and mouthsand speaks. some wind machine whose parts were
inside nothing but chatter clamor.
motion shell mechanical eyes s s s ss s ssss ssssss sssssss sssss s s s s s s s s s sssss s s s
s s s s
s s from it s there's no force there is well-meaning and ignorant misunderstanding
that's a smile of now knowing better |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 19th, 2008|10:50 pm] |
a flat of pieces, all strewn out, from here to white horizon. here and there a few together, pieced walk along. i'm not alone in through path of found fragment thought. to a better, more collected. for a faster, calmer. a taller useful. a color thinness.
how many more words will melt it or halve it? or can it or rush away from it like a shrinking tunnel light in rear-view dash? one and two are spits of wind, lapping off the fat endless. peeling out undone nonsense, stones from stomach, well-watching.
and then
i am painted on the wall. in deathless plane the motion of painted on the wall. subtle texture of definition the colorful flatness a simplicity motion decided display. a simple stroke doubled.
oh, i was a fearless yeller. not a stone. not a memory of a live stream of brimming moments into puddles lights a hardened gem. not a locked chest. not a twisted longing. not a tinny offbeat note or silent petal falling to rust in ice. not whizzing past. not a recognizable pattern.
captured now in framework precision, in fractal paths this way and that way, out in up down, cascading color twists of decision into all. leaving me sleeping ghostside, licking back names near dripping off my tongue. shallowly sinking on my side till half blind-breathing in blurred past-present leaves me clutching blank paper. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 8th, 2008|04:54 am] |
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There were colorwash eyes in inspired forward--the darks mosaic waterfall of shade, breathing depth setting a veces into smooth dimbright twilight painted in then unknown what's now forgot. You're a glowing thing you, exactly what you want, you're what you wanted. You left, and ate so many pills, and left. |
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| Out an underpass |
[Aug. 6th, 2008|03:15 am] |
It's a vine metro; a cracking concrete such ice-shatter hairline through a green vine tree. It across, a breeze a silent breath between silent sigh and shy note of nothing from a fading harmonic hum. A frequent line, pulsing line, flicker-line underneath iron, rolling under backwards away from onward, 'round the east bend onto 26.
True silence is theoretically impossible. |
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| In media res |
[Aug. 5th, 2008|02:35 am] |
Resurrecting my normal writing frequency involves a disregard for any recap of events or history leading to my current state, and that is what I'm doing.
We have to move--on the 28th we're out or signed into an uncomfortable leasing situation on top of the music space payment. Active looking without much result. Time will yield home.
There's a puddle of music.
It seems without satisfaction nor escapable, with reward of an award of more. A walk further to near a plot of nothing with a cardboard box full of a shipping label.
Scream into the mountainously-open mouth of God for a simple truth to be answered with an echo from the Godman begging for the simple truth.
I would force myself awake for another hour to lemonsqueeze out a drip of sour unripened expression but I'll still have to wake up in seven hours; without enough sleep fulltime work is unpleasant and without pleasantness contentment cakes and cracks. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 24th, 2008|11:39 pm] |
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Like static-plucked splash do some cylinders thrust up outward around in backward and down, cycle sickening spun, spins, pivots then hums soft stillness around into nightsharp quiet. |
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| Sadness |
[Oct. 24th, 2007|03:01 am] |
OiNK is gone. OiNK is done.
OiNK has died. OiNK is dead.
October twenty-third, 2007 is now the most disastrous and saddening day in music history. Anyone with love for music and that had the luck of being an OiNK member surely is bereaved.
It only gets worse. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 20th, 2007|08:49 pm] |
there are people out there who like to find you to make you down. don't find them. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 2nd, 2007|03:21 am] |
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Hello old world, I miss you. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 31st, 2006|08:20 pm] |
I have shaved my face numerous times and will continue the convention.
Does anyone enjoy GameBreaking? |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 11th, 2005|10:55 pm] |
I am not shaving my face again.
August 11th, 2005. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 29th, 2005|04:08 am] |
Science or art? Ocean and air. Where can you throw yourself, thrust yourself, lose yourself? In either, ripples may fell towers, shatter crystal, become lost the maelstrom. Fade into sinking depths. Echo back and die. Stand on shoulders and scream. Skip a stone into horizon infinite. Desperate to side between this pair, and another pair leaks it out--through the fingertips, down the arms--lukewarm and dumb. In work and stride, my throat is dry.
Wake up. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 12th, 2005|03:01 am] |
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an old song that fueled life echoed back in hollowed tide. so where are we taking me? shivered watered eyes just blinking spots--let's just pick one and move and not find any lines. we can spiral there, where we were with our eyes closed, painted scenes into our mind. this time will end time. to stop is only to sleep; we may walk, now sit, lie and dream. we may be close, racing reversed to wake. could I be dizzy, or simply finding the colors faster, painting the globe fluorescents in the dark, dashed and dotted in the inky night. it won't end--you can't unplug. we will lock hands, through any means. but i do not know and try to flatten, but that sound shakes me, vibrating, chilling sored past and coming tides again. it's just an empty wave. it's just a white cap splashed on a dark tarp, hung high windy last night, seen grey from the morning star. all the colors from the tools, hammers on bells, scowls and sighs and pity and cries, sand gardens and lakes, all are a dot on a map where we're headed. we can make it if we sleep at the right spots and spin around a different axis. just take the roads for what they're worth. plot the dots, don't connect a thing. when you look up at night, don't you see? it's alive, we can spin and they dizzy each other and fall onto canvases. if it will not crumble, or explode into a quick blazing nothing and then vanish, then it isn't alive. it won't be alive again. the letters just juggle themselves. we lie down to slant our thought. we end when we say end. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 9th, 2005|03:11 am] |
1.23.05 x3:45 PM Focus
Calculate to a point. Now stare. Do not move a breath, pulse or waver until the point envelops you and beats to your rhythm. Motionless and free, it can float and glide through any substance.
Today I learned how to read. I can ignore you if I decide you are an invalid, noisy and disoriented. My metronome ticks at its steady BPM, swaying endlessly until my focus breaks and I drift away into a blank sea of strange nothing.
---
A subjective reality, whose locus is buried in some eccentric segment of my mind, filled a black speckled notebook with thoughts and ideas to which I can no longer relate. This glittered, boundless world faded away and left a small book of words even its creator couldn't understand.
When you eat and you hear gluttons, when you spin and the worlds spins with you, when you're in a crowd and you see ant farms, when will it stop?
Let it stop splitting and pulling apart. Congeal and repeat. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 15th, 2005|03:36 am] |
It was written once that our aim was to reduce the size of mice.
I made a small, fast mouse with one eye and no tail.
When my mouse moves, you do not see it until it's back.
If I tell my mouse to move, does it know me?
It overheated.
So we poured water on it.
It then ran away because it was wet.
Do we blame Aquarius, or those who interrupt others?
Do we start with one mouse, make another, then allow population?
One
Two.
Four.
Twelve.
Twenty-Five.
Forty-One. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 26th, 2005|03:30 pm] |
Further notice: Prior post now open for debate, given confidential circumstances.
But I still saw the spiral in everything, and I can't come back. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 5th, 2005|05:08 am] |
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Joey and I are the two smartest people ever to live, until further notice. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 27th, 2004|04:27 am] |
Let grace pillow your steps and sweeten your words, ghosted in chilled air.
Hands have gone pocketed. Sounds now are tinged and condensed. When the soil and the sidewalk are deep blue with the dead cold of space, walk slowly. Watch your step. Listen to the sound you desperately are trying to damper.
Be graceful and alone.
Watch the perfection, matched only by their shadows, of stone buildings.
Fall under a description--become what you will--but do not describe what you will become.
Leave shivering, shattered as you came. You are warmed, loved, protected and simple.
Be fluid, distant and sweet. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 1st, 2004|04:30 am] |
Well, let's see. Usually, night, late night, hours that are early for most, hours like these, in bed staring at nothing, that which and those whom I love race in and out of my thoughts, and I become anxious and afraid. Calmly will I flow to the cool blue glow that dumbs and cures nothing. The walls are shaded dark and outlined black. The blankest of screens still shimmers off my skin like water in twilight, and, although blank, cleanses my mind of thought. Every once in a while I'll write nothing, but mostly I let the glass radiate unblinkingly and cook my eyes.
I do not want to go back to bed. I need to become so fatigued that I will not go to sleep but instead be taken by sleep without effort, relaxation or meditation. Until then, truth sought between pixels.
People gone come in dreams, then wake up sore but don't want them back. Don't want to wake up sore, or think. I was going to play piano on campus after becoming downed, but on my way bumped into a tree (not literally). A spot by the base was very inviting and I plopped there instead. Somewhat late, but pairs of people scuttled past then and again. Shy of the thinning parking lot, traffic could not be heard from there. There are street lights dotting the sidewalks that cut through the campus greens. The yellow blooming lights just dangled at different spots in the air, their depth not calculable in the dark. Sort of like constellations. Glowed bright, warm not burning, so that they could be stared at if you felt like it. Above, the tree's branch extended into black, but half yellow and manila as if stage-light from the sidewalk lamp. I got up later, and there was another tree, this one to be climbed. Ran up it. People smile when they see a man whistling from a tree. That made it better. No pianos available, but it's ok. They gotta study for finals, but not me. No, you study and I will climb trees.
If you think about life too much, it'll really do you in. Watch out and ride it out.
Whatever happens
happens. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 26th, 2004|07:08 pm] |
i want my piano.
the man won't give me money--twenty percent, front-loaded interest. we don't like each other.
they are throwing sticks at churning embers, boiling pit, waiting for oxygen. ready to burst.
if you see a sign on the road, and tear it down:
i will
tear out
your fucking
face. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 26th, 2004|02:24 am] |
we hate money, and the veins we can see; wire-frame web, and the blood red, flowing green bills, transmuted mud brown. the long hair tied behind the neck--lost taste of compassion for feeding on raw live people, to own things wanted, because they will not be given away while owners busy to eating.
washed up and worn out and quiveringly dependant on the hunger. out of breath and a fading blank face in the brains of hundredthousands of people. hunger black hole, right outside your door, onto the lawn, past the curb, growling and eating cement, devouring helpless cars flying off the ledges, then sucking in just a few clouds to start, but, in time, eating the sky.
i could write more, but at 7:30am i have to feed the monster. he ain't starving, so the feeding ain't gonna be punctual. |
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| don't comment on this unless you've something to say, please. Also known as: I'm a big Wimp. |
[Oct. 9th, 2004|07:17 pm] |
my livejournal updates are usually pretty weird, but this one's straight:
i'm awfully sad. feel like my stomach's torn out half the time. half the time. of that half, i want to cry, but i can never cry, ever, especially when i want to cry. hurt in many different aspects. want to break down and write messages to ambiguous "you"'s, but i'm more mature now and that's not the way to solve anything, especially when i feel helpless and helplessness is sufficiently backed up.
i try my best with people. i try my best. not with piano. or school. or math. or writing. or exercise. or anything. but with people, i try my best. i usually know what's wrong. sometimes i don't. try my best; gets me far. not quite enough. not what you were looking for.
if i died tomorrow i'd regret that i didn't shut my mouth, ride it out and swallow down a fraction of the pain i've got now.
regret, yeah. eyes. oh, man..
anyone ever get second chances? i've seen 'em, never had one.
if you're ever free--really free--call me for coffee; i'd love nothing more. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 29th, 2004|01:55 am] |
terrible confusion without surprises. never knock on door, or pat on the head.
terrible one. terrible breathe. and lock the door. divide by two. print-smear the flask. crawl into bed.
long that the pins
align and spin. |
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| why do i do this--nothing means anything here |
[Sep. 23rd, 2004|02:07 am] |
if you ever miss anyone, think of the bikes, and the breeze, and scraped knees. easy.
but trees got shorter daily; weathered worker watched companies marry, take their rings.
only in books ants won't swarm and devour a weak grasshopper.
is it fair or unfair, innate or learned, better or worse or casually associated with linkings unbecoming of DISCORD. with such a sensory appreciation for jamming of adjacent semitones, ear develop tolerate tactless banter. eyes blue, green, green-blue grey anything. lovely but nearer to ice, dust or smoke than any shady night bar. yellow streetlight shining slippery gutter, distant fading tire hiss, sleeking coats and umbrella tops.
back when i didn't notice the terrible skin showing through suits, the drunk drivers, or the leaking dirt, or the puddles and murk. |
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| thoguht squeezed out from a grey orange |
[Sep. 19th, 2004|11:35 pm] |
shabby wood, records, dusty walls. things i could never invest myself in. music and jam. lost in time and healing heads. wish to go back and do it. wish to do it now. life is for others. influence no one, change nothing, make nothing, fall in woods alone and be fell unheard. tape and ink and paper square on dusty walls for everyone else. being the smile everyone needs for the party. having all the pogs.
cap in mouth and a gasp too deep. To choke! Ha! I know only good men die, unaware and happy--that fear kind of creeping around every intersection, coating pen caps, seething in mad men, waiting for your most sublime moment. Both ends, the heinous and perfect, are dropped. I am going to die. You will, too. Don't you expect it in your sleep, when you're ninety-some? Some colorless dream, blending into memories and songs, consumed by a nothingness deeper than black. But to be snagged by a car tomorrow? Or maybe trip on your own feet, and snap a very important bone.
But to choke. Suck down a pen cap, and spit, twist and tear for your life, eyes bulging while trying to cough it up so you can at least scream the things you haven't done yet, or how much happier you want to become, or how great things are going, and it's not over yet. and instead of screaming you sit down. and lie down. think about how impossible it was that one time the car almost slammed you but missed.
no, man. i won't be killed. i'll survive until ninety for pills that give ninety more. immortality is technologically around the corner.
and if you are you, and you exist, you have felt the weight of history and the beginning of time before you were born. you cannot remember any of it, and when you are gone, eternity and infinity you will not know, but only just what you knew before you.
oh, but those eyes--i'll watch what i chew. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 26th, 2004|02:47 am] |
internet's gone; couldn't be happier. internet's gone. couldn't be happier.
best day, worst day, memorable day, head ache. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 21st, 2004|03:49 am] |
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you have to pull it through, like they say. it'll form, and your chest will suck in, but if you pull it through, everything else will fall into place. it comes in a gel form, and will shade your sight. when you take it, and you don't pull it through--the consequences do not permit that. you will pull it through. everything can be lost, but your slanted sight will not ignore this glaring. it's too late and has been done. you're in our neck now. your red shoes and flashy clothes all are thrown to the cold river. the fish eat them with vain, sharp teeth, and eyes to match. jeremy stabs sharp broken pieces from the disaster's wine glass into his friend. his friend becomes upset, leaves, and never returns. it is possible never to return. a place with bell piano and tin hair, free from water, full of colors and colored people, spinning so quickly that a good footing is as impossible as not laughing at it. your friend knocks on your locked door. open. darkness around, sun-bright pupils blinding, wind sucks out air, leaves space, matter disintegrates, thoughts egress to nothingness. head turns, last look seeps before new molds, forming form before chewing through floor, frozen asleep in layers of earth. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 10th, 2004|04:15 am] |
he had a snare drum and sticks, and i had my fingers. the door was open, but the keys were locked. there was something i could have done that would have perfected the night and made a memory, but instead the option was passed. now it's over, and life would have been a little better if the time was taken to solve the problem.
is it wrong to regret a simple mistake that could have made one evening more pleasurable? noting greater benefited from the lack of the "proper" decision. life was not affected by its outcome. one night was made less than it could have been. is regret wrong?
to regret something larger, is it wrong? is thinking, if nothing else, the growth and learning of an improper decision prepares for others, correct? are wrong paths plainly just that? is regret justified?
i live, or have lived, disavowing regret, accrediting my ways to the fractal complexity of life itself. but i now feel deathly ill, and wish i could sleep longer.
push off pile. clothes from bed. asian tone. shaped and shined. do you know what you're doing, man? 'cause then they'll clap from dark low crowds. don't sweat; you'll break your back. your dim eyes are sore with debt--earn some life before you're dead. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 4th, 2004|03:43 am] |
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inebriation and confidence are inversely proportional with me; as any drug fades, my self-assurance regrows, possibly becoming stronger from its chemically-induced wounds. too bad i only feel reality is at its clearest and most (painfully) honest state when seen through an intoxicated lens. i'm most faded when sober, and although the muscle of my self-esteem can be pumped up and strengthened, real life is really around, and it really is biting, and will really tear me up. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 29th, 2004|05:23 am] |
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i've been wondering what's wrong. the pasts months get by like a cross-eyed blur. square dancing on spikes. ingesting. not being what you were looking for. maybe take a Pi approach, spin a powered drill bit to my temple. maybe not. i lack descriptive vocabulary--something i've been trying to improve the past half year. very tired, most of the time. unmotivated. avidly avoiding formal education. figure who i miss more. not what you were looking for. everyone could leave, and will without my persuasion. church of credit carded convertibles. bleach white fog bright as headlights. trying to throw everything out; i never discard data but, well you're an exception. extremely quiet machines larger than cities. self-supporting television dinner alone. be all right, alright, fail, figure it out, cry, clench, rest, float smiling, pause, forget to breath, become breathless, become another person, play along, call on the phone, dance, become addicted, pose for the picture, wonder "why?", meet again years later, feel warm, say the last goodbye, agree to things unsound, almost forget everything for a bit. come back. i can speak my mind when i can see some teeth. i will not change. i will weather time like pyramids. when you come back, i will not be what you're looking for. old songs bring me back, US1 late at night, quite a walking distance from where i slept. driving around excitedly listening to new things. never would have fathomed the wonderful people i'd meet, and how changed and bruised i'd become over three years. empty, black, six-lane road revealed by my headlights, ready to be overtaken, not yet having even met the two most pivotal people in my life, so far. so far, not what you're looking for. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 21st, 2004|03:58 am] |
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it's drinking vomit. remembering the cheap things. twanged nasal voice. misleveled. everything wrong. and goddamn blurry. i hate that fucking word, inside your stomach. it meant something, but i cannot ever explain things. so measurement will happen as ice melts dilludes the vomit and makes it easier as it dies. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 14th, 2004|03:57 am] |
if, to think of lovers past, i humbly could collapse and cry,
with black grit palms on shaky stone as thousands' lives are blurring by,
soft relief would set me free--but i dwell quite aridly.
i'm going to make some guy pay me lots of money do do easy things. and if he doesn't want to pay me lots of money, screw him, because jobs are for chumps, anyway.
i can shuffle a deck of cards. rummy is a retarded game.
i've beaten mega man 1, 2, and 3 in the past few days. their difficulty respectively declines, the foremost being absurdly, almost to the point of insane hilarity, hard. top man is the stupidest power-up. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 12th, 2004|02:47 pm] |
money is choking my throat, man.
some people's lives are work. they chatter of their coworkers. other lives are love. the slightest scent of it's return from one long lost rejuvenates, if only for ephemeral days, their tracked lives. other's are learning. they learn to work. my life is an absence of any viewable accomplishment. i am stimulated only by something new, which is then thrown wayside once it has been personally mastered. this is true for anything and anyone. if i cannot master my focused interest, i will tighten my grip and bite harder, until defeat is too evident to ignore. i will never have a prize to show you. the only thing that can be shown is your defeating me. against me, anyone has won.
on happiness, there is money. on happiness, there is being privy. in itself it is nonexistent. if ever I am to say that someone has made me happy, i am being lied to, and have numbly bought into the deceit. at least, this all goes for our decade (i address my peers.)
let's go to class, everyone, and learn! we're going to find many valuable things trinkets that will not be found anywhere. you will love them, and you will work and age and beat your fucking spouse because you are drunk. then ace the class and the final's free.
goddamnit goddamnit goddamnit i is yo sum shit just don't let me happen like this, it's still daylight, it's still sunny and white why am i going on |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 30th, 2004|05:40 am] |
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everyone alive is alone or being lied to. |
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