THE ARCHIVES [II]
9.16.07
let me hold you close//bitten and verboten
let me hold you close
I will suffer for you.
I will suffer for you no matter how much it hurts. No matter how bitter and miserable it makes me. I will suffer for you.
Would I be sorry if I was dead? I never got it, I never got it back. So I’m ungrateful. Fuck you. It dies and doesn’t matter, forgetfulness is what you used to keep me out of your mind in the first place, trust me, you can do it again. Now that the tables have been turned, I’m no longer a countable asset. Here for the hurt and stay, never to maintain the love, never to help you happiness. Bitterness. Just kiss me. You’ll regret this comparison. I want to be your sunset. I want to be the night you sweat, I want to be the heat of the moment, the passion that you cross your legs and cry to. But I’m still so fucking regretful…so sorry, please forgive me…No, I don’t want to be the sunset, I want to be the sunrise, the happiness, the warmth, the passion of love, the sound of music, so don’t cry. I’ll always be here to guide you along. Please don’t leave. Oh, god.
I will never forgive myself for what I have done. I will never forgive myself for what I have done. I will never…
IS THIS YOUR WAY OF SAYING GOODBYE? MAY I EAT THE HELLo…darling I might be late for the dinner, I have a funeral to tend to. Rose picked from formless bushes beyond the tangible dimensions. I’m free from bind and I feel like I’ve floated up into the ceiling fan, belch me down on my knees. Cut this little head off like it was simply a petal on your flower. Give me that death I crave. I burnt the little thing until its stomach ruptured, wishing it was me that was dead. I’m jealous. The little monster frightened me because it is me. A mole, stuck perpetually underground. I killed it and set it free, but it was already dead from previous death. I wanted to make sure. I was right. It was me.
Dumb cancer anagramming machine. Heart pounding through weak bones, perfect arrhythmic polyphony. Like a muffled gunshot, in perfect tempo, in perfect martial beat. Shooting liquid nitrogen directly into the vein. Itch around the cut. Cartilage bows outward, meter length rebars pin down feet and hands. My mouth full of bolts. Who's the stupid god now? I am so tired of being so dumb. Do all the pretty girls thank god for making them so pretty? Maybe they thank me for making them look good.
I'm finishing the unreal product. Scalpel! I cut away at the unusable parts. You'll never be as beautiful as you are right now, underneath my light. I avoid the mirror. Enjoy my never ending history of ugliness, my face spattered with welding burns, isopropanol distraught by lit editions of time. I wanted that pink paint to be my final note to a world that is slowly forgetting me, and slowly erasing all of my life.
Baptize me into disbelief. I’ve never hurt more than right now. Snuff me.
One shade of lifeless dumb entropy, evolving to resuit my ever changing need. Nothing in the change stays alternating; gears turn in fine working order, at that settled pace to the manner that no second replicates any other. Dead twin snapshots alive. Perpetual reversal of flow. Self inflicted. Hung dead matter. Steer halved and put up with nails and hooks. Bone saw moves through flesh like fever-rich fingers through water. The drill enters through the kneecap to prevent evasive movement, grinding and churning, inherently sexual in its mechanically perverse nature. You want solace? Excited into desperate fits. Eyes inverted, lids negligible shut. Sterilized and castrated. Stillborn child ejected, hot flesh pours like lava. Webbed fingers to a boneless, milky fist. Angrily convulsing mindflesh, given birth to new defertilizations. I want you to forget about me so that I can kill myself and not feel so fucking guilty.
blind me, taste-free. i begat the corrupt facility. Delete it and the memory fades, does it not? I don’t want to forget you, I don’t want you to forget about me. Why is this hope here? I hate it because I’m still living.
.
I got the call at four in the morning.
So she’s dead. Died in her sleep.
Whatever. Just let me go to sleep, too, with you.
Forever.
w.
bitten and verboten:
Models in the shoot: Me, Chessna, Steve.
Let’s run away together. play burial games out back. so what if I am already dead, play my heart on the balcony. Paint a visage with rouge and crème, like the speckling of tiny fragments, forgettable circles of blood on the searing concrete. Open your eyes and become a martyr. Let's push Andy’s repetitious head into his lime dirt, knuckle to the back of his little temple. I'd hate to see it go, but in the case of art eat art, some dog meat will substitute real substance. Play my suicide toy; I’m just a jukebox for all the things you want to hear.
You and I. we form supple CP non protective measure, counting freckles like sunspots. Bound beyond bondage, kept beyond holding, life preserved like an asphyxiated cat in a sweltering oven. A warm flesh-woven human puking machine. Holding the wires tightly together, white knuckle fists on the rungs of the downward sloping ladder. I’ve been gunned down and left to lie. I spat truth of untruth, the sting stung like acrid acid, the pains of a sharp glitter pencil around the entrenchment wound. Now the old patients think so much of damaging me. Don’t lend yourself; the IV drip is just about as steady as the heartache these days, like Moses’ prophetic shrub, the sacks refill with assorted poisons. Hot, hot hurt. [Don’t touch the mark; practice my play faux gunrunning with suicidal playgrounds. I know you never believed in me. You’re so ashamed. I’d rather be dead, but you don’t recall.] I test the past memories with threatening forgetfulness. I kept the secret and let loose a sandstorm. Beloved like a certain particle spin, begotten like a certain cancerous sin.
I'm tired of all the spinning, so let's fake sleep and not let the phone wake us. Hush the candles we've lit, dim the lights, and lay. Clothed but so exposed, matter exploded to see the innermost parts. I want to look deep into you to see the other side, judging a book by its outermost cover. A tortoise that has eaten another living tortoise, the eaten one, having consumed a meal worm, now is both roles of mother and daughter. Self regurgitation, self-puke, to be yourself is to be frightened, to become your parent is to deny the current self...but to be both is to deny the fright within your movement.
Together you and I will wage hell, scurrying up sandstorms with howling heat, earthquakes of violent malevolence. Holly leaves bedecking the entrance, ice melts. Lit fuse, I’m snake-bitten. Swollen, wretched, so beautiful, unmoving parts kept safe and secure with sheets of clear plastic. Sometimes I feel so barbaric, sometimes it’s like a god damned furnace keeping me awake at night. Tonight it will be too dark to see, hold my hand, we’ll feel around the house and know where you are going. I don’t expect an end to this tunnel, as it is less a tunnel than it is a sideways, inescapable water-well, sans water. But it matters not, the light fades, the reflection of your eyes ceases to show mine in yours. I’ll light myself on fire to guide your way. Rotten pieces of life falling off the bones, becoming more skeletal and limber with every hunk of decomposing flesh.
Just want to play with my tanks in the sand. Put the peacetalks on hold, as the struggle is not yet done. You can’t kill what doesn’t want to live. It’s called moral vampirism and I think you know what I’m talking about. Summer is over, and I don’t really think she ever cared. It’s basic and systemic. I don’t want to follow their stupid rhetoric. Take my hand. I may be coarse, but upon my back, you may strike a match. Light a candle. Sleep with me, tonight. We’ll need our rest, as tomorrow ushers a halo of gunfire that will sweep up the world in its apocalyptic afterbirth.
So tonight, we count the bullets. Tomorrow, we count the dead. Two more than expected. It’s us, sweetheart. Bury me with you.
MWNL.
W.
Just. One. Thing.
I paint to match the pictures I keep. Reminders, mementos. Hopeful future events.
I tried to outbreed to suicide. Failure contempt. Success contemplation.
Death begins a new suicide.
One national shout.
'get out.'
Self shoot self. Hung with hairwoven rope.
I put the gun to my head in my own little way
And fuck the everything that you have that I can’t seem to find.
Took the shortest straw, grasped by chance.
Suicide taken kindly. Invited.
Like a pill, the morning after.
Monoduet. We could watch the sound of music together.
It’d echo through these tunnels, like whistles.
Kill. Feel; Crushed. Guilty. Regretful. Distraught, and destroyed.
Dumb ashamed humiliated defaced weak. Kill feelings.
and I hate the everything that you have that I can't seem to find.
Pull every single one of my hairs out.
Cry piss tears ‘til acid blinds.
I’ve come to the edge of my existence.
Hallucinations in self-hatred; wrath begotten.
I am not all knowing.
I; selfless; ruinous.
I; Uncoax; Unhoax.
What am I?
I; Negative
I; unalive.
MWNL.
W.
9.5.07
Winslow Goes To A Nazi Rally
Every so often, a group will come along, simply to stir up the shit, shouting, marching, with slogans and banners, and well-pressed shirts. These are affectionately called the ‘Fun Ones.’ When I heard that there was going to be a organized NSM, or National Socialist Movement, or Nazi, or SKYNNYRD!!!, rally, I was excited. I planned my week around it, emptied my SD card, and charged my batteries. I arrived early, in my regular street clothes, but with a bullet-belt that I had picked up recently. Bad move, I should have known. So a guard ousted me for having a belt and a bag on me, but before I left, I saw Allie and Lauren, two girls from my high schools newspaper. They’re both editors, photojournalists, and regular decent people. Allie and I walked up to her car, where I left my ammo, and my bag. On the way down, we attempted to reenter the area, which was five blocks on the busiest street in the city, sanctioned off, with massive, comprehensive armed guards every two blocks surrounding ground zero. The entry was blocked for me, reason being, I have no credentials, I had no mode of identification for what newspaper or media I was for. Since I’m working strictly for myself, as a freelancer, I can’t get in. Allie can, and she left to see if I could gain reentry, but it was Lauren who sweet talked the guards to let me back in. Note that she didn’t sex any of them up. She’s just good with words and sounding official. So, I’m back in, looking over Nazi and the anti-Nazi pen. Or, I’m sorry, the National Socialist pen and the Anti-National Socialist pen. This is where I remained for less than an hour, in which time I purged my wallet of scented cards and other bitter nostalgia, with new friends Fred and Ryan.
Fred was a kind, decent man. He was once held hostage by an escaped convict Mike McGuire, who forced him to purchase guns and ammunition for his final great escape. On one of the many occasions that Fred was tied down, he managed to wriggle free and phone the police. Mike was later caught, and Fred was considered a willing accomplice, which, obviously, is not true. Fred is a teacher for North High and Ryan is a senior at Burke High. Ryan was a clever, if not shady, man, with two very nice cameras. Both Canons, of course. We were kicked back a further two blocks by an angry, red-faced officer of the law. We remained there for only a moment until we were given reentry by a cop that had helped Fred free during his time as a hostage. He was a good cop. He had pulled a few strings, and soon enough, we were right back on the frontlines with the news and press, waiting for the Hate to start. It was going to be a long wait, but it was going to be worth it. Cue in the chief of police, or something, he had a tie on but no gun or badge, and looked like a cop that quit early. He kicked Fred, Ryan and I out of the press field because we lacked the necessary credentials. So, shit. We’re gonna have to forfeit our cameras and get in with the vulgar if we want to see this shit go down. Or, fuck that. Fred had an apartment just a few blocks up, where we could stake out for a big before the big Hate started…and we formulated another, even more sketchy and shady plot.
Fred, a divorced middle-aged teacher, had, not surprisingly, collected a lot of shit in his life time. Disney figurines, maybe a hundred different A&W mugs, Harry Potter memorabilia, that type of crap. He looked like a guy who had a lot of evidence hidden in his apartment. So, we’re looking at each other, and we basically read one another’s minds. In seconds, Ryan is standing against the door, and I took his picture, along with my picture, and one of Fred. We upload them to the computer and opened MSpaint. We made our own ID badges, convincing as hell, printed on paperboard, complete with school logos and lanyards. We were set for action. By the time we’re down there, the Hate has already started. The Nazis were already in their pens, mobilizing, shouting, waving flags. No guns, no violence, no drinking. They were all clean. Sucks, I know. With my false press badge, I could go anywhere within our own personal pen that I pleased, but I couldn’t take anything but videos and crowd shots, I simply was not close enough to the action. The chants on the Nazi’s side were refined to ‘Sieg Heil’ and yelling about ‘stupid midgets’ and black people. Actually, for an organization that is based off a government that was feared worldwide for its totalitarianism, conformity, strictly regulated rules, and militarism, the NSM was much disorganized, giddy, and for the most part, fat white men with nothing to prove, and nothing to lose. All boots, no balls.
It’s sad. I really wanted them to provide some real arguments, real fights and coverage of controversial topics. I guess that’s having high hopes for such a halfassed group, but still, I wanted something more than random shouts and anger. That’s what got me the most upset, actually, that they had so much anger and hatred, they felt so violated and threatened, so they put on their beliefs, but they didn’t know exactly what to say! They were simply empty smoke in suit, belching verbose belly-aching through a bullhorn. You’re wearing a swastika, you’re in boots, you should have a goddamned point. Hitler didn’t die because his property values were hit by Mexican immigrants. Hitler put his ass on the lines, along with the collective asses of millions of his soldiers, pilots and generals, for his belief of racial hygiene, his belief of the purity of bloodlines, his belief of a Now-And-Forevermore German state. Not this whiny, pissant bitchfesting. I was disappointed. I came for the hate, I came for the order and for the vicious natures inherited down the German bloodline, I wanted to see some goddamned action! All I got was Nazis, penned up, no real points, no real evidence, no facts or data. The information is out there. Go and get it.
Nazis. They’re missing the point. The Jewish people, Mexicans, blacks, all the races and creeds have inherent flaws, but they are not spawned from being of a particular race or creed. They’re spawned from the fact of humanity itself. They’re focusing on such a small subgroup of people, while disregarding the problem at a whole. They say that blacks commit three times the murder that whites do, but they trip over their statements. They’re saying that whites commit murder too, just as blacks do. So, who’s guilty? The white man or the black man? They’re both guilty. It’s a fact of life. If you’re white, with white brothers, you’re guilty of your race. As is with all races, blacks, Hispanics, all the way down the line. The inherent flaw is to be human. Hitler was so close to a perfected message, but he was so caught up with his own vendetta that he missed the point. If you want pure blood, you need to shed pure blood. The goal is a lifeless planet, where there are no humans to commit a flaw, and the solution is unbiased genocide. Misanthrope. That’s what it is.
The anti-Nazis were in full flow at this point, far more organized than their spiteful counterparts. They held their own chants, of different American-themed peace-and-justice-for-all type of songs. At one point, there was a bunch of shouting of “Black Power! Black Power!” Which was odd, because I’m pretty sure I saw some white and Hispanic kids chanting along with. Then there was an American Indian, who shouted at the Nazis with all points clear. This was his land first, before the whites crashed in a stole it from them! He was pissed and justified, which is of course, the best kind of anger. Lots of middle fingers coming from the crowd, lots of hate, lots of snide remarks at the expense of the surprisingly sensitive Nazi’s[I’ll get to that later.] On of my favorites was the woman who yelled “I’ll bet your wife sleeps with a Mexican while you’re at work!” Classy, I know. The basic rhetoric of the group was “Eat shit and die, nazi scum!” Pretty entertaining.
By this point, the Nazi’s had basically run out of good chants and they were looking a bit more bloated and discontent. Riled up, maybe, but not in a violent way. Maybe they were being electrocuted mildly, but some hidden diode that is a mind-control beacon to Hitler’s preserved brain, found miles underneath the surface of the earth. Or maybe it was the heat that was baking them in their shirts and ties. Who knows? The critical point is when the barrier for the press was broken down; allowing us to go and directly interact with the Nazi’s themselves. They were an odd bunch, more anxious wandering than real political discussion. They insisted that America had been built by white Americans, and that Mexican immigrants had never done a thing to aid in the construction of it. Now, I can’t recall the last time I’ve seen a building being put up by a pure white-bred crew of laborers. Most of the time it’s Mexicans, willing to put their backs on the damn pavement, to shed skin and blood, to make an honest living for their families. I can’t name a more hardworking people. The points made by the Nazi’s were very much based upon self-defense and not about the problems they cited. I called one of them a Nazi, and he was very upset about this. He touted his beliefs above my head, as if I had never heard of hatred before. I told him that he was wearing a swastika, and I asked him what group that is most commonly associated with. He told me that it was not a swastika, but it was, in fact, a symbol of the sun. He pointed to the sun. I told him that Hitler had put that symbol on his flags, and well, we all know what kind of chum Hitler was, and he called me ignorant. He said that before Hitler had put the symbol on any of the flags, it had first been found on Hindu temples and carved into ancient cities and places of worship. Well, yes, it had been found there, but it was a very basic and repeatable symbol. That’d be like a Christian citing every modern building’s infrastructure as Christian-based because it has so many crossbars that make up its skeleton.
The Nazi’s had taken the swastika and turned it sideways, to a diamond shape, reversing the original meaning of the symbol of peace, and turned it into a symbol of war. That’s why my symbol, the diamond Red Debt is based on the Nazi swastika. It’s a symbol of war, the endlessness of conflict. It’s not about bigotry, it’s not about selective hatred, it’s not about racial hygiene. It’s MWNL, Make War Not Love.
After that point, no real arguments were made, no real conversations were held. Just banter and anger. They’re not blinded by their beliefs; they’re blinded by their angst. It’s as simple as that. They’re so caught up in the act of believing, that they can’t even recall what it is, exactly, that they believe. They were so confused. I was sincerely disappointed. I scour the databases, I read the texts and review the reels of WWII, Hitler, his armies, his divisions, and the beliefs of the Nazi party and when they’re finally allowed to organize, they simply don’t have anything ready to go. Does anyone here remember Kristallnacht? Those fateful nights, November 9th and 10th, year 1938, where the SA, the Sturmabteilung, invaded the houses of Jews and other found undesireables and simply massacred the economics, burned businesses and homes down, dragged out the dead? They went from rash acts of violence and bigoted hatred to petitioning the city council for five blocks of shouting space? Pathetic. I conversed briefly with the president of the NSM. We didn’t talk politics, we talked, actually, about what region of Europe makes the most attractive men’s suits. He said Italy. I agreed. The most surreal event was this boy, probably only a few years older than me, if that, who was in his leather boots, black pants and a NSM shirt. I said that one of the most impressive things about the Nazi’s were their boots and shoes. Delicious leather footwear. The boy thanked me, even though the comment wasn’t directed towards him, so I asked him for a picture. He gladly complied, and posed instantly. The shot was very amazing; he was smiling so big and proud. Happy with his heritage, happy with his people, and his blood. The swastika stained onto the flag he held blotted out the sun that shone down on his black cotton shirt. He seemed so personable and content, like a kid that I could be friends with, someone who you’d see on the bus, on the football team. He seemed to be tolerant and accepting of me, which was a first from the Nazi’s that I had seen today. I must admit, he was an interesting subject for my photography.
I left the Nazi side to take shots of the anti-Nazis. They were a diverse people, of all ages and ethnicities, all united under a single cause and message against the bigotry before them. They were a happy, albeit angry bunch. I took some great overhead shots of the ranks, and then something amazing happened. I saw him, Joshua, my long lost cousin, whom I hadn’t seen for…maybe four or five years, right there in front of me. He’s half Mexican himself, and he’s a remarkably decent person. “…Winslow?” he timidly inquired. “Holy shit! Josh!” We reconnoitered; I told him how I had made the badge and crept into the rally to take art shots for my sites. He was really proud of me. He’s two years older than me, 18, and he was, in retrospect, one of the most prominent voices from the crowd that I had heard that day. He had that good-spirited fight in him, which enabled him to fight against persecution and hate, and stop the battle at the line of equality.
There were many cheerful black folk, intermingling with the rest of the crowd, just as the rest did to every other group. There really weren’t any lines between them; there was no division, no racial, no religious. Blacks, whites, Jews, gentiles, men, women, gays and straights. All there. Pretty interesting.
By now, Allie, Lauren and I had formed a bit of a photographic team, following each other through the day, taking pictures of whatever caught our eyes. I left the rally and I had planned to get a ride with Fred, who, minute by minute, was becoming sketchier and sketchier. I got my bullets and my bag from Allies car, and everyone hugged, and left. Or rather, they left, and I began my journey down to the Rally, once again, to find my ride. Only this time, I had ammunition on my person, so it was going to be that much harder to get in. In ten minutes, I had reached the site with the first check point to get into the rally. I was then surrounded by a half dozen cops, each one inspecting every bullet on my belt, piece by piece. Ok, yeah, it was a dumb move of me to bring it, but there is no way of firing the bullets. They’re emptied, the primers are all shot, and they’re bound together by a chain that can’t be loaded into any automatic firing mechanism. Better safe than sorry, I guess. Same reason that they had an excess of 100,000 dollars in riot squads and teams deployed for what was a relatively peaceful bout. Unlike, Toledo, where violence and riots had broken out, and, according to a camera man who’d lived it, “Half of Toledo was burned down.” I managed to get through, to find that my ride was not present. It was a long, hard walk down to work, but it was punctuated with drivers-by flashing peace signs and bullhorns. I recognized them as Anti-Nazi protesters, and they recognized me as the one who was taking footage of the whole event. The feeling of connection hadn’t faded because the rally was over, it was even stronger, like tying two people together, their bond tightens the further they stray from one another.
THE YOUTUBE VIDEO: [link]
Check out the pictures.
MAKE WAR NOT LOVE.
W.
9.1.07
hung himself// THE ARTERY CUT
hung himself
Given to me; nothing in needingness: dead happy dead. The bomb went off properly, but you’d never hear it, now would you? Do you regret being me? Kill one bird with six stones, while five more watch from above. I willed the nothing to fruition. Dress me in your obsidian. At what point did you stop believing? I hate this perpetuality, like a comatose woman giving birth to a stillborn, a dead outlook spawned from death within life. Every second I’ve been broken down, then reassembled, and the pieces simply stopped fitting. My flesh has been misplaced. Every day, the rage of jealousy and pain surges through me beyond controllable nature. Push me back to a day before it occurred, so I could kill myself happier then. Skin is for the weak. Every moment I’m there and with, it’s an excruciating torture, like I’ve never experienced in my life. You’re there and not here. Throw me a bone, I know you’ve got them. I’d strangle myself, if in that last second, it’d be us. I’d strangle myself for new life. Old life. Take me back. Anywhere but here. I can’t remember the point that I simply stopped wanting to wake up, but it happened. With this, I don’t know if it was worth it today. Never can recall the last time it’s flooded me, that feeling of warmth, feeling of being cared for. Not this. Not anything of this dull fate of halfhearted vulgarities spat at me from the far side of their oasis.
At what point should I just stop trying? I thought you were weak. Can I bend the metal too? Or have your snapped…shift your shapes again, but keep me in mind. What I’d give to love what you hate, see it and sedate it into an overdriven catatonic subsleep. Now I don’t want to go to hell, because you’ll be there too, now I fear the aspect of life. I’m weak to have put the gun down. Nothing is more luring than the fear you held. The pills they gave me didn’t help, so they doubled the doses, bringing me up to zero plus zero. Oddly enough, that’s just what I’ve been looking for. But it obviously still doesn’t work. Your math became the subtraction of me. I kept the face on to smile perverse, now the words don’t seem to work.
I would give anything for a single second, in which, things would appear to be working. I'd give everything for a moment that I spent so frivolously before. I'd give anything just to be able to see again. I'd rather be dead than here, and here is where I am forced to stay. No security. Pure jealousy. No love. Just tolerance. No warmth. Just dead relations.
You're playing me like one sided dice.
I brought the hammer down because I thought the nail would bind, and not separate. Who knew I was building myself a waxy casket, with seating for one? Your overcoat will be the wood I need to start the fire. I gave you the bullets you shoot to the targets I made, so the least you could do is poison me.
Heading back to the hole tonight.
hung himself. no more lovely words than those.
THE ARTERY CUT:
To coincide with an influx of self portraits from the ten dimensions, I begrudgingly seat myself next to the laughing mouth. My travels through rejection. I give you my veins. My blood. My death. The artery cut.
Death peaceful unplosion of nonexistent framework. Counting bones with the bones themselves, kept mindful of ones own severance cut, without place or point. Trip where there is no up, fall where there is no down, into the unout.
POINT: DIMENSION ZERO: The artery cut. Dereliction. Deprogramming. The space of no matter, where no measurements can exist. I existed here in a living uterine abortion, underneath the coarse realm of width and height, where numbers exist to count and not to measure. Dull and shallow are the things I have found here, and in unspace, the vacuum distorts the grid, all is absorbed into that single point. A behemoth with a black hole in its gut, sucking down everything, and eventually, the creature will eat itself. Death is not an ending aspect, but simply a termination of a frivolous contract. Take yourself into the imminent black abyss, where all light is lost, and imagine a needle of further darkness to penetrate that lack of anything. Every fiber in the nonexistent being vibrates and pulses with energy, heaving massive mental plasma bolts through nonexistent space. I’m blinded, and then reblinded by further blindness. I can’t find my own eyes in their sockets, utterly numb; I can’t make the saliva to spit. Charred, boundless epithelium.
LINE: DIMENSION ONE: Doubly lost in repeating causality, where the ending arrives before the beginning, so it is considered as just. One second lost into cruelty, no lightwaves to bend, nothing shining, nothing reflecting. Lines based in two connecting coplanar points, based in two nonzero vectors, found unnumber. So the connection between the two points is theoretical, a line drawn just to enable that feeling of bind.
SPLIT: DIMENSION TWO: Just enough room to encase and hold, no space to contain air as a molecule of any matter would be infinitely too large for the plain to withhold. A cut through the mold, kept in an unending scab of width and breadth. A snake does not bite its tail, but its head simply becomes its ending. Unforgiven namesakes and figureheads of impertinent unpower caught on a mobius strip floating without room to bend or contort, simply psychovisual disorientation. I’m kept without room to digest or breathe, in a cage of no resolution and anti-solute dismatter particles. A vector, a motion with direction and place, where I become scalar, floating theoretical particles in dispacial flat chasm drops. Vision ends when the view continues down the previous strip, and collides with the reversal of the eyeballs. Consider the vocal chords themselves, speaking of their own non-existence, like a black hole that sucks itself in, and disallows its own shout of mal-existention.
FOLD: DIMENSION THREE: Now to be kept and hold. Space in time where I am constantly strangled by round trillionths of matter, every moment is a deathwish unfulfilled. Extrasensory blindness and deafness. Numb as the eraser touches the moments of time. Happiness forgot and replaced by dull, white silence. This dimension has failed me, and I have failed it, by applying stress to the single flaw in its vehement design. The matter to touch and to feel, the feeling of applied pressure, of being bound on all parts and torn atom from atom. Ruthlessness of reality purges creation, the death of destruction. My new death is part of a chain reaction of rejections and failures. A goal that I’ve lost all in the struggle to reach. An ending point that consumes all others. Blood drains into warm water, water with width, depth, breadth, containing a place in space, separating itself from me. What vacant hearted chemicals I boast to wash these veins clean of their deviant particles.
LINE: DIMENSION FOUR: Gone are all the little hopes, the bashful entities that kept me from living the life I hid from. New parts from the old future return to alter my past. Nothing can change the failures within life. No witness of the collapse can describe the effects, when there is no willpower in the present, there can be no self duplication in the forth bit of time. Gasped for air that was withheld from me. I’d rather disintegrate to avoid my grave. My past was minor grievances and core dilations, my present is bleak entrenchments of no chance, no hope. My future is inaccessible, like a living death to view inside the webbing of the mind itself. My history of craven longevity. A recreant surrendering of space. Gave up to hopeless will. Heart exploding with jealousy and rage. Uncontrolled release of nothingness.
SPLIT: DIMENSION FIVE: Eyes worn and red from graceless groveling, tears shed to blind wealth. The inner perpetual rotting of never being able to reach and feel the shapes. The twist of my time is no longer personal, but beyond my control. An absence of shape rooted within the true absence of nature, to be forever without is to live not. Timeline facelessly trimmed of all possible hopes, until the branches are sparse and barren, only deviance is in the fantail of the brain matter ejaculating from the back of the skull. Minor incurrence is felt through my bones, where timetravel is a miserable precept because of the horrors of the nature of time itself. Things die and that makes a domino effect of the needing, helpless, weakness that has become the definition of I. Particles collapse by the palpable waves of pure rejection and denial. Observational poison. The split that does not bind, nor shall it ever. A cut of one in two, making one person two dead halves, beheading the weeping before the laughing, if I could endure thrice the pains for a second of nothing, I’d crumble like a fool to the temptations of unexistence.
FOLD: DIMENSION SIX: I spilled out all the matter that I’ve withheld, and I was laughed at. I invest everything and lost it. I gave everything in, I sacrificed and shed flesh, blood, brain, sweat and tears, and I was laughed at. And the laughter continues, because it was done in a manner that will echo, and will not end. Once voice of deception, of enticement, of wantingness, and it has become nothing and everything, simultaneously. The lines that had bound become just falsifications of matter, everything pseudo, everything that would be flesh is plastic, all points of emotion become simple dull tolerance. No structures, no bones, I feel like I am both smashed against concrete and floating in a abyssal plain of self consumption and destruction. I feel equal and infinite perpetual pressure upon all points of my flesh, to the point where there can never be any proper release of self. I have attempted to find the way out before, but the door has been closed, the door has been locked. I refuse this weakness, but still, refusal of a constant force will only bring your head to the asphalt that much faster.
LINE: DIMENSION SEVEN: Laughed at. All possible endings shut. All possible conclusions drawn. All possible beginnings snuffed. All possible hopes dashed. All possible voices silenced. Laughed at
SPLIT: DIMENSION EIGHT: A tame wolf will still lunge for the throat, provided a moment of uncontrol. I’d go back to untame the beast. I’d go back to push my head under the water so that I would not fail the future of my spacetime. I’d go back and do whatever it takes to end this senseless explosion of uncontinuous particles, notes from the forgotten dimension of punishment and cruelty. Pain like I could never believe, heart heavy like pure obsidian, brain shredded liquid matter of unthought. My shut eyes dilate to the new blackness in coming tide. Body gave up. Trapped in this fine glass artery, heartbeat so vulgar and disappointing. Every moment in isolation, even in your company, is torture of another magnitude. Every moment is bitterness and jealousy. I do not want to give up, I do not want to forget, but all possible endings have been halved and have been severed. The death of life is the imminent domain of spatial collapse.
FOLD: DIMENSION NINE: Imbuement in stark absence of color. No point ever had, all points forgot. Instant matter, instant death. The act of mind erasure collected within a new atmosphere of complete distrust. All fingers broken. No part of any universe contains escape, only the unlife promise of stilled death can release from the abjection faced here. I’m waking up hoping to give the time back. Isolation inside a single universe, upon a single planet, in a single deaf house, inside the rattling confines of my empty, brittle skull. Forever withheld and gasping for air. A troubadour of hate and frustration. Vehemence spills forth like turbulent war drums, a jet engine crashing on the garden I tended. To drag a reversal of suicide through the end of the bullet, into the exit wound, leaving through the entrance. Reanimate death. Become life. All parts ending in dimensional glitch betrayal.
POINT: DIMENSION TEN: Heavy light. My all parts forgot. My insides out, cards up. Knives in. Withhold all thoughts. All parts of everything caught up in a single immeasurable instance. Everything once is not, nothing now is. Bones break by nothing’s weight. Spent. Burnt. The lure of forgiveness grasped. It was fake. It was a lie. A spite-driven tease. The will of that which wants me to suffer. The artery cut.
To be without forever. I’d rather be dead.
I’d rather be dead.
Trapped in quantum stupidity. Sorry I brought myself up from the fall.
Put me down like a dog. Make me your ashtray. Anything else. Uncaring. I never mattered. Himself hung.
Kill life.
w.
8.23.07
Funeral Wreath
Drink me in. I wear death like love like a funeral wreath. The inside out of those outside the in. Kept me awake and drawing in indigents this whole time, just teasing myself to believe my own personal anticlimactic hype. Take your fists and beat my muscles down to tenderize my flesh. Prepare me like a dinner, and even if you didn’t know how, I’d take you in under my wing, and teach you how to cook me. Cut off my skin, smash me, roast me, fry me, kill me, eat me. For you, I’d work myself to death, smashing rocks, building bridges out of bones. I’d break each finger off; I’d crush my bones with the hot kiss of a fresh cinder block. I’d kill a man to dig it all up. Find the pipeline. Hit gas, hit oil, hit a vein, strike blood. Old crude vulgarity.
I guess paranoia has eaten me alive. I’ve become the thing that I hated more than the thing I thought I wanted to be. Now I’m nothing but lines of text and pixels caught in a dying moment of solidarity, each second like the first card hitting the second in the fall of the house of cards, like the moment one particle of phosphorus ignites the next, on the head of a struck match. Here is the consummation of every moment I’ve lived, but it’s not worth a dime. I can’t pay my rent with it. I can’t impress myself with it. It’s just an empty dagger with teeth to show through. I want the production to stop. I want to have a funeral where the rail workers stop driving nails into the surface, and drive their sledges straight into my skull. I want my fellow miners to be found with their pickaxes dug deep into my back. I want to be nothing again. I want to be in that same blissful second of confused, blind, excruciating pain.
Hey you. I want to control every aspect of your life. I want to make you nothing, and then fall into this trap all over again. I want to stick my fingers in the way of the axe. I want to bite my own tongue off and swallow it, with your wedding ring. I want to tear down your curtains and burn them. I want to control, destroy, and make a nest out of soot and ruin. I want to know your thoughts and then prove to you that I know, just to scare you into not thinking anything ever again, just to scare you away from me. I want to drive myself to suicide because of my unending need for control over you. I don’t know what is healthy. I don’t know what is wise. I just keep going and going, and I never stop to learn, I never stop to think. I’m the fool in you, the fool you dug out so long ago.
You’re a white, white waste of my collective calories. When you hallucinate, do you see me? I’d be the ghost in your machine. Kept up upkeep of gathered parts, randomized bits of dead matter formulating a fuller unhuman picture. I’m something lesser, something more and hollowed out from datablockers. A cannibal beat to death by fists of knowledge and evisceration, I’m a monster maker of waterdeath and cancereating. A dead bird kicked out of heaven for requesting a longer cut of eternity. Someone kill my ego, please, it sickens me to the point of black-asphalt vomit. Now I’ve divided by zero. The mine carts are no longer found bustling over with gold ore and unrefined silver, now but bones, a constant and unrelenting pull from the center of the mine.
Nothing ever seems to work. So I take my pick ax and leave the real world. I’d work myself to death to get back my old sense of security, my old sense of place. I would. Now nothing can be made, and I don’t have the energy to destroy. In the same gust that dropped me off in this empty mineshaft, I’m gone.
MWNL.
W.
8.21.07
BLOOD SACRIFICE
Paranoia, why don’t you eat me alive? Put your chip in my neck. Wash that tongue, guilty as you feel, free like a prisoner in a top-hat factory. Put BBs down the gullet and choke like sympathy victims of dead nonsense plagues of ineffective subconcretion. Paranoia, why don’t you eat me alive? There is no love left in my life to feed my fire, of course, my forehead burns with headache, heart bustles to push the units through. A system in foundry, purely arrhythmic tangential machinations of human combine flesh. Cells and pixels deactivated, reenlisted as fragmented subtangent plains of unblack polyphony.
Heard harpy voices like air raid sirens of earbleeding. Cut open at the ribcage and peeled back until the pelt could be saved. The only useful part of the human being is found it the termination of the life contract. Shed skin like the snake you are, cut tongue into two hot bloody halves to replicate the enemy, feel the blood warm those cold, icy teeth, many broken off at the gumline from years of physical abuse, bricks, pipes, hammers, fists taken straight to the jaw. Steam shoots from open eyes as acid and hot asphalt make broiling-cum-ejaculations from the open mental cavity. Brain wormy, rotting, folding into infinite parts unconfined. Left me here all alone with a pencil, paper, a razor, and magnifying lens. Every cut and every drop of blood on my carapace is harvested and used to the potential beyond the unliving. Subconsious living death machine. Left little marks up and down the haired part of my arm, not concerned with life or death, just making incisions, drawing blood with natural parts, and cauterizing the wound closed. Suicide, homicide, abortion, death. The needy will die. The greedy will die. The overzealous will die. The zealotry will end when all zealots fight, struggle, and die. The belief contract of the living man will be made no more. The acid in the atmosphere will broil the blood from the rivers and lakes of no-mans land. Disimagination of subatomic principles, bending lighttimes will. Insidous news cancers, open the pores, open the skin, open the flesh, dash out the eyes, remain awake.
Smear the lipstick off. You’re useless without your face on. I’d wear your skin for an ego boost over my superiority. Knees only. No teeth left to bite through the restraints. Like an angel chained down, beaten with hammers to within an inch of it's life, spat on, and raped. I’m sure you’d gnaw your wrists off to free yourself from death.
Suicide//Homicide//Abortion//Filicide//Patricide//Matricide
MAKE WAR NOT LOVE.
BLOOD SACRIFICE.
W.
8.18.07
give the lit matches back to the forest
Sisyphus gave me his heart i gave him mine and kept it.
i guess this is going to hurt tomorrow, too. i inebriate spite in a[n] [un]fit of love. fingers so expensive. Knucklesuck. Dumb of me to beg an empty gown. Dumb of me to sew without a needle. Dumb of me to try without thinking. Dumb of me to continue without going. Dumb of me to love without Kevlar. dumb of me to fall down. dumb of me to stand up.
sewage so bright
substance of light
a fit; epileptic
shiver of spite.
mwnl.
w.
8.14.07
That's right kids, I'm back from my travels. From the trip, I've assembled a photographic journalistic barrage of events, places, ideas, and imperfections documenting my perfect descent into the Old World.
First off, I ended up in Amsterdam for a 9 hour layover. I arrived just in time for the Gay Pride parade. I think. Maybe it's just every day in Amsterdam where there are boatloads of flamboyant homosexuals gyrating and thrusting, in slightly-too-small yachts. I hadn't realized how loud the house techno was, how hard the gay was, and how many well-oiled men were giggling and prancing about along the harbor until I was waiting in line for the Anne Frank house. While I was in the house, roaming around, rereading all the old diaries of this young little girl, I began to realize what an awesome girlfriend Anne Frank would've made. Seriously, she's totally adorable, she's smart, she's got aspiration, and she's actually following through with her dreams. Erm.
Nevermind.
After that, it was lunch, and I realized that, in Europe, there is certainly no shortage of beautiful women there. It was basically a non-stop parade of some of the most jaw-dropping gorgeous women on the face of the earth. I was stunned, really, I was. And I felt like a fool, because they were all leaps and bounds smarter than me, speaking multiple languages with such flow that I could never obtain. Not only were they attractive, in a manner that some stateside girls can be, but they were simply kindhearted and polite. In America, I noticed that I don't ever get eye-contact with anyone on the street. No one ever seems to smile on random notice. Not that way for me in Europe. Ladies smiled at me, Men smiled at me, it was all good. Even when I was being thrust upon by some pierced-bronzed body with an accent thicker than the Ozone isn't.
There were plenty of street performers in Amsterdam. Some of them would pose for pictures with kids, others would simply stand there and look cool, like a dinosaur in a museum. But unlike dinosaurs, one guy was painted gold, and he had an orange Mohawk. Contact me if you've found a dinosaur like this. Oh, and there was a store that was selling this super-processed bright orange slop in a pale white bread bun. It wasn’t too far from anything you could get in America, hereinafter referred to as ‘Merica, and the product was called MEATBEEF. I found this to be rather amusing. I didn’t eat any, as you’d have guessed. During lunch, we had a short song played live for us by a wandering accordionist. It wasn’t long before he was told off by our waitress. He honked a sad song at us, then left. We saw him walk away; each step released a hoot from his dangling accordion. He was a hero.
Later on, we boarded for a brief jump over to Zurich. We arrived a bit later in the day, and, with an accumulated 100+ kilograms of pack to move, we decided that it was time to head to the hostel. This proved to be a bigger challenge than we anticipated. We headed for about hour in the opposite direction, without water or sense of place until we were told that we were on the wrong side of town. A thick gloom settled over the group. We found our way over to the hostel, unpacked quietly, and then I enjoyed a half sandwich and something called Tuc. Think club crackers, but less butter, and better for you. Tasty.
Later on, in the hostel, I was found out, taken miles away to a fake artshow, and then I was progressively tortured until the man who cut off my fingers slipped on my blood, then I escaped in a new suit, with a Cyclops asian girl who killed herself in a trainyard, then I cut off the fingers of salad freak, roll credits. Wait. No, that was the plot of some movie, not reality. Shit.
Now is about high time that I introduced the crew that I traveled with. My aunt Jan, a criminal psychotherapist. We played every cardgame we knew to within an inch of it’s life. She used to be a punk girl, boots, short hair, an all that good shit. My mother, who planned this trip, things like that. She makes cakes for a living, as I make bread a la Charlie Gordon. My brother Logan, who is studied and read young man, also, a dick. His girlfriend Gabrielle, a wonderful young woman who has made a certain mistake by stooping so low for my brother. I forgive her because she’s memorized most all the Beastie Boys lyrics. She can recite them on command. Pretty romantic.
Our first sunlit day in Zurich was spent wandering about, and the crew eventually found ourselves at a prestigious museum, befronted by the gates of Hell. I learned a lot at this museum, several massive rooms, exhaustingly studied pieces of existentialism, breathtaking realism, mind-boggling surrealism. I’ll take this with me.
So, in Europe I learned some new things. First of all, I didn’t know that someone in ‘Merica leaked the secret of electricity to them. I really didn’t know that they had lights, and all of that, so when I tried to bring my lighters and kindling onto the plane, the guards bugged me about it. I asked them how I was supposed to eat without cooking my food? What if there are no campfires left in England? Some people don’t think. Also, they had bikes by the dozens there. I found it very wasteful and typical of this new non-non-recyclable culture. Haven’t they heard of fossil fuel? It’s like magic, you put a bunch of liquid bones in your car and turn it on, the bones become movement, you go to the place you want to be, and the bones vanish. It’s incredible, but no, the Europeans insist that my bonejuice is hurting the planet. Whatever, I’ll just use their bones to run them over so I can use their bones to run them over.
Then there was this jester guy. The crew and I were watching the waters, eating some pasta or something, then this jingling spandex man came a-prancing by me. I followed him. He danced and his bells rattled atop his head. Someone convinced him to jump off the bridge, into the water, and he came up bleeding. I’ll bet he picked up some pretty awesome venereal diseases in there. Mmm mmm.
Eventually, I found myself overlooking a scape of all Zurich had to offer. There were people playing chess on massive scales, and some playing on regular scale. The trees set a nice shadow, filtering the final rays of the setting sun. There was a bee drinking water, too.
We made our way back home, and I slept. The next morning, we purchased fresh fruits and sandwich making elements, as we had a long trainride on this day. An old woman dropped a bottle of water, and I picked it up for her. When she looked up she smiled a crooked smile and sputtered out an excessively audible ‘DANKE’ It was about this point that I began my confused foray to decode the German language for my crew. I was the only one who knew any German, anyways.
The train ride was entertaining. The landscape got progressively more rocky and mountainous, and the train ride itself was eventually nearly stroboscopic given the amount of tunnels we went through. When we stopped, I stepped out onto one of the most beautiful landscapes I’ve ever damn seen. The Bernese mountains, the highest part of the Swiss alps, capped by the Jungfrau peak. After lunch, the rest of the day was spent in wandering and amazement by the intensity of the new world into which I had been so softly dipped, like a banana, into chocolate. I chatted with a woman who, in her day [1950’s] had scaled the entire range of mountains before us. It began to rain, so we talked until it let up.
The next morning, I awoke to a very bizarre scene. The room I was in was completely eaten alive by fog. The clouds had dropped from above the mountain, and they’d poured rain all night. The entire town was soaked, and my vision was limited, but it made for some amazing photography. I left for some walks with the crew, and we founds some chickens, a couple cows, and a sedated squadron of goats. Following that, we boarded the longest gondola in Europe, to take us up into the clouds. The gondola ride took a half an hour in it’s entirety to complete, dumping us at the soaked peak of the mountain. We had first believed that we could travel upwards, above the rain [not my belief, I assure you] but we had actually traveled directly into the rain cloud. See the photos for better details. In the cloud, we found ourselves surrounded, outnumbered, by cows. Each on slowly, quietly chewing their cud, watching us as they pass. Another thing I love about Switzerland is the fact that they fit all of their cows with this large ornate bells, so as I walked, there was this orchestra of near and distant cow-bell clanking. Pretty soothing, actually. So, we tried to find this fabled waterfall and lake, and only halfway there we realized that we wouldn’t be able to see either the lake or the waterfall in this thick fog.
The next day, we shuffled aboard a train, aimed for Prague, our next and final stop on this tour. There were a few shifts in travel, transfers and whatnot, and nothing interesting happened until were robbed on way through Germany. We fell asleep in three split cars, and bandits breached and snatched up purses and wallets during our slumber. They must have been sneaky, because I’m a very light sleeper. Only a couple hundred marks were taken all together, and my aunt’s camera, with images of this trip and of her travels into India. Unfortunate, true, but the passports and jewelry was saved.
Then, we step off the train, my first footstep into the Czech Republic, Prague. First off, Prague is probably the most depressing place I’ve been to in a while. The first thing I saw was oceans of trash, unhappy people, and greasy, nasty food. And more barbed wire. Secondly, what kind of language is Czech? I mean, sometimes Spanish sounds like latin, sometimes you can sound out words and figure out what they’re getting at, but not Czech. It’s all consonants and dashes. I don’t think they can even understand it, it’s insane. Third, what kind of currency is the crown? I changed my 30 USD into about 25 franks, that makes sense, but when it got changed to crown, suddenly I had 310 credits sitting in my pocket! Lunch cost 1000+ crown! Come on now, they even have these little tiny one crown pieces that are worth about as much as a Conan O’Brien monologue. That’s beyond my understanding, really. It is.
So, Prague is hot. I stopped seeing so many amazingly beautiful women, and I started seeing a lot of desperately poor people. Prague has elements to it that are unlike any other big city, it’s a bit like Charlie Gordon from Flowers for Algernon in a way, because the city is big, it’s got all the pieces of new technology, but it’s simply not structured in a way that it could handle the new westernized culture. I felt like I was walking through a populous Chernobyl or Pripyat at times, given the sheer amount of old Soviet buildings and statues that remained standing.
One thing about Prague was they’re metal scene. It was incredible. They had flyers for NIN and Marilyn Manson dashed up everywhere, and if you looked, you could even find flyers for Meshuggah. That made me happy. I tore down a Meshuggah flyer and I keep it right by my bed. But, outside of that they were having his massive assault festival with Satyricon[I got a poster of them, too], Deicide, Madball, Pain, Vader, Gorgoroth[!!!], Suffocation, Katatonia, Immolation, Dismember, All That Remains, Enslaved, Misery Index, Made By The Fire, and of course, Meshuggah. I heard that Dimmu Borgir even decided to come down. I’d pay good cash to see that show.
It rained every day in Prague, making it hard to mobilize and see the sights. We did see many different art exhibits, including the Kafka Museum and the Saint Vitus Cathedral, which was amazing. The entire cathedral was easily the biggest one-room structure I’ve ever been in, decorated lavishly with near infinite coatings of gold and silver, adorning each and every statue of notable pope, bishop, apostle, and each rendition of Christ that stood, dotting each open corner of the church. Massive, huge stained glass windows, organs, crosses and chandeliers decorated this place of worship. There were dozens of tombs, crypts, and standing graves for past bishops who’d attended their masses. It’s unfortunate that the spent so much time and money on such frivolous cause, unworthy of any true attention. Catholics, I tell you.
Our Hostel here was of the lowest caliber I’d seen so far. The walls were concrete painted orange and yellow, the cots were damp and lumpy, and my pillow was stained with blood. We were on the edge of the street that was currently being resurfaced, so every morning, noon and night we would be keep awake by the relentless grinding and churning of heavy machinery. You know those Russians, they can take a common mans machine, and make it twice as heavy, half as fast. Free breakfast was served in the basement. The breakfast was burnt coffee and bread, and sugary jam if you wanted it. No one did.
I saw a lot of old historical villages from the WWII ghettos. Lots of old synagogues, and most importantly, The Old Jewish Cemetery, in which, the Nazi’s had only given the Jews in the community a small lot to bury their dead. Soon enough, the lot was full, and the old graves had to be dug up for new ones. Eventually, by the end of the war, the cemetery has become a tangled jumble of graves, each one responsible for dozens of corpses beneath.
There was a massive public park upwards in Prague. It had been completely taken over by rogue skateboarders, who actually had some notable talent in their sport. Even though skateboarding is more of a fashion than a sport, they had some respectable tricks up their sleeves. At this point in my trip I realized a little secret about myself. Whenever I see skateboarders, at least three or four, at least, roaming around, trying to one up each other, all I can think of is how much I want to see one of them get struck by a big bolt of lightning. Like, hard, so that his wheels and trucks get blasted off his board, his piercings shooting out of his skull like fragments of steel from a pineapple grenade.
This point, I was walking around with Gabe and Logan, and it was decided that whenever we needed to head in a direction, and we were absolutely sure of it, we had to yell THAR! And point in the direction we were going to head. Past that, I found a bunch of nice medium goth and hard goth stores, plus a bunch of designer outlet stores full of hopelessly expensive clothing that I could pretend to afford. Finishing the day, we saw a live concert of Brahms, performed by what appeared to be two twin sisters who thoroughly enjoyed their own performance. I love Brahms, but now I’ve found new respect for piano duets. Probably one of the best I’ve seen in a while.
The next morning began the longest day in my goddamned life. Literally. I awoke at six in the morning, in Prague, and I immediately began to pack up all of my belongings. I boarded onto a taxi, and the crew and I headed out for the airport. We waited in line for about an hour before we flew from Zurich to Amsterdam, a three hour flight. After a two hour layover, we boarded a plane to take us from Amsterdam, across the ocean, to Minneapolis, a nine hour flight. Through the most rigid turbulence I’ve ever felt, the PA system crackled a brief message that made my stomach sink: “Chhht…if there is a doctor on board…please come to row 28.” First thing I thought: “SNAKES.” We arrived and waited an hour before we boarded the early plane that would take us from Minneapolis to Omaha, IE, home, but there were complications. I guess NWA[Northwest Airlines, not Niggaz with Attitude] has some bizarre union contract where they can only fly so man hours before they can no longer continue. We were grounded in Des Moines, Iowa. The captain turned off the seatbelt light, and told us what was happening. He said that he knew that he couldn’t take us all the way to Omaha, but he didn’t really feel like telling us. Also, he said he wouldn’t open the cargo bay for peoples luggage. Right then, I heard, seriously, an old woman say that her heart medication was in her baggage, and she needed it to live. The captain shrugged and said he was “Sorry, but really, nothing I can do.” Right, dick. If you’ve got this lady’s corpse on your plane you’ll damn sure open up the cargo bay to store it in there.
So we rented a car and drove home. The story doesn’t end here, because when we got home we found that a tree had fallen on our house, its branches poking huge holes in the ceiling of my house. Odd, I know.
All in all, the trip was wild, the women were lovely, the food was good, and the outlets were DC.
Check out the pictures, and check out the video on my youtube channel --link
Thanks.
MWNL
Winslow
8.3.07
NO REST FOR THE WESTERNER
Tonight I board a gun aimed for the heart of Zürich and parts beyond. Armed with new meaning and visceral purpose of a vast mutuality within acrimony and spite, I engage the full paradox with a new camera [Canon a640], new lights [with which I will cast tangible shadows], and the most painful action that the world has ever seen. Beset with the dark new light brought forth by heralding misanthropic philosophical abominations, forbidden by design and beyond the human plain, carrying an unjust blight of the dissolute Hippocratic oath, I am to step foot in the same soil that the planets most feared dictators have stepped. Consider this: I'll be plunging my cloven heel into the same boot print of a young Adolph Hitler, walking silently with his Mauser1892 across his bony shoulder blades, pensively awaiting the swirling black delusions within the confines of his frightened, effeminate mind to manifest themselves in the face of caustic peace before him. With that, I hope that his persistence against human presence will still remain in the air, for me to absorb. The cosmic drifts of Acherontic wrath that he shed in vain, and in Krakow, Stalingrad, Paris and so forth, to be found, and kept. I insist that the hate sucks me up and drains my last remaining parts of humanity. Only then, may I refine it past the ludicrous constructs of Antisemitism, and nationalism. There is a certain dread beyond our keeping, a certain auspice held by those internal grotesqueries…the churning of your stomach would never occur if it was not for the flesh you ate, the blood you drank.
With the sickle, I cut the swastika down from its perch. With the hammer, I bend the bars into shape. In my travels to Hell, I will either be damned, or I will bring the damned back with me. I pull the stray bullets from the chamber, through the flock. If guns cause violence, violence causes peace…so; guns do cause violence, but not enough for my desired path. A warless soldier touched my neck. He was contagious. He fired an arrow to the side of my sow, the gangrenous amputee culled from the flock for what I’d scribed as ‘quantum leaps’, to test the defeats of transplant. It bled out the ether. Intoxicated on the fruits of the first kill, we aptly drank and ate from what was left of the enigmatic corpse. Lulled into a sub-comatose twilight dreamstatus, I dreamt that I was counting orbiting stars…and multiplying their distances and weights, their mutual pull upon one another, and finding the common center of mass. I dreamt I had awoken in a hot flash, sweat pouring from my brow long enough for me to realize that it was blood from the lobotomy, and not beads of that salty saline solution that stained the garbs of my cot, and the satin of a thousand others. A five pointed star in pallid sweat, and a sharp dagger of burnt brown blood spitting forth from the open wound that I did so much nothing to repair. Who knew flashbulbs couldn’t sew stitches to keep the fetus from bursting forth? From the dream I awake into a world of start virginity, the icy reality that has done a notable job of keeping my mind on track and in denial. So, the blood wasn’t real. Well, the blood was real, but the thousands of beds? False. My cot? True. Stitches? That was just a fantasy of mine. Something else I should tell you, but I don’t have time for it now. The blood was real though...as I said. Down my chest, into the snow, bright red patches of steaming fluid. I coursed my fingers up past my brow to find that, not long after the my temples, the skull simply stopped. My brain was gone, and the top of my skull upside down, partially concealed in the depression of snow. The soldier hadn’t shown face… I guess he fled too. He was no longer warless. He had procured my mind in place of his own, and now, he’d fight, suffer, and die within each moment. My war now his. My world dislocated. The sky, darkened by flak, the snow, blackened by pollution. No wind in the air, no current in the rivers. Standstill. Earth depopulated. Sucked sere of resources. So goes the war.
I’ll kill him and get my war back. Happiness isn’t a warm gun. It’s a cold hand.
The old world cringes as the black gives birth to my light.
MAKE WAR. NOT LOVE.
WINSLOW.
7.30.07
TWO HUNDRED AND SEVEN//YOU WILL EAT YOURSELF
TWO HUNDRED AND SEVEN:
TASTE ON MY LIPS. LIKE URINE. I HEARD YOU SCREAM THROUGH THE GRAPEVINE. POISONED, LICKED. YOUR PISS CLEANS THE BLOOD FROM MY HANDS. BURNING HOLES IN THE TIMESPACIAL.
FORGETFULNESS NEVER. ALWAYS RECALL. IN AGONY. IN DECEIT.
YOU HAVE HANDED ME THE GUN.
I AIM TOWARDS YOUR SKULL. YOUR EYES FALL UPON THE MUZZLE.
207. YOU WILL EAT YOURSELF. I WILL SHIT YOU OUT.
MAKE WAR. DO NOT MAKE LOVE.
WINSLOW
PART II
YOU WILL EAT YOURSELF:
MWNL.
FROM THIS BLACK BOX WARNING HOLE OF HADES... I SHOUT TO YOU; THE READER. MY FINEST APOLOGIES FOR BEING SO BRASH AND SO COARSE... BUT DARK TIMES CALL FOR BLACK MATTER.
...
I'm so tired of this. It's finally over, and I can't tell you what it is.
Legal reasons, and a volley of death threats aimed at me. Serious ones.
Shit you wouldn't believe. Excuse my recent profanity...it's unlike me, but drastic moments make butchers of ballerinas.
The last thing I heard, and I'm being entirely serious, I'm not looking to shock, I'm not looking for attention, or to impress, the last thing I heard over the phone was screaming of at least four different people, then a loud muffled striking noise, the screaming got drastically louder, and then nothing.
Empty, cold silence. It says volumes.
So, for you, I cough up 14 of my blackest and most ethereal pieces to date. Each is in sync with the next. If you look, you'll see, the get exponentially blacker, bit by bit. The beginning, I am in the outline, and quickly, nothing else is. Just a blur of cosmic anger and hate.
YOU WILL EAT YOURSELF//TWO-HUNDRED AND SEVEN
TWO HUNDRED AND SEVEN
HERE IS A SHOVEL FOR YOU [GO DIG YOUR GRAVE]
BLACK MAGNET//GET ON YOUR HANDS AND KNEES
This is a good way to kick the coffin into the grave. This is a good way of saying goodbye and good riddance. This isn't me leaving, this is me shrugging off a sick, subhuman, me pushing this gilded paraplegic pedophile off my back.
You know who you are.
And for those of you who are wondering what I used to make these pictures, they're technically photography. I got my new camera in the mail, and it was badly damaged, so the images came up heavily fractalized...though, for these pictures, it was my hours of work to perfect them, not simply a chance creation of faulty equipment.
Laughter, laughter, laughter. The gun cocks.
MAKE WAR, NOT LOVE.
WINSLOW.
7.28.07
I consume infinitely of nothing, and I watch the numbers skyrocket. Stomach barren and full, my ribs bowing and stretching outward. Complacent hopes of thought drift downstream and into the gut. I eat nothing outside the cosmos confined, and I feel like puking it all up. No longer lustful, no libido [a drive which there never was room for], and a hand from the hole reaches up to pull the fist. Something kept me from breathing. Something kept me from chance, from hope. I descended into the grave I’d dug myself with digital paradigms of self destruction and within that pit; I dug another hole, a grave within a grave. When she planted those flowers, she called it a burial. Nothing is as it seemed back then, the past eats the future, the future digests the old spirituals. I can’t believe I held that hand.
Love asks and is smothered by blanket affection. Hypocrite bloodstream unrestrained. Inbred lies found their wings at the jumping off point. I built this coffin for the two of us. Either I’m getting fatter or this world is getting smaller—or I’ve gone insane. The neck chokes the throat. My bitter half told me that she had a paralyzing fear of spiders, and I was the spider that feared her paralysis. The bolt drops to the floor, and with it, the other shoe. I can only breathe when someone is sucking at my neck. The light of life is dead. In lieu of the last dance being so manic and frightened, I saved for you, the Saint Vitus…the drugs dictate the decidation of the corpse. I don’t touch them, but I’ve been touched. When asked about the abuse, I pointed to the eyes of the voodoo mask. Bite me until I bleed. Pain is not pleasure. Contract this disease. I’ve written a shallow mess that I have become.
I’m just saying I could never dance to this kind of calamity. Orchestrated chaos is perfection in C minor; something of a bone-rattling ruckus from deep down within…maybe I’d feel the blood move me if I only had a heart.
What wrath have I wrought with my cards? Unknowing. Data absent but vivid memories within my pedopolis playhouse. Betrayal. Come touch me and prove your worth. Invalid shutterbug, you’d never make it by your own rules. Quit. Decide. Corpus enigmatic. Keep it on the shutdown; I’d love to meet my better half if she even had a name. I’ll push my finger down your throat, hit the button, drop the bomb. What I would give to surpass fear and terror. This is it. I’ve become it, finally, a product of insecure society wants and dead-wants. Neediness is ill-regarded as temporary insanity. I could only assume that my disestablishmentarianism is a product of such nonsense…but I’ve been kept and decorated like a Christmas tree. You’re only here for the bottom half; the gifts, the toys. Watch yourself loosely, as the fetid humors leak from the gaping clasp-wound, angels watch you sleep and drink, somnambulist, hear my call. I’ll push my head back up inside to hide the pain. I’d run through barbed wires to avoid being dropped headlong into them. Again. Just another aspect of a failed upbringing. I’d stoop to your level but my knees are superimposed holographs of promises of a [blemishkeeper.] My record has become cleaned. I’ve gasped my last past gasp. I want to see progress into turmoil.
Damned under medical Behemoth.
Future anxiety torments.
Unilateral neglect grows youthful.
So, they say you can never pinpoint the moment you snap. It’s a long, long battle of mental and emotional breakdown that leads to one single point of explosion. I’ve found my fuse. I spent hours today, in the blistering sunlight, in the concrete jungle that surrounds the Hole with the fender of a dilapidated old Chrysler trying to dig up those bones. I found a femur and a few teeth. Never found the skull. Still. I’m stuck here. Under my desk, holding my head. Taping my mouth shut, pinching my nose. Pleased to slide the needles in to inoculate…to run away is to find shelter of treason.
Marching towards my death.
The sun sets, the ocean boils.
MWNL.
Winslow.
6.22.07
CORPUS ENIGMATIC//DARK PHYSICS
DARK PHYSICS RELEASE NOTE //HOW TO BUY PRINTS
CORPUS ENIGMATIC:
I drink from the cask you left me within. An inebriatory yolk of infinite uselessness, to be fatherless, motherless. Touch the skin. Plant seeds.
So the feeling to be hated again. Life used as a weapon. Revenge against collaboration. Self lost in a burst of searing malevolent spite, finally approaching the zeroed cancerous auspice only to find that the sacrifices don't add up to worthy points. Blithering cold, guttural heat. No longer a usable drone, no parts for salvage. Pitting my heel to the side of the skull, kicking it down. As my life and world shudders to pieces, as I leave the third dimensional vector, I care not, I cease not. I've become forth dimensional, and the things that kept me from living in the past life can no longer interact with me on the same plain; I've escaped the joys and the miseries of my life by neutralizing the thing that kept me from living it. I've embraced what it is that keeps me from continuing.
trapped in a gust of solid guilt.
So I won't return home for about a week now. Less than that. I miss the foundries that kept me from satisfaction and happiness. I taste quicksand and I sleep in a den of pure ambiguity. Only recently I've stumbled upon certain revelations that could alter the existence of this entire home, in which, I sleep. Fittingly, I puked out the cadaver and slept into forgetfulness. My mind is alive and is constantly devouring itself, erasing my memories, binge/purge.
A dichotomy of fear and weakness. A glutton of self-eating, self-puking. Amnesiac thief taking only from himself, until, somehow, he has nothing.
DARK PHYSICS:
So far from home. Never felt so disambiguated. Crawling through it. Body knotted, heart into million pieces; fractalized. I dislocate my jaw and swallow the pink sword and scratch the tissue, a period becomes a comma.
Homeless and broken down in to a series of unmoving particles. Subatomic still life. I don’t eat words. My mouth is red from crying, read from crying. I’d like these tears on the rocks. Sometimes no means just a cigar. If you knew you couldn’t keep it down, would you still eat it all up? It’s a long, crooked scolioarthritic spine to travel for normalcy. I was invited into the mouth and I stayed overdosed to maintain my comatose. Five elevators and three long jumps later, i found myself bathed in myself, trying to find an exit or existential paradigm strong enough to contain me, weakenough to not dissolve me on contact. So I smashed my fingers and let the fabric rift inside of me. I let the black hole suck me in. Now I feel that I am nowhere.
DARK PHYSICS RELEASE NOTE:
DARK PHYSICS has been released, dictating the timeline of my recent travels...all 81 shots, from 'SQUEEZING BLOOD FROM A STONE' to 'MOURNING FOG' are available for your viewing pleasure on my deviantart account, found here.
HOW TO BUY PRINTS:
Following that, I realized that my shots had only the barest selling capabilities, they were only open to sell a few different [and pricey] sizes. I revisited each shot and opened every sized to be ready for purchase! Now everything, from The Heart String Theory to Cruelty, from The New Flesh, to FUNERAL, DARK PHYSICS and so on are open for sale! Some prints are only two or three dollars, so go ahead, buy some. All you need to do to purchase a print of my photography is to visit my deviantart account, go to my gallery, find the print you like, and click the red "BUY THIS PRINT" button. Again, some are only a few bucks. So, hey.
I'll see you in Hell.
MWNL.
WINSLOW
7.2.07
THE CHICAGO BOMBARDMENT
THE INHUMAN, SHREDDING AGONY OF BECOMING FORTH DIMENSIONAL
I’ve heard that my cruelty knows know bounds. I said it could never truly be kept.
For those of you in my dearest Chicago, hide your houseplants, and don’t bother to water your lawn, as blight approaches. Ah, from the festering pools I’ve woken and stretched, contorting my ego into a lame, boneless leg that I must drag behind myself, never to extradite for fear of bleeding the self to death. In my mental cabinet, nailed high above my own reach, the poisons and fine spirits are kept and controlled like hypnotized, circus trained rats. The quake shakes, the cabinet breaks, the fluid takes, from mouth puke spake: War brings black glory. For a moment, rules apply, but now, none other shall speak. Into this lagoon, I step, my foot, gangrenous and planted deep in a slowly filling creeper. I sink into this muck and I fear never leaving it.
Invertabration psychosis intellattack. What remains of my humanity creeps out from beneath me, from the cracks of my crumbling foundation. What have I become? I lost my sense of reflection long ago, never bothering to check its origin, never bothering to check its destination. What is left of my dignity just drank itself to death, what is left of my pride just shot itself in the foot, crawled into the bathtub, and smothered it’s life away with the sizzling, cracking, popping remains of a half-empty [or half-full, really.] bottle of bleach. What becomes of the body? Nothing much, for dignity, it stagnates at the acrid dry pit of his kidney shaped pool, coincidentally from his kidney shredding booze binge that left him so damaged in the first place. For pride, he kept the drain plugged and in his seizure struggle, gasping for air and solace, his bone-and-acid hand turned the hot water on, leaving his body to boil over, prepare itself a fine broth two hours later, and to eventually become very overcooked, past al-dente, and his home to flood, leaving his corpse clear down the stairs, propped in an anatomically impossible position against a stack of undelivered newspapers. For my body, a little less occurs. I can feel my own colors, my figurative and literal outlines become more and more blurred, stretching and quivering beneath my own skin. The blue sheen fades away from the red; I feel the fractal exposure behind me, in front of me, as me. I’m slowly leaving this dimension
The pains of becoming fourth dimensional. Dali crucified a man to a hypercube, and I’ll crucify a hypercube with flashing piss-light. Superstrobic effection affection droning out the sounds of undiluted silence echo. Unsure of self. Unsure of existence. Studying to find the superstring tether to tug myself back to reality. Finding an umbilical twisted into a fuse. Shredding the pointed end to create a frayed timeframe continuum triplicate. I have never led an honest life. The numbers pound through me like bolts into the steel bonework of a rising, crumbling prison/prism. From the way out, through the comatose pleasures, I dine upon the fruit of thy womb…I can’t bear it much longer. Before three months ago, I never truly understood what it is to be hurt, to understand pure human misery and sadness, where I was reduced quickly to nothing, and from there I maintained a sense of maddening depression that launched me headfirst, into a brick wall. Now pains can’t seem to define my stasis. Growi5g, p33s9ng, 9 31n fe53476351825621543839525551284712959529 9519371951257952896378116392197295138957 1975139571381959513296566234691154353333 1933312591265673645154364713295695925374 5933976692366469366945933971719269642858 5192236645671541236645673645136521954552 6663518451296754269459153949512543594591 5365357213931854495436529633542647591154 1799922313255542694552561359212547519179 9541543839523664652857145455295635329651 9525493417657171551492517191192938519235 5382354264512869349195547914514379451355 4433297357192135381579573546495775975231 33714697863166954591293329526 p3a3e. Graves dug. I descend.
But for the rest of you, I’m leaving. For some of you, I’ll return. Chicago, watch out.
And of course, I've uploaded dozens of new abortions to my online expornogalleria, right here.
START WARS. CONTINUE SLAUGHTER. STOP LOVE. DISCONTINUE PRODUCTION.
MAKEWARNOTLOVE.
WINSLOW.
6.29.07
These are the blackened years.
With the beat of a heart comes the beat of a drum. War has been born through inanity; subphysical schism violently strikes down the center of the carapace. So medicated and maddened, I have become nothing, and whatever it is, I know now that I hate it.
Nerves shattered by the pitch semi-translucence, the howl of the steam ejaculating from dilated pores. Chitinous exacerbator of data inaccuracy, born into the epoch of subjective conclusions.
Bleed it out. My sense of self, my sense of purpose. Revenge? Not likely. Insufferable cuts along the dotted line, the reason love stagnated is misappropriated fact against doping and hoping. Like that, the magnets in her knees switched, and the legs snapped shut. Not even the lies are true, lest their corrections. Pass off your vulgar sweat, your red hands, unto me, like a gift of momentum to knock the corpse off the throne. Unfightable wars you wage against unsuitable kinds. Lick your wounds, taste your pus. The sin, the fall from grace. I laugh as I touch no gun, no switch, not my machinery but yours, and my jealousy never became. It failed me, those millions miles away. With this, I baptize you into failure, into acid.
But not so fast, nor so sober. This acid was brewed by your own fermenting tears. Now, in your prison of establishment, I hope your hair will grow long enough so you may hang yourself. To you, I wave goodbye with the hand you cut from your shackle. Goodbye from Jupiter.
So trust withers away in a non-organic gullet. Zeromatter suspended in limbo. No points to trust, no points to extend faith or belief. Oxygen seeps out of the cracks at immeasurable rates. Environment becomes increasingly unstable and inhospitable. From across the way, two hands shake, further back on the timeline the whole being shivers from fear of death. The metal is still hot from the teeth gnawing against it. Come vigor, enter undertaker. The theories float through my tesseract heart, so scientific relevance slices them through, creating from the muck, ribbons of fibrous hazards, choking out the light and sound from the world I’ve grown into. Growth creates collapse of structural concepts. I’ve read my rights already. Belief zeros out when tested against the intangible, yielding the same results as the previous value.
I assemble a jigsaw from behind the vortex. Every piece shifts its shapes, consistent with no form. From states of matter beholding paragons and polygons, pylons from underneath the numerical field of data. I try to understand, to estimate, to gather thoughts, all letters to form words are cracked in half. Hot scars suffer in indignity. Outside the lines. The sun pounds the pavement with unforgiving rays. Cancer and chemotherapy, the sweat drips from my gleaming scalp. Scabs, abscesses kept clean from the radiation. I write the words onto my flesh and my bones quiver and vibrate. Resolute in cancerous flow. I shed and rearrange the tissues that brought me here. Crushing the cyanide tooth.
From a darkened room, I enter white. My pupils shrink and my skull throbs. The light blurs and distorts to include the previous blackness. Into this, I feel no anesthetic, no medication, my eyes shut to preserve the visuals of white consuming black consuming white. From zero into one, as the date is forever burnt into my throat. Intangible gray silence; screaming and running frantically, paralyzed and remaining stationary and infinitely sedated. My heartbeats with the passing of eons, as seconds drop madly, like hammers fall to empty anvils, to concreate looped quantities of insane yeast product, dying, but still living, meeting life when the breath is sucked from the lungs.
Gangrene leaves me without faith in the body. War’s inhuman slaughterhouse scorched my faith in man. The planes counteract, and the machines blot out the sky. Smoke rises, condenses, falls into heaps of ash. From Pripyat to Dresden. From New York to Baghdad. From Negative space to The Hole. Shed grace to survive the partially-digested human idiosyncrasy. Fantasy contagious, worn soldier stumbles to a pit, cuts along the seam, left, still stitching the fabric together in tears. Medic is lost in the tragedy’s emotion, the priest laughs ebulliently as his faith infects the gushing wounds. The fans installed within the engine cool and incite the flame’s vigor. Graves kept and maintained by survivors from the war. The three warring factions crumble into nothing. No generals left to don medals of use. No bullets to fire in respect for the dead. The war is over, but the forests and homes still burn. One thousand and six hundred miles away, the plume is still seen, disaffected and unchoice. The streets I walked once, as a boy, are black and charred beyond recognition. My home, my friends, gone. They heard the sirens, but turned a deaf ear and a blind eye to the evacuation. So I walk alone, my lungs filled with ash, my mind still rattles with the concussion from the blast. My heart now holds nothing but misadjusted contempt.
These are the blackened years. I dance with none but the paraplegic.
MAKE WAR. NOT LOVE.
WINSLOW
6.26.07
I sample the milk of human suffering, as it curdles in my arms, weeping volatile tears. Such a sweet, sweet, sour...like a nectarine rotting into living death beyond prison bars. Into a void, a vacuum, to fulfill a philosophical root protocol, a desire to add meaning to the meaningless. I grasp at the shortest straw and stand vacated and emptied. These are the hands that lied to me, about the feelings that they feel. I cut the fingers free and managed to spit them, one by one, to the dogs. The dogs cackle and guzzle cum, and the misaddressed spirits of my sacrifice. I broke this femur, pearly and jagged, protruding from the flesh of my hip, to prove my own self worth. You will never know if the bill is counterfeit until you burn it and smell the smoke. Dying to create sustenance, a cycle birthed through deaf/blind paradoxical reflections. My hands and lies. Swastikas still scarred into my flesh. Symbols of oppression, symbols of liberty. United and bleak through sympathetic hatred leaps.
I drink and take. Mourning lost its virtue when I lost all worth feeling for. Benign malignance in abundance. If these were trees and not graves, I’d be in a forest of archaic war veterans, chanting a perpetual loop tales from the old conflicts. War is hell, I’ve learned. Love is war, I’ve learned. In teaching myself the plague phenomena, I have uncovered laws of coping that make my misery more enjoyable than any other emotion. Humans seem to want use, to be useful, even if they’re fulfilling the counterweighted position on a two-platform balance. Use is another interesting cage they’ve built. I’ve managed to reroute and rewire the connections of my mind, I’ve delved deeper into the human project than any nanotechnologist could dream…I’ve taken psychiatry and created physics. Need and want, recreated and revisited. Perfected, repainted. A wish faints into the grasp of reality. All has been said and done.
Tangible black silence, disaudile attenuation; autocrine autocratic [blithering autocracy], formulated by fumed formula. Atrium rhetoric rendered distortionary impulse control. Fascist regulator of the human deaf-ear-screeching. I negated; physical form burnt alive until simple ashes collect, their particles stretched across unending grids. I negator; suspended statically in glowing aureole. Blessed immunities to sleeplock bletharospasm, twitch control hate maneuvers lost. What was alive is now dead, and in the exposure of the bones, teeth are shown, sinking into the soil. Tantric substantial vampirism. Feticide consists and subsists, multiple parts with bar coded individuality, the disease of the intelligencia. The sky is blue so that the cameras may suck the color from it. Hematomatic coma, melodrama, shot-killed-buried and inaugurated. NEGAHOLIC neutron bomb; gray matter fetal exacerbator; substar supernova death prolonged. What was alive is now dead, into the shapeless, colorless nebula, I float, feeling nothing, changing everything. The concept of human freedom is a jest, I assure you. From here, I note, that to be reminded of your freedom from those who control you is an Orwellian contradiction, as the Angel of Death scribes sonnets of life. You are free to practice the rules and restrictions of your religion. You are free to publish lies and slander. You are free to be held without trial. You are free to be captured, beaten, raped and killed. You are free to suffer in condemnation beyond use. If you are not with them, you are against them.
I await the failure of the system. Freedom is anarchy, but I am not an anarchist. Such a foolish ideal, given such faded freedoms now, we let them rot for sake of safety. We’re fed the same ideology as the label-headed enemy, to fear and to destroy. They live in a nation that is both invincible, and weak enough to wage crusades against unknown disbelievers. I await the failure of the system. Those who we were told to fear in the past are formed in the future, when the terrorists, criminals, rapists, pedophiles, bomb-makers, murderers start crawling out of the woodwork. Something that never truly existed until the moment that law breaks down, until the news stations play consistent static, until factories and homes are bombed, blacked, and abandoned. Test your freedoms in chaos, when the constitution of your human nature stands in question in every moment. The Will of Rights, to protect and service those accountable, where nation and religion arrive with a wake of blood, fist and fist. The belief in a common good is preached by Hell-evangelists, speaking solely on topics of evil and blackening, outside of good and kind-doing. Instead of the will for good, the will against the evil has been instated. Nothing aids a crumbling economy better than having a massive, terrifying enemy.
A man picks up a gun, somewhere on this planet, and kills another, for no profit, no gain, for no revenge plot, for no reason at all. This is the human flaw. The man who kills for nothing has essentially the same genes as the men behind the bars—and in front of them. But in the end, that man was not restricted by laws or petty morals, he was free and savage…just a few DNA clusters away from being ‘beastly.’ How far have we come? Not far…but I digress from the subconscious point conveyed. Death, so trivial and noteless. I eject from the pilots seat, as humanity surrenders to beastliness. I’ll enjoy this, I will, the wars waged against poverty, drugs, awareness, disease, rape, destruction…and that’s just in your tight-knit communities, where safe means ‘Whites Only.’ The wars waged on the frontlines are joking and nothing more…the lines blur and fade into nothingness, where all lines across the coplanar grid are the frontlines. Volunteering to go to war, and to waste, do not be surprised, when you’ll find yourself in a unmarked grave, in the same sands your forefather bled upon, so that you may live, bicker fruitlessly, and die. I call it a tradition, one in brutality and bloodshed. You call it the war machine.
The gears will be greased with the blood of your children, pork fat of the future, boiling Antisemitism down to its basest parts, an excuse to kill humans, by humans. Global misanthrope is but seconds away, as I, having already arrived, am light-years from ground zero.
I await the failure of the system.
MAKE WAR. NOT LOVE.
W.
6.22.07
THE HEARTSTRING THEORY
GUEST MODEL: MARIAH
GUEST MODEL: CHESSNA
MWNL,
Just recently, I kept a promise I'd made a long while ago, and underwent a long, fruitful photoshoot and adventure with two close friends of mine, Chessna and Mariah. The two of them are blessed with startling loveliness, and they are both extremely kind and good-willed, and beyond that, exceedingly intelligent. All such statements true, this photoshoot was very easygoing and very entertaining. Working with natural beauty is a gift, I must say. But that is quite enough of my flirtatious nature... I digress.
I took them to a very special place, a place that I had visited when I was contemplating self-destruction/creation. The feeling and mood of the place is always something very surreal, dark, but full of life. I call it The Hole, because that is what it is, literally, and that is how I've felt when I'm down there. Stuck in a rut, in a hole, struggling to make it out.
Chessna, in lime green fishnets and massive platform boots, and Mariah, in striped shirt and buckled boots, are aspiring artists just as I am.
THE NEW PHOTOSHOOT CAN BE ACCESSED HERE
All the shots from The Heartstring Theory are prefixed with THT before the title. They're bundled together and will soon be open for download in their full sized nature, with the 50 other unreleased shots on my website.
As for the rest of it...
No Tiaras, Just Teeth.
MAKE WAR NOT LOVE,
WINSLOW.
6.19.07
In my years on this planet, and, existentially, my infinite tenure, acting as the arrhythmic beating heart of this universe, I’ve found a few noble truths of your times. One that I have noted most recently, one I have studied and found to be rather profound in my own doing, I had written down crudely on the reverse of a pressed paper napkin, a napkin made of the carina nebula’s wondrous explosion: THE WHEELS OF THE WARMACHINE ARE GREASED WITH PORK FAT.
I believe that Antisemitism is an interesting bout both for and against the human spirit; it proves how humans act as a group, and how the human-core-developed feelings can be shifted and churned into this filthy cauldron of black-and-white proportions. To say that it is human to despise one particular sect of people, be them by race or creed, I can’t say I agree, and the sciences behind me shake their heads sternly. To say that it is entirely inhuman to hate so with such a proliferate tenacity; I’d have to my same answer as the previous inquiry. True, the human isn’t built around tolerance and acceptance…of course not, as if it was, humans would be tolerant and acceptant. And true, humans are not based to be beings of hate, but they sure seem to have the tools. Basic human traits include xenophobia and the natural ability that relates one person as a relative to the sect that they appear from, as seeing a man of one race, background, culture, home, religion, belief committing a particular act with particular connotations, the mind leans to believe that all people of that sect behave within that same vain. This isn’t true, but the opposite doesn’t apply as well. People of similar backgrounds contain similar traits, randomization is a philosopher’s tool, and true chaotic nature can never be obtained. So, people of that certain sect will behave more or less like each other, but pay attention to the bell curve. Radicalism hangs on the far ends of the scale, but the definition changes with each sect. Sometimes it’s radical to be violent and hateful, and sometimes it’s radical to be loving and calm.
One should never judge an entire group of people by their own majority rule, but it is human nature to do so. It’s moral nature to avoid such tripwires. But, before you take that as a fact of this matter, take this: It’s only because of the reason of human ignorance that this rule exists, if you say that you hate all who believe in this particular sect because they believe in the sect, you can’t be deemed ignorant, by truth of the term. Radical, I suppose, but ignorant, never. You’ve taken your own observations into account, and come to your own conclusion. If you say that you hate the entire sect of people for their radical beliefs, while you pay attention only to the radicals, you’ve become ignorant, and the snake bites it’s tail.
I realized on my time on this planet, only recently, the fact that I don’t care to attack religion, though I contain every strand of the ability to do so, is for the simple metaphor: Why take an ax to a burning building?
They, who used to populate the edges of this far-flung bell curve, began to bleed inward when the human traits of xenophobia and fear began to set in more heavily. With the intertwinement of religion and politics, humanity begins to step more determined to the edge of the religious-political abyss. Time tells undeniable truths, and when a sect is formed, there are radicals on the outward edges of the bell curve, and soon, the curve disappears, and after that, the more powerful and potent of the two sub sects, the radicals and the non-radicals, will take permanent hold of the sect. The more powerful is always going to be the radical side, as their views are more ground shifting, and human life is a constant search for mobile grounds. There is a very important change that occurs at this moment, in the changing of the two sects. If, make note of that, IF the radicals take over, the sect is still the same sect, but ran under the influence of the radical beliefs instead of the non radicals, but in the zero-matter case that the non-radicals succeed in taking over the sect from the radical beliefs, the sect recollects itself as something else entirely, under a new name, as the bell curve proves itself like a sharp rock cast to sea, nothing stays on this planet without growing a curve, and losing it’s edge.
But, in the end, I am entropic in my design. Something above nature, but don’t call it ego, as I’ve found no need for that type of jargon. I’m just watching you all, this planet, its religious wars for peace, its wastes in the name of poverty, its murder-for-the-living-because-the-living-can’t-die ideology. My will, as a celestial body, as a decaying, muscular-diseased body, my will is to exacerbate all human decline. It’s beautiful and misanthropic. I take no sides, I ally with no man, with no sect, no creed, race, army, no nation, no religion. It’s never, ever worth your time on this planet, to waste a single second submitting to the will of a higher power. God, Man, Devil, whatever profound lie you’ve sold yourself to, you’re all damned to the same black grave. Humanity is to be human. I’m writing this to you from beyond your nearest star, from past your furthest concepts of love, waste, hope, denial, from beyond sex and fists, from beyond all the imagination of man. I’m no better, but it’s a matter of apples and oranges. It’s odd to see how many believers in God subsist on the idea that God is beyond human, but they couple God and Man in the same text so frequently, they’ve elevated themselves to be Gods on their own time. And unjust, hurtful, judgmental gods, they are. Such a waste of an existence, and if compassion had any purpose in the human question, something more pertinent and, well, real than the falsely claimed ‘Jewish question’, I’d fear for their safety.
If I slept, if I contained the ability to sleep, if I even had eyelids, let alone eyes, I’d assume I could sleep very warm with these feelings. Being beyond heat and emotion, it can drain, it can fulfill. I’m constantly changing my form, but I am always the same. Man. God. Devil. Nothing. Zero. And in this constant change, in this never-changing state, there is a very consistent, and yes, never changing warmth inside of me. The way I interpret it changes throughout my time, throughout the shifting of my shapes. I’m glad to know that every belief, every sect, every human and every living creature will all come to a single point, where they’ll all recollect in the end. In the ground. Where they’ll all rot, and sometimes, they’ll be buried before they’re even dead. Just furthering my case. And when those birds, high up in their trees, die, they’ll remain in their nests until that tree dies, and the entire ecosystem collapses. Another tree will grow, but shorter, as life continues on a exponential downward slope of entropy, the atmosphere is leaking air and water, and bit by bit, with every recurring life cycle, the life prospers a little less, a little less, leaving less nutrients with every occurring pass through. And then, after there has been enough global decay, there will be no more trees and no more birds. Just dust. No concrete, no plastics, no life left at all. Everything will be exactly how it has always been, and never has been, for me, consistently, and inside out-negative…nothing.
Zero.
Absolutely nothing.
So I exacerbate the decline of life. I spit aerosol and non-organic matter. I corrode the environment and pollute ecosystems. I am above currency. I am above religion. I am above politics. I am above poison, above death, and subsequently, I am death, life, poison, the cure, politics, semantics, religion, peace, currency, and unity.
I am MWNL.
ANTI-PEACE,
W.
6.15.07
S U P E R M A S S I V E [S C A B - P L A N E T]
new wallpaper - black star - in malignance.
new art on weeperblast.
Kicking, punching, licking, a struggle to wrestle the compounded lovegreed format from the inducement coma. Single pointless image, filtered through empty strains, stretched until the lines fade from view. Pressure applied to all sources, a vacuum tugging at metaphysical veins, the perfect unending torture, so painful, I feel nothing. I sleep on my back in a smoky room, crunching numbers with pointed ribs. I can feel the age set into me like a silent spider, crawling into my mouth. Living in such an exponential luxury, beyond the frayed nerves of fear and doubt lies an infinite coma of perfectly productive, internally shredding, self-loathing. Polishing diamonds with coal hands.
How much violence can you stomach before you puke it all up? I put my face on the bill. I grin a stupid little grin. Simpler than plastic polymer, less demanding and dumber than what's kept in the fetal-alcohol reserves. Look at me now, still no believers. I keep a floppy-held back up copy of paperweight philosophical soapbox-operas. Superficial cuts kept and licked to maintain a system of disbelief, as what was once self-inflicted...now acting as an immoral reminder of what it's all drained down to. I have lost count of the bodies, the holes and the infections. A just reminder of the state of being numbed, perpetually, like every conned love is slowly draining me to sleep, as life loses its luster. This half is imperfect, and lesser. A digit beyond personal command orient, resurfacing as enzymes to boost the recovery. Sadness becomes anger, anger pervades. The mind destroys the body, the body eats the spirit, the spirit departs from the mind. I view the neglect that snuffed my flame. I sweat to maintain this paradoxical ember, a reminder of the arrogance that pushed out the light.
Supermassive scab planet. Platelets toppling over, swept up by gusts from concrete nostrils. Breathing the poison in, cold gas sinks to the bottom of the pit. I fill my lungs with toxic gases of scorched polymers. My eyes burn and ache, my mind splits from my body and I can see my corpse from across the way. The billow tightens around my neck, the melting plastic and metals from the explosion pervade through negative space, sealing perfect suffocation with hands of methane, grasping the flaming flesh, and a grip of asphyxiating tetrachloro-dibenzo-dioxin. So relaxing to finally be alone, in the hole where rain falls and never reassembles. Reliable, it’s so consistent. My metronome fell out of space. I now count the seconds by the beat of my heart. It’s a tempo that will jostle the dead from their rest, and they will dance before the congregation. As my heart throbs, the clock spins faster. My world is in perfect step with my mind and heart. The walls come tumbling down, and in perfectly choreographed syncopation of deresolute internal insubordination. I suspend my belief on a tether of hope and accusation, killing one bird instead of the other, stoning the sinner by the words written, and not spoken until the first rock graces the skull. I want not your solitude, your thankfulness for supposed forgiveness, I want your admittance of wrongdoing. The tongue to lick up the blood you’ve bled from me. Run as fast as you want, go ahead, I will never stop you. You’ve found the core of all your injury, the basis of all your damage and suffering, and it is not your enemies, your environment, it is, and always has been, you. Love shrinks and withers when you leave it in the spotlight. The mold grown; black, its spores; poisonous.
My muscles knot as my hand deceives the deceiver. Embracing the giver with open arms, thanking, repaying, a cycle born through saviors and revenge. A symphony of tears drowns the choir, and somehow has made me happy. I can’t understand it, no matter how deep I delve into my past. Enigmatic, perfected entropy, all bodies are constantly decomposing, the thermodynamic laws of matter. Everything is falling apart. Now I know how frightening it is to be so put together. The jigsaw has come together, with intentional jagged edges, sharpened for laceration. A universe constantly expanding, lines and points forever stretched until ends meet ends. Stars explode, ushering in newer forms of light. I maintain my stranglehold, lips upon the tracheotomy, breathing my own life into negative space.
I won't be holding funeral. You will.
We’ve put on our kid gloves. Nothing will save your fingers now.
MWNL
w
6.11.07
B L E D D R Y A N D S T I L L B R E A T H I N G
I chewed the particles to further bits…and within my church and cynogogue, I spat forth a vivid froth of dancing and revelry, a construct for the treads and boots beheld by the malevolent legion of human laughter and sickness. In order to feel human, I stick my fingers into the cut. No pain can keep me affixed, and I thank my terminal illness and my cranial degeneracy that keeps me from remaining awake and attentive…the blight of my living art…the hurt caused by wandering bullets. I quake and prosper, as the zeros collect beneath me…fettered by dissolute though in complete draining of empty, unused space…collecting circles to be sculpted into squares. Painted over with a brittle sheet of inspiration.
Spit, spit, spit. The snake is not out of venom. I’ve slithered through this cruelty and heard my heart implode with decadent dying cataclysmia. Someone else rang the funeral bell, extinguishing the flames of compassion and caring with a perfectly paradoxical fuelpiss grenade. In raptures promised rupture, life leaks through the artery and into the cask. I’ve had the bread of my body, taken and eaten…a cacophony of harpies, singular in body and heart, with torturous intent. Sin sinks into the pavement and my skin shudders and peels of in sheets, the etchings you left on me are finally drifting away. I wish for strength, for stature, for resilience, and I receive only vampyr bugs that suck the various fluids from my muscles and depart shortly thereafter, for new arms to nuzzle upon, without so much as a goodbye. But my instincts are changing and I have become less reactive…with the blood they suck from me, they replace with their poisons, and with that, swelling occurs, and my muscles seem to grow. But the bugs will crawl back, just as all bugs seem to do. Needles poke into my syringe arms, medicating the medications. I’d rather not see anything, ever again, than to see one more frame of that face. Into its repeating dilemma, a single unchanging visage, one single image, spat into my eyes in succession of infinite repeating, and the actual individual frame never, ever changes. But into the trillions of repetitions, the face begins to move and shiver. Still unchanged, but somehow in motion.
But it’s too late. I’ve chosen the side where the grass does not grow, from the malice of war, from the soldier that collapsed from flesh exhaustion. If it was not for unhappiness, I could never be happy. I cut the veins that kept our hearts so tangled together. I would rather die alone, than caught in that fleshy cyclone of broken promises, lies, and full-knowing-intentful-backstabbing once more. Reality fails to impress or satisfy, so I remove the bones of the pitiful and roll the body down the stairs. All bets off and here is a drink to surfacing emotions so belated, as the funeral procession arrives in full black regalia. I’ve been lied to, so I dug these graves for each one of your withering, pathetic words. I’m not going to read the lines that you write to me, I’m not going to feel your flesh as it ascends from icy and clammy, to hot and arrogant. Emotional tenure defies internal politic, forever and perfectly denying its own existence. I watched the hands slide from my chest and through my muscles, in attempt to win the heart through the stomach and so forth. I can still see that little bead that trembled of the left of your searing lips, staring back at me, telling me how cruel it was to accept metaphysical emotional suicide with such pleasurable strides. As two egos shudder in negative space, and the second bitter half is entering the rift, my personal chasm, the heat bolsters and I shed my overcoat, reading only the age of the wood by counting the rings on its fingers.
Pernicious and ferocious, vicious wishes shapeshift into invisible scissors, shearing skin’s soft admiration, to ribbons without question. I collect your fragments of forgiveness and apology, and I begin to assemble some mirrored frame of value and of virtue, but the fractions of fractions that I hold are too brittle for anything to be made from them. Into the fray. Some twisted symphony of wrought iron knees and hands, crawling back to the oil, gasping, begging, pleading. I breathe zero matter and suffer in it. Funereal and adjusting to new ecosystems of the after-life, sleeping in the halogen glow of heartbroken complacency. Losing everything, starting over at a different square one. Falsifying pretend error quotes. Bulwark constructed with pillars rooted in civil unrest, the exacerbation of single point thought. Perpetually repeating, unchanging and perfect agony as the strings weave together to from a noose, a bow, and a tether to keep me bound to this self-promised grievance.
With the induction of new fluids to the body, a vein was slashed. You are hemorrhaging the life that made love possible in the first degree. Now it’s on the pavement, and on all four of your hands, and everyone else who cared to watch this plane crash. The paint chips off, like trust and loyalty. The poisons of gunpowder, the infections and sicknesses of this dying marksman…they sink into the grass, and the flowers that bloom here, such sick colors, irradiated and shimmering tones beyond the human spectrum of sight. With urine, they’re watered, with bile, they’re fed. Such ire of my heart and mind knows no bounds. Suck it up and out, feed upon it, as you have done for years before. So infected with that gene, the weakness pervades through unperfection of your thoughts. Muzzled, guzzling, lost pieces of the puzzle.
The trail of blood from your laceration ends here. Not for my death, but for my expenditure. I press onward with press-on nails. I’d drink to your immobility and suffering, but you’ve dried up the reserves. Cough it up.
FUNERAL.
MWNL.
W
6.8.07
WREATHES ATOP RADICALS
My gold fools. Turn to see my ribs from the back, consequences of having this cancer. Glad, warmth enjoyed like a boiling injection of antivenin, to see rapture descend and clean up the mess, and the worms that do so much to enjoy the matters. A hot, hot sulfuric smile rises to the top of the froth, out of all the damage I cause myself, where ugliness and degradation pervade, where the needles poke holes in my face, the scars hidden from sight, some sort of peace rises. I see that smile in the murk of the porcelain bowl, straddled like a first time flirt with the other side. I shine a brief smile back before I conceal the primary with a gust of recurring mad flesh, more of my history pours out of me, singing my throat and tongue, eroding my stalactites, my stalagmites. Still, from underneath it all, the bones are lighter than all the distorted grid fabric that I heave, lighter than my floating shapes and bits of decaying matter… I see that smile. No eyes, just bloody teeth glistening in the toilet bowl. My hands have been set in acid since that raining, bitter day. The explosion never did occur, outside the internal combustion engine, hauling half the bomb 800 miles away from the site of peace negotiations. I pull back from the bowl and stare at my bones, exposed and raw, each pearly shaft in a tangle of stretched ligaments and tendons. They move the hair out from my eyes, and liberate a strand from my wrinkled, warped tongue.
Double vision entrances, and tunnel vision mesmerizes. From across the way, I see a small swastika, teasing me, glittering in the distance. I try to close my eyes, but the controls of my brain have been sabotaged by self-induced mental mayhem, swept up by medications and betrayal. As the four fingered symbol of unrest jogs memories of my past, I recall a sudden truth…my struggles, my war, my creed, oath and prayers…all self-inflective and in utter defiance of the existential world, acting in perfect solipsism. The tunnel vision begins to close, and I can feel the gap between my heart and my chest begins to widen and threaten me with aneurysms of the brain, attacks of the heart. At the funeral, I recall, and somehow, I view further into my future…at the funeral, they will wear our wreathes like crowns. The final solution to the eternal equation. Human conquest and desire for bloodshed, a sexual transgendecy that degenerates through all nations, cultures and religions. My funeral wreath. I can see the altar from here, the priest, the police, the smiles, so yellow and brittle, as they lift the wreath from my casket and behold it to the rest of their associates, a symbol of victory. The tunnel closes soon after that image fades in, the last and brightest glints of the sparkling swastika push into my eyes. My neck, my heart, my eyes, so swollen and crusted over from years of neglect and submission. Everyone who has ever counteracted my efforts, in vain, in perfection, they have made subconscious bets with their own darker counterparts, money put on my head. When my failures succeed in setting me back to a place I would rather be, they celebrate [and marry economy], laughing at the precursor, as if a nuclear missile was feared for the pollution it would cause.
I can still feel the teeth smiling back at me. So content, so smug, but without a face, they contain no true emotion. Just mental connections and conniptions, convulsions, contraptions, devised to relate innate objects, thoughtless people with emotions, and in this, the teeth that do nothing but shine, are not smiling, are not frowning. Into the depths, to study and behold the symptoms of abuse. I find I can never truly know love outside of ignorant love. Pushing away facts, pushing away real images, incapacitating mental practices that chew away at my literal brain, like the acid in the rain that forces my hair from its roots. The blood rushes to my head, as the pills in my stomach have dissolved completely. My collarbones buckle, like a perfectly collapsing bridge, and I fall forth, softening the blow to the surface with my swollen face. As I skid along the board, the shattered tiles poke into the lids of my eyes, prying them open, draining the fluids. The tunnel reassembles. My bones vibrate with the pulse of the feet marching. The blood spilt in my name, in anyone’s name. I hear the static over take the groan of the tanks, the clicking and the cocking of the rifles. Each low explosion, the buzz raises the white noise further, slowly; the carpet bombing procession pushes forth. The buzz reverberates off the edges my mind, until all other sounds are on the tips of their toes, nearly drowning, as the static creeps around the line of their chins, until their feet cramp, their legs collapse, and they drown in it. Just as the static reigns in a migraine with whips and lashes, my eyes drain just enough to reveal the dismal twinkling of the swastika star so distant and hurtful. History as it melts through the casket, transcending through all forms and layers. All the eighty-eights have become fifty-fives. The boots stomp back in, in droves of hundred thousands strong, recurrence of a dead and visceral Reich. I finally have found a perfectly dug grave, finally fitting in to a place in misery, using my disambiguated ribs to hollow out a place in unrest. The wreathes of my funeral, atop each radical, like crowns.
I slip into sleep. Blackness revitalizes the death in me. Encompassing, everywhere, motionlessly swirling, blindingly blank, perfectly obsolete. The blood leaks out and fills the spaces I have left blank. The grid collapses and refines in ruin. Everything I ever lost returns for a perfect second, and in that, everything I ever pushed away comes back to me for a consecutive second. True forth dimensional vision. I see everything, from ever angle, a birds eye view of a flat universe, staring deep into a mirror of translucent spacetime. Just for a single second, everything is. And then there is nothing.
I want to be your everything, so I can take myself away from you.
FUNERAL.
MWNL.
W
6.5.07
BLISTERS FROM THE ABYSS
Sophistication of man’s dying image, to feel the shackles of the heart constrict , to tighten, as the life drains away. Erasing everything, and writing again, from nothing. Waiting for the beat of the war drums to pound nails into the casket of modernized living, awaiting the degradation of modern society until the tyrants eat the grass they fed to their underlings. Into the final reflection of an existential birthing chasm, the remaining cinders from above unite and exceed the image, the light of dying life has become infinitely clear, never fogged or misconstrued. So I endure, so painlessly, through all the realms of defiance that my counterparts have so ‘brutally weathered through’ just to find this rotten apple, the fruit of knowledge, the knowingness that is not to die for…and I feast upon it, for fear of collapsing within an ignorant frame. The framework has come undone, and now there will be peace and order in the constant spinning and twirling of infinite, never-ending lights and colors…the chaos you so described as your indecision has come to fruition, and in this, the most true and opaque shades of the behemoth come into light.
Now this is the true cocaine-opera, with the true arcane-operator present and accounting for, all the rest. If I could taste the exposed bones, like little reverse cavities, inverted by proportion and sunk like anchors into the neck of the first virgin to walk by…just to steal that life away. How the sexual control the monstrous, and how the sexually monstrous have lost the control of themselves. Wind-up toys, running amok, creating a hypnotic droning of sounds and the mesmerizing colors, driven by primal needs. Fools, without compensation for their absent minded guilt, and in their suffering, they consume the inverted blue flames of their penance, living within their fleshy prisons, forever revisiting and never revising the moment of their greatest failures. Souls sold, pawned, eaten, digested, and almost released before being sweat out through the flesh, back, balancing at the point of early release, where the flesh consumes flesh, and the blood intertwines with blood, and the disease is spread from one vessel to another, while maintaining it’s established foreground. Into the frayed mire, the dustbowl that beholds this fertile orgy, where no drop is wasted, I descend in isolation and stasis, without motion, only detecting and recording. I sense each gasp and shudder, each twitter of the cliterati’s emblem, pushing spikes and spires of sweat and salt through the skin, to boil and breeze away. Wisps of plagued virtues, emancipated from the jaws of reason and logic, to be evaporated into the air, within the intense, rolling heat, within our summer of discontent.
So the tyrant falls and folds his cards, no loss of value here, just another fortnight of sleep regained, for both parties. Another kilogram into the system, and the train debarks with intent of scouring the surface for signs of life, and the extermination of them. So ritualistic, lies and deception. So premeditated, so precocious, so planned. I sense a pattern here, so I pull out and feel the muscles tighten and knot, agony within this acid release. The rubber melts when it hits the pavement, the face shredded to the finest and most delicate fabric, and within the depths, to weave them into fine lingerie, and they are so solemnly worn, like a nuns habit. I spilt acid on my chest and yours, just to see if you were ever safe, to see if your bones could tell me the story of your life…the words never spoken, never heard. Now the letters float upside down, like your withering polyester emotions, in the bog. The story has been told to me, time and time again, used against me as revenge, the story of the lie and of the beacon, placed by trembling tendrils, to detect my presence, as if it could be avoided any longer. So, my begotten, malignant sin, I detest you no more than the snake does the mouse, simple game. All I would change in you but for your heart rate, would be your capacity to think, as this has made itself so easy, I fear a sedentary life of keeping your head forever under the water. For me, a gift you have been withholding forever, take your fingers from between your legs, to hold your head. You’ve been trampled by this migraine, you’ve been trampled by my seed.
Why rekindle the flames that burnt your home down? To see if you could rebuild your manor from this ash, from these scorched pillars? I fear the descent, as the vortex has proven to consume all in its path, the lovable, the hated, without discrimination. So sad, so triumphant, like all great operas, the good die in the end, after betraying their name. This is my house, and my church, my temple, an opera, an operation, a mass, a massacre, all performed with subtle hubris and malevolence, like a tiny insignificant parasite that spreads and consumes, the living and the dead. So this is more from the Funeral, the experience that I have seen in my tenure of this earth, the cuts I have accumulated, the prayers for hemophilia, the scabs that never seemed to form. My hell is no more scalding than yours, I do not defy your suffering, I do not defy your tears, but this has been a decade I never thought I could live through. Pedophilia, discharge, acrid subsexual releases, homicide, suicide and bloodlust, the black that I have been within is rolling back, enraged that I tracked my stains across its warbling surface. Collections of sorts and medical instruments, misappropriated and rejuvenated, applied into cosmetic physics, tiny points colliding, atoms like pixels, the color bleeds it’s way to the top.
Before you today, I expel the dreams I suffered in permanent undying moments, as I rested my bones, sleeplessly, in each and every night on this bald mountain. Everyone has a different interpretation of suffering. I am the leech upon the frothing sore of the worlds pain, and I have tasted the finest of zero-matter. Funeral is the accumulation of agony and pain, hurt from across the solar plexus, and into the infinite grid. These are the blisters from the abyss.
The heat here, cracking the leather of the liars smile, viewing me through hands contorted as a heart, the heat here, my blisters burst. I shed my skin. Wear it. I will never fall far from fashion.
MWNL.
W
6.3.07
STITCHES AND STAPLES
Cheers for expanding borderlines and revenge. I’ve spent the past days in a rut throwing skulls at those who’ve made my life the hell it is. I don’t want out. They’re trying to medicate me and fix me. I don’t want to be fixed. I don’t want to be happy. Medications and therapy solve perspective issues, and it’d be fine if I had those in my life. My problems are tangible and real, and no pill can make them go away. Pushing, shoving, verbal abuse and outsmarting the opposition can make them go away, make them sink into the dirt, make them dead aspects of my Funeral. Now I’m gagging on slow release capsules and boot leather, but finally I can slash the throats of all my dull counterparts with the same knives they left in my back so many years ago. I've been fed backwash and gruel for what seems like centuries, and finally, my meal is just as cold as my revenge.
So this is an open letter to the condemned amongst the rebellious. Singular and complacent, too dumb to find happiness or to know what it is when they come upon it, a real life Charlie Gordon, swept up in the echoing thunder that surrounds them. Running in the rain to dry themselves off. You’re not a macabre genius. You’re not a sexual dynamo. You’re not super-intellectuals. You’re failures and drug runners in your own blood.
Of course, before I continue, know that I’m not talking to all of you. Of course not. I’m talking to a select few. You know who you are. I know who you are. I remember that moment when we first met. I knew you were something, but I wasn’t sure what. Now I know exactly what you are, and were, what you have become. I recall when you first showed me all the cuts on your wrists. I could see your face wince with just that little tinge of pride.
Good luck living when your history finally devours itself, liar. I don’t trust or believe in karma, but I like the idea, so I enact it. Your bones are like dominos, polished and decorated, ready to collapse at the snap of my whim.
Anyways. That’s not what this is about.
It’s more about building bonds, instead of breaking them.
Though breaking them in necessary when dealing with traitors...
I digress.
I’ve expanded my borders to a hosting website called www.deviantart.com, and you can find my portfolio under the name Weeperblast. In light of that, finally joining a community of sorts, I feel that I should put up a page of my associates and influences, and other means of contacting me and viewing my works. You’ll find that under ‘Stitches and Staples’ on the front page.
When the bombing was being threatened, it rained a torrential downpour. Now the weeds have overgrown, and I have to root out the non-believers. I’m here to make the Jihad look clean, to make the genocide look tame. Emotionally spent and numbed, arriving without care or fear of consequence, perfectly unsafe and damaged inside a static shell of hybrid human rattle-shock. Guilty and regretless, seeking only compensation for the crimes committed by relation of names. Here is where the heart stops. Here is where I gave too much. Here is where the hope ends.
Sure, we all have skeletons in our closets. At least mine dances with me.
FUNERAL.
MWNL.
W.
5.31.07
FRACTIONS OF FRACTIONS OF FRACTIONS OF FRACTIONS [AD INFINITUM]
NEW PHOTOSHOOT: BLEEDING OUT THE BASICS in MALIGNANCE
As of a current and visceral Reich, surfacing through my liquid bones and flesh, I am living and dying in new catastrophic contempt. Funeral rises like floating gristle amongst sweet, sallow cream, a plague that defies the false institutions with the true meaning of death. The pin falls far from the grenade. I consider myself one of them for the fact that they’ve tried to keep me down, tried to medicate me, tried to seal it all away with one blistering thump, like a source of infinite dearth can be filled or sealed with a chasms perpetual abyssal wink. For a moment, I lose myself, in constant and unending collapse; you do not know what you have until you lose it, you don’t lose what you have until you know it. So here is where the heart is, with no pillars or tenets to remain strong, shuddering without detection in permanent freefall, I am breathing in my own data and rehashed information with constant narcoleptic encryption. From the shadows of all universal carbons and complexes, I gather sparing quantities and assemble a fleshy statue, the Dinner Of Body…and with cataclysmic enthusiasm, I breathe both it’s first and last gasps of toxic information-cartilage, it lives and rejoices, but for only a second. Now the cells decompose in stark, negative space, each year, but a second, each second, lasting forever.
With this Funeral processing through me, I’ve got asphalt for blood, and within that, a searing resin binding me to the coffin. The therapy has left me bald and thinning, constant and steadfast with perpetual withering and dying, simultaneously shedding skin in a cackling, jittering dance of tearful agony, the flesh I lose fertilizes the soil, making it softer; easier for the shovels to penetrate. In contentment and suffering in perfect unison, here it is again, as it never has been seen before. Asphyxiation in perfect love, forever pathetic, weak, cliché and tragic. The modernization of love has left the heart willing but unable, as all failures can be blamed upon the will to survive. No lust for such gray apologetics…narcotics, sympathetics, soulbound, synthetic, lunatick, lunatock…still, my bullets are still hot and headed for my skull, still exhilarated from the dethronement, from the sudden deconceptualization of hostile humanity.
Maybe the world is done learning. The rabbit knows no color but its own, and when it views its fur in the mirror, it turns inside out, and builds its own diorama to match its newfound coat. Heavenbound guttural blackness, clad in infernal hellwrought armaments, just a metaphor for what the Funeral has brought me…and within that, another metaphor. Funeral is something brought to me, like cattle to be slaughtered, and something forced upon me…like a gift horse, and I’ll combine those two distinct meats into one fine grind, and to the world, I’ll shower it’s streets with a glorious blood tide. Liquefy the ashes of scorched porn magazines, and let that evaporate into the breath of my peers, this is how it starts: Stampeding in singularity. God in mortal wounds, clandestine oblivion in burning words. Caustic and treacherous. Destiny in utter erasure, fragmented fragmentations, eternally dividing and subtracting until zero matter. Regaining consciousness without recollection of past lives. Born from blackness into a world of color, existing for simple moments until the color bleeds through the hole from which I entered. A second lived and livid, instantly forgotten, worth nothing.
BLEEDING IT OUT,
W
5.29.07
FUNERAL: AN ORGY IN THE DUSTBOWL
OFFICIAL COMMENCEMENT STATEMENT
These recent and acrid days have left my solace in the wind. I’ve had the time and the mindset to begin the stitching on my new art show, currently titled FUNERAL: AN ORGY IN THE DUSTBOWL. It’s the fourth and final piece of the tetratych, that began with the veins of EleGaunt, the bones of the Broadcast, the muscles of The New Flesh, and it will end, finally, on the given night that the rites are read. So far, I’ve compiled smattering of fifty not-so-easy-pieces, collected from the fourth dimensional tetraspace. It’s dirty, it’s sharp, witty and cruel, and I am very confident in its exposure. The actual photographic effort will borrow generous elements from the actual photoshoot ‘Funeral’, and from ‘Vibrant Heart Memories to Supernova Blush’, ‘DATA34TER’, ‘Romanticyst’, and ‘HEART [CR-A/U-SH]’, along with many other bleak endeavors that I have suffered through, to find a cure.
Soon enough, I’ll open up the links and contacts page a bit further. I’ve been working in bleak syncopation with several different worldly artists in the past, and I believe it’s high time that they get noted for the aid that they’ve provided me. At about the moment this website was conceived, I began been working with a very close counterpart, .JAR. His efforts have influenced be greatly, and I may be able to say that mine have influenced him in the same manner. It is in this great moment that I am proud to announce the following: FUNERAL will have an opening here in the states, but also a cooperative strain between a very notable photographer/painter/phenomenon, .JAR, and I has come to a very special fruition. FUNERAL will be opened in the states, but in another form, it will be released in the UK as well, under the wing of .JAR’s new show, FAULT. In cooperation of course, his art show will be held under my wing, in the states. Consider this a new form of inoculation and pestilence, and consider yourself warned.
So here it is. The final apex of my past and present, ready to be beheaded and devoured. I’ve lived these years through blasphemy and betrayal, through gut-wrenching sexual degeneracy of darker relations, my own suicide and destruction, my own triumphs and pitfalls. This art show will gag my past with barbed wires. It will encapsulate the actual feelings I have endured, the moment I realized I have no one left, the moment I realized that I am stark and utterly alone, but for my creations and my destructions. It will follow the same feeling that one receives while watching his significant other taking their shirt off, but instead, the fingernails will dig deeper, in a sick act of spitting neediness, and it will pull up it’s skin, and reveal my ribs, my blood, my flesh, and my withered, gasping heart, still shuffling muscles to push the living fluids along further.
I am writing this art show like an opera with malevolent intent. I’m doing this because I want revenge and I want to be able to sleep once more before I die. I want the wounded to know that they’re not alone, and that they have a chance to strike against their enemies, their oppressors. Dignity is dry and stagnant. Art is moist and molding. I believe in this show, FUNERAL, and I believe it will reveal new life. It’ll be the moment that I am pulling away from a dying cause, just before it finds new reason. In one strict way, it will be the most satisfying disappointment you will ever endure, the most vicious, caustic, and degenerative display that the eyes can withhold. It’ll be both noisy and deafeningly silent. It will display many of my other projects withheld from past displays for their arguable morbidity and extremes.
This is a message to everyone who’s dismissed my art as simplistic and vulgar, as pretentious, as childish, as angst-ridden, as foolish and unclean. Here’s the door out. You don’t have a place here, and truly, you never did. You can leave now, and you can’t take it with you. Everyone who has dismissed my art and efforts by saying that it all revolves around someone, one particular person, consistently. Here is your chance, because this show is about you. About all the lies, about all the backstabbing. You can throw your fists and spit your vernacular, go ahead. I, and now I can finally say, We, are something bigger than your impudence. This is my funeral. This is your funeral.
Get me a shovel. It’s time to break some hearts.
MAKE WAR NOT LOVE.
Winslow.
5.27.07
TWIN SPITE
new photoshoot in malignance: upon hind legs
Above photograph: Bailey Dilocker and Chelsea Thurman
I heard the sounds of a good friend fade away last night. So much for trust and hope. So much for togetherness.
So much for morality and stature. It appears that anyone can be sexed away from their personality.
I saw a cardinal fall from the sky today. It got too close to the sun, I guess. It died.
I decided to let it live though.
It’s so new to me.
It’s good to have it back. I hope it dies soon though.
I hate that cardinal.
W.
5.24.07
GHOST
New photoshoots arriving soon. Mutilation of the arm courtesy of Dylon Ishii, a monster by his own design.
A subject to an estranged propensity towards the darker of fluids. Witness my vomit as it ferments into jewels, and drink its fervor! Bleak with brilliant vernacular in its own design, suffering rewrites itself unto the pages where joy has been erased. My history is begotten by blind nymphoids, sick with guttural irony and shaded a bitter sallow tone, ill with their own obsession. Subdued by chaotic whirlpools of angrily boiling thoughts and ideals, the sustenance of human trust decays into pure methane and carbon…absorbed into the atmosphere, as if nothing had existed before. Now six tentacles have stretched to the ground, two painted, two fleshy, two peppered with untrimmed hairs and tendrils, poking through the primary layer of skin. The entanglement soon will cease, and the death of the begotten history will calm soon afterwards…but only after unrest is exacerbated to tears and gnashing of teeth. The architecture of human destruction, the symposium of the abyssal few, I can only see this ending with a particular disgust and mistreatment, usually a certain pain only beheld by masochists and bitter rivals.
But in the end, the rivalry is such a fruitless chasm. It promotes this useful vigor, I can’t deny, but in the end, the viral tenacity can only be negated by a gut slash, leaving both dying and forgetting the cause of degradation. So unexpected strikes are more fruitful. Studying, thinking, calm ideals, and to draw out the suffering until death do they part, a more efficient mode of revenge. I’ve seen and tried them all, and in the end, I behold only one concept: THE BRAIN IS PLACED ABOVE THE HEART FOR A REASON!
So here is where the desert should be, but the dry, acrid sea, an ocean, a universal gap of contempt and ill-will, the fragmented lustrous visions that have been enthroned into the tingling blackness by a shaft of glittering, crimson light. I feel the heartbeat as it fades away, hiding beneath the doctor’s rib cage. Goodbye. I will always remember that love, no matter how hard I try to forget it. A bend in the universe from, and matter begins to leak. So goes with the story, out through the rift in your time. How was it, to see the ink rush out the cuts before me? Not half as satisfying as watching you perform subsacred acts of disloyalty with my knuckles in hand. Maybe then, the warmth will shock the humanity and humility back into you. But as for now, suffering is a necessary adjustment to your pale, blue arrogance.
But, don’t die on me, please. There is always another moonrise we can wait for, another moment worth living.
MWNL.
w.
5.20.07
INFINITE INTERNAL FURNACE
Super-abuser, suffocation internal denial, syndicate recorder of white violence. Aching into blister-pop, spread eagled and dying, programmed to enjoy, factoring the casualties like simple index traits. Suicide appears clean, like a happy way out of a world spitting such spite. Never searching for that attention or sympathy, never searching for pity, now is no different. Here are my ribs, and not my wounds, exposed. The ember in living revoked, jostled until glowing once more, extinguished by natural weather, the coals of every existence begin to wither away. Another attempt puts the nails in deeper, until the wedge spits the tendons. Searching with torch and chain, into the very core of the self, looking for refuge without saliva, searching for teeth unstained by stomach fluids. Into the center of it all. Into the frayed, blackened chord, the wick smothered by the light, so many years ago. I have found the point of entry, the soft spot in the skull, the point where the calcium has endured so many millennia of heat from broiling liberty oil, it’s become such a warped, deformed lump, through which, another essence of human care can enter. Every moment that care has affected me, I can feel that hollow, gnawingness inside of me drifting away. I felt the forgiveness for the first time, recently, forgiveness for existing as an uninfected being, and now I am not so sure it feels the way I wanted it too. Happiness has made me unhappy. War has made me peaceful. I drift aimlessly but with purpose, I fall until I meet the ceiling, the fan whips my naked body until I’m slashed, sold, exposed and raw.
I’ll take my secrets with me to the grave. I will lie to you. Give you a feeling of hope. Everything so cherished and valued, little memories of dead men who gave their vomit in a crystal goblet, just to please your most tender of senses. The proteins that you sacrifice in vain, to ‘make love’ consistently fail to ‘make’ any ‘love’ in your life at all. I sleep not in this fallen cloud, but in the acrid acid rain that melts through my skin and eyes. I eat nothing, as the food fades to cinders, as the knives melt in my hand. I drink nothing, as the liquid evaporates the moment it touches my lips. Feeling absolutely nothing but intense, withering heat has never felt so emptying. Picking flowers has sent the forest into a hurricane of ash and dust. Attempts at communication have left the living patient dead and black as coal. Fever shreds, a boiling front of pulsing heatwaves, I feel that clawing inside of me again. I’ve seen all my friends die before me, and I have lost essentially everything that I have held dear in my life. It is gone now. Now it’s just me. I am back at the FUNERAL and I feel like there should be a monument erected in the place of such a shallow grave.
So I am building one.
I have found a way to bleed out my commitments, to face depressions suicidal entrancement with a grin, knowing that I have finally installed the pieces of chaotic confirmation into my nebulous domain, and that the only thing held within me is this worthless, juvenile abstract care for my wellbeing. As I write this, I am aware that there are cynics and doubters who denounce my claim, either saying ‘No one cares!’ or ‘Someone cares!’ They’re both correct and lying, and they’re both proving my point. Sometimes they’re even the same person.
So the dying parts of me are growing. I wanted muscles, but any inflammation that provides the illusion of strength will do. I finally need and want nothing; I finally have nothing, and am not afraid of losing anything, as it is all internal. The agony swells with bitter pride, and without distinct lines, forms, boundaries or limits, I can feel this new formed, idealistic-optimistic misanthrope begin to follow the way of so many maggots in its path: Consume the dead for the fact of sustenance, defy hopeful and foolish laws, and live only for life itself. Martyrs are weak and childish fools. I hold no constant, but for content, exhilaration derived from mental pain alone. From here, I can see rats painting their faces and bodies to been seen as birds of prey, pretending that I am not gravity. I am. A rift in the grid. Unable to be explained, beyond good and evil, beyond cruel and pernicious, vile and caustic. When you pretend to be tall, you’ll suffer like the rest. I’d have drunk the best of the wine if it was not for my vaporizing breath. As it has become, I am a cancer to the nature of teen-rebellion. I see the body politic of living intelligence suffocate and die before me, in the gnarled fists of simple human impudence, brain no more advanced than it was ten million years ago. The veins are dried and woven into blankets, but the weavers have no concept of warmth, and they die in droves. The streets now empty and pounded by gun batteries, I stretch my legs and walk over the dead. My home, an ashtray, filled but still smoldering.
These ashes will circle the earth, and the Funeral will be born.
Infinite pressure, infinite heat, INFINITE. INTERNAL. FURNACE.
MWNL.
W.
5.17.07
APEX OF THE APEIROGON
new wallpaper in malignance.
PRESUBEXISTANCE BEHAVIOR AS A POLYCHORON
Sulfur collects with ash at the podium. The rift in the earth causes a rift in the audience. Light scorches from within the chasm. All the worlds people, all the worlds’ words, all the thoughts and ideals formulated throughout history have been erased, and the gray rubber filings collect and form a new planet. Something of a dying breed shredded and patched back together, soulwork defined by abyssal droning with a perfect halo of incomplete digits compiling through inevitable deformation, complacent and in constant realization, in constant forgetting. Lost so skeletal, amongst idle bones, white light pyre scalds new progress towards mutations, into the rift. A line so perfect, it cannot be seen, a circle so white, it’s negative in its space. All dark absolutes are redefined by a collapsing belfry, though shattered teeth, life begins, as the seeds sink into the soil. A plantation that grows literal slaves off dry, cracked soil. Skin so lifelike and gnarled, the second the fetus leaves the womb, it begins to die. Philosophers are born through a siege against symmetry; to be alive is to accept death. Knowledge and willpower begins to formulate a cult upon the universal grid, beckoning the lines back to their foreign homes of invisibility and they become entirely, unavoidably, tangible and physical, a traitor to natural laws and properties, a scientific skein of melting hands, bred to touch with intent to breed.
Another dimension breeds a paradigm of disbelief.
To see a sphere from all sides, constantly, and always.
The text and shapes on two dimensional planar die-cast fields, stained onto three unmentionable dimensions, cast into a void of one-dimensional spacetime. Two points realized and seen fully and with non-digested evidence of literal, absolute facts. The points burnt into the co-planar field of thought, literal holes in the mind, points of infinite impossible travel cause a implosion of mental phenomenon. Told to do anything and everything, given living possibility, the being causes a dent in the grid through sheer will of force. The central belief in all living sects, the nexus existence of authoritotalitarian lines and dots, predicates permanently on the dent in the universal mindfield. When anything is open to conclusion, and that particular point is discluded, the line between two points will be drawn. The quickest way between two points is a straight line. When that line cannot be drawn, its superior descendant will arrive. The quickest way between two points on a three dimensional field is to rift the dimensions to a two dimensional field, and induce a wormhole of positive space, connecting to negative space, rendering the two dimensional field, from a three dimensional field, into a one dimensional field. This opens a rift to the fourth dimension, time, theoretically. The end of the universe has already been had, as the idea has already been conceived. Facts, and human arrogance, and human ignorance, will be the miscarriage.
Two dimensions fade into the third, without proper mathematics, it’s the universe and the way of growing living numbers. Tesseracts float in positive fourth space, and when the rift opens, spreading second dimensions into the third, the tesseract disintegrates into zero matter, again, defying a law. All life on the second dimensional field cannot comprehend the third dimensional field. As goes for third dimensional minds, that consistently fail the rhetoric of simple third dimensional politic, having only the burden of seeing one side of each object that is presented, given an absence of angles. Complex living 24-cell, in an orthogonal planar field, in constant relentless motion of become increasingly simple, and the more simple it becomes, the more complex its internal lines become. Imagine all the holes ever filled, all the gaps ever concealed, and, fundamentally, all the problems every conjured and cured, all reappearing at once, stemming from the tetraspace analog from planespace. Here is where the fourth dimension exists, once the third dimension cuts itself to become second dimension, via a direct, perfect straight line, and that second dimension is infinitely compacted until it becomes the first dimension. Here is where the crooked house is built, by particles From Hell, arranged by the slaughterhouse five. Here is where all complacent bits of matter disintegrate, and when the cicada that is the second dimension sheds it’s third dimensional skin, each end of the skin, from every edge and every point is infinitely stretched, without secondary rift or rupture, to all edges of the universe, unraveled.
Grid perfect encompassing, infinite always, continuing forever, perfect.
w
5.15.07
FOR A MOMENT, IN THE VACUUM
For a moment in the vacuum I hear the sounds of an air raid siren.
Welcome to room 211, the grave of all hopeless desires. A deep sense of things encompasses, like everything has been there all along, and a thought enters the mind, concerning bodies in motion. Past predictions of the future. The carpet is a bright pale, being ruthlessly usurped by blood escaping the hole you’ve put in your foot. When dreams like this come to fruition, I take out camera, to capture evidence that will eventually lead to your downfall as the Lord of the Pyre. When they hear ‘love’, they reach for the anatomy textbook. I took a few pieces out of the puzzle and now there is no solution. A chemical fades as a dilution into the flow of things, in veins, the hope that vain living ink is not scrawled before the realization occurs. I sincerely appreciate those who take the time to visit this website, to read what I write, to see what I develop, and I realize I make statements to unnamed characters. It’s never a general ideal. It’s always a particular individual, though the individual changes as time passes me by. This point is no different than any of the others. Everyone else that I’ve mentioned in my work has found their punishment and they’ve been photographed, recoiling in abject horror. I don’t make empty threats. This is just anther piece in the puzzle. It’s one of the pieces that I decided to keep.
Burning pieces of the Reichstag, falling through the mesh of all things constitute. Radical belief sect shredding through lifelike imitations of the hearth. Living death, trembling and pulsating simultaneously, all the love that can be felt, gathered like grains of the finest ground glass, shredding the flesh of the hands. The chest, ribcage, and heart, like a mouthless void, a black sarcophagus. I have already been forgotten, but not any less caustic, this is the vapor you cannot escape, the gas that surrounds you and pets your hair as you fall asleep. A metaphoric incubus that will grind your sharpened senses to dull, blunt fingers, I’ll loosen the screws in your bed as you sleep. Wrath rocks the cradle and the cage, and from there, the vibrations travel down your leg and into the grave, where we kept all our no-good, pep-pill rev-rev love-letters, under a vapid blanket of slow-burning charcoals made from hot-hot-heat and from all the dew collected from beneath your eyelashes, on all those cold winter nights. Thoughts degenerate as whole unfiltered particles, slowly dissolving the white matter of the brain, until the reptilian and mammalian brain are being devoured by a common gene, and so the prosthesis becomes catalytic and contagious. The heart conjures fake extensions of the human spirit, designed to whisper blank truths into the ears of those who are willing and deaf.
Choose. Your choices decay in rabid sunlight, two pieces of an incomplete puzzle the opposite of mine as a faulty clone of my celestial design. Weigh. Your measurements are cracking and failing, you’re the symptoms of abuse are judged like the horses teeth. Long and rigid, it seems to be the only precocious desire for such perverted lust. Thief. To take and smash the reality before you even had let it all occur. Ignorant. If the only star in your galaxy radiates inward, you can expect your planets to be cold, even if they are stagnant and hot. Grind. I put my hand on my head, some put their hands on the Bible, you put your hand on the anatomy chart. Like the physical form is all you have to trust. Sweat. Money pours out of the cuts, you’ve dressed your diamond dagger wounds with putrid fascinations, but you’d still hold my hand if it wasn’t attached to my arm. Liar. Eyes closed and I can still see all the misconceptions coming clear, all the parts of you that failed to exist, and all the lies over the new and old tangents that you cut, to make room for the subversive normalcy. Sold. The physical realm becomes undeniably tangible, and that hadn’t gone without saying before. I recall when love meant love, and not desire and lust, but every passing moment, those ideals fail. Dress yourself in the morning, pretend happiness with thought-replacement, return to square one, and then you undress yourself in tears, before he who will divide you. What is being stolen now, will be destroyed in the future, a stretched pink canvas, a ruined claim, a dying heartbeat.
I have watched these red war films until the color faded to blue. A haze cast downshot over my eyes; I extinguish the burning fluid collected in the glass, the last wisps of hollow tap water as it barrels down my throat. The light flickers, and I peel another bit of skin off a cut that I had been so cheerfully given. I own a hand mirror, here, but it’s never been for my face. In order to dress all the knife wounds in my back, those sitting as liars around me will judge my presence as that of a superego. To hell with them. I take the pills that they write sappy lyrics about, I feel the pains that they dress on their bodies with false vigor, I have the scars that they sing about. To hell with them, and all their faulty ideals. If you want to know about me, ask me. You wouldn’t ask a blind man if your eyes were bloodshot, would you? No. And I’ll drag you into the vacuum for implying. Rumor has it that I’m sick of all the rumors, and that’s the only one worth buying. I am a romantic, and the lunacy of my peer perversion has rendered me an emotional cannibal. I just wanted to taste and care for the cut of white flesh, and now I realize that it wasn’t such a decadent beauty, as it has disintegrated into what is known as meat. The flavor is potent and powerful, and it tempts me, I want to come back to it. My love, I say, my vision blurs and my eyes are flooded a milky white, the color of blindness. I don’t care if this flame will burn you, I don’t care if my path will hurt you. I want a reversal of time, and I’ll pull whatever heartstrings I can in order to get it.
I weep to taste, anything.
Muscles swell and contort, heart steely and blue.
FOR A MOMENT, IN THE VACUUM
All I want was a shred of the fabric.
MAKE WAR AND NOT LOVE.
W.
5.13.07
HALO
the gene of human weakness is ready for transmission.
With this solemn movement, I dash the beauty of the hive matriarch, anointing the skull with living ink. This baptism has come too far, and collectively, hard, and the seam has begun to show…be it quivering or not, the grimace shines through the layers of yellowed pornography that you’ve put down, as another victim scrawls their name onto the memorial. Touching gently down through a shredded wisp of caring and warmth, just to push the vase a little closer to the edge. She will wear her sadness like a willow tree, and then I will finally feel equal. There is something so subversive about subtraction, so, in my own fruition, it has been elevated into an art. Consider this a return to birth. I can read your halo through the clouds, thick with perverted grace. I grew a heart with hydrogen in vain hopes of subjecting a clean love solution. I wish I had the heart to let you crawl along, but from the million miles away that you’ve chosen to stick yourself, I can see the outline of the vultures whirling around you, singing the old spirituals, waiting for the dimension of your heart and mind to close.
Upon the bed of asphalt.
You cared for me like I was a dying ideal.
Now you are nothing.
w.
5.9.07
NEW PHOTOSHOOT TO CHURN YOUR EMBERS: WARGORGON
You are being generous, and you’ve packaged and gifted your brain like a tumultuous Pandora’s box and you give in so easily, no wonder your wrists are slashed and pockmarked with swollen scabs and juvenile, thoughtless impudence. Act like you’re dead, tell your friends that you have nothing and you own nothing. So you’ve become such an addict, a fool, and everyday stepping further down the plank, suspended over an infinite, inescapable ocean of sexual extroversion. If you fall, you’ll inevitably drown in it. I am watching, and waiting, heavy in heart.
Before the living congregation, from the deep seated depths of a dying throne, I deliver the milk of human kindness and I gnash my teeth as I see it spoil before you. Winds shift, with the tide, the rising of the moon, with Jupiter reigning above. You dance for me, with sacrosanct foolishness, becoming one with the dirt. I’ll torture you with infinite limbo, until your heart eats itself, and pukes itself back up, and sleeps forever in digestive fluids, regretting every motion and thought it has ever siphoned from my head.
Spinal compression, spiral depression, viral obsession, degradation. Nectar, sweet ichors, softly with silent hope of charred black arrogance. Substance inject, transience object defect, project, cancer as it has become. Wish, hope, dashed a dagger at the rock, teeneanderthal. Choice, chance charge change, lost values in a sea of marrow and slovenly harlots, selling selves from shelves with sluttish intent, to reproduce? Not likely, the womb is like a blast furnace, an incinerator, a crematorium, of consecrated desires and influence. It’ll kill them in the end, but I wake up, panting like a god, to the steel-on-leather symphony cacophony of their electric groan, sliding the wrought iron gate up the eroded rails that are affixed upon the tendons stretched between their legs. Opening another wound so they may be violated and unknowing, for another millennia, the black chasm smeared between their legs is like a mineshaft riddled with fleets of vagrants and vermin, crawling and shedding skin, convulsing and foaming, as the blistering heat would force them to. Each morsel of flesh that dangles so free and limp from their tattered thighs is an oasis for parasites and bacteria, collecting, devouring, then mitosis, and they thrive and gnash violently about, consuming everything, leaving nothing.
I sleep so soft, on sharp shards of sugar, promises, prayers, pipebombs, pornographenomenon. Like it has become a Catholichen confirmation of juvenile guilt. Commitment, everything is, such a defiled love, to leave and become bent, the nail, so new and irreparably altered, in good chance, it’s yousless. Living in a warm beating heart, so corporeal, delicate and solipsist, with anihilistic pyres. The death of my only begotten daughter, creation as it becomes FUNEREAL. BLACK DIMORPHIC MASTURBIA DURBATIA, FUTURA CAST DARK FORSYNTHIA.
Machination. Cancer of the light. Magniloquence to magnum opus. Neurons in neuritis, unorthodox orthodontia, ossified in an ossuary. Precocious parlous, in parturition, a pawn played through pedophilia. Chew wrists clean off the shackles, preventing handshakes, and taking a hammer to the hamstring, a ghastly googolplex of wounds, and in godhood of truculence. Tromboned trollop, toil through tutelage, thrashing threats an in trenches with wenches.
Devout and devitalized. Devoured and devoir. Cygnet is a cynosure, cutthroat, cutworm, dazzled by anger. Heart fills hearse, grave in debt, in decay, as delicate and as deep as the sentiment ‘I HATED YOU.’
Rethink and perfect. Prethink to respect. Destroy the decoy, pick scabs, candidates, quick, lest you’re left with the poise, regret cosmic, the halo of levitating teeth, with the fluids collected from the maverick cadaver of my corollary corpse, I have been found refining, designing a new ink to paint my scabs a black and violent hue, a color cold like the snow I was left in. She, we, they, the children of chimera, testing contracting pupils in the infinite black cavity, to see dismal chiar osuro, as child’s play to treat the love bug virus disease infection, as it was a chorea through the bodily choir. Church going nowhere, pressed iron patrons reveal superstition, their cilium ectomy rhetoric, in vain hopes, or rather, plucking an eyelash, wishing upon it, and becoming disappointed. Chilblain, through cloister and clones to be taught.
Tesla taught interconnectedness, the chaos theory proved him dead. There is no random chance. Sycophantic idiosyncrats instilled, and act as a foreign born entrancing true irony, and then act like the nature of the heart can be dictated through coronary digits and superimposed tendon love beats. I hope the bruises surface fast and hard, to recall you of your childhood. Running hands, with yellowing, brittle overgrown fingernails, across and up, and through, pasty thighs. So deviant and degenerate, your physical wants and needs defy that which is gathered by the incubus, and soon it becomes RAPE. A matinee of moths fluttering and swooping, smoke from burning hair to be collected and processed as the fabric of unrequited love. Beneath the waves of grain, under that tertiary component of skin, your mental/fetal constituent is being encrypted to avoid deliverance. Not radical enough for one solid rivalry, just to be hated and despised for being such a miserable wreck and failure, spreading your seed with the unchartable malignance of the most extreme, pernicious, and caustic acid, melting any source of hope in its path, such is the life of a plague rat.
Mercy is not a virtue. Your sins pale until alabaster, when placed near mine. So. By sexual relation through association, you’ve become a scumlord, a Doberman shut within a frail ribcage if you had eyes with which you could squint and study, you could see the pallid red stain left by the heart so any eons ago. Your pedestal is the gallows. I dig my hand into the soil that makes your grave, and carve these letters into your casket: FEROCITY PERVADES THROUGH NEGATIVE SPACE. And through these weeks, I remain awake, not for insomnia, and inner unrest, but of a determination to the stand. I am at the edge of the ocean, waiting until your coffin beaches itself, and I can sleep, resting finally upon the fact that is your death. The scent of rotten, waterlogged wood, only to be mixed with the plume of your scorched bones, a certain warmth in the smoke that you could never provide, the cinders kiss me like you never could. Knowing that you are suffering just like I was is enough to lull me to sleep.
As I listen to your moan, your voice recalls that of a tree in the woods that falls when there is no one to hear it. You have been lovingly condemned by a blindfolded panel of judges, as a psychic vampyr, and now you’re trapped. Cry, piss, puke until you’re up to your neck, then the sludge begins to coagulate and boil, the temperature lurches through the module of your lies and redundancies. Claw at the grate, at the walls, until your fingernails are ripped right out, you can’t escape. You built this bulwark to keep yourself safe from me, but you never stopped to consider that the laws of thermodynamics still apply, and that entropy is there, even when nothing else exists. I hope the heat makes the blisters burst slowly.
The colors you see are bled from me. Black like tar, of spoiled meats clutched in soiled linen. I can’t help but grin when I see you smile, because when I see your teeth, it reminds me that some day, you will be nothing but a warped skeleton. I am researching a catalyst for all human cancers, in efforts fro them to spread faster, to take more away from living, become airborne, contagious, and for more cruel and anti-nature results. I asked for a hand to hold, when I was in a dire moment, and you pushed me off a cliff. I struck the rocks with such heavenly vigor, so now my blood is in the water. You’ve taken me into your home already, and I can see your true dark intent. Worms, I have become a parasite. I am the only thing you have got left. I will enjoy watching you die.
MWNL.
W
5.6.07
LIVING AND DYING IN A BURNT STERNUM HELL
I visited the doctor recently. She asked if I ever considered harming myself. I looked back at her for a moment before asking 'which one?" "Any of them." I hesitated before replying. "They slip in and out of consciousness, some to damage, some to ignore. A cloak and dagger." She asked if I ever get any sleep. "Sleep is for the dead. So yes, when I can, I do." Answers given, she proceeded to throw pills into my open mouth, until my brain had deteriorated into zero-matter, my heart, a fluid leaking out of my skin. I had eaten my fill and become fed up. I left the room, considering my status as a living and dying being. I've become so weighed down with bandages, so heavy with medications, patches, miracle fixes and solutions, the world apologizes quickly and leaves me to clean up their mess. Sometimes they don't even notice the holes they stick in me. I'm just looking for a cure, and given a predicable failure in that, just the means of destruction, in a life not quite worth living, one step forward, two steps back. I'm at the end of the rope. Death of my creations. Just a blackened, gnarled heart, the last time it swelled and expelled, I heaved up a noxious plume of dust and carbon. I looked back at the doctor, and she said 'I love you' but her lips read 'goodbye.'
Leaving in a car, so dramatic, I felt like being assassinated just to make it more picturesque. Like I could plan it, when I can't understand it. What a joke I have become, a toss-out, a prayer recited every weekend at mass, yet no one seems to recall the words entirely. Here without reason, to leave is to be gifted with an absence of pain. If I die, and I find myself in hell, it'll be better than living up here. At least hell promises you pain without resurrection. Up here, they like to keep my hope on a string. Don't touch me unless you mean it, with a fist or an open hand. I want love from the heart and mind, not some cheap emotion installed because 'it's the way things should be.'
In the car, I kept thinking. Considering all the points in my life where I have tried and failed, and now I'm compared to a git with no hands and two legs, where I've got holes and scars from my expanding history, and exhibitions under my belt, art held with such searing ferocity and tenacity, to make that mouth-breather’s legs rot with contempt, and somehow they world chooses the latter rather than the former. I given so many chances, and now I just want one back. Cheap love. You fell in love with me when you discovered that I was a radioactive pile of vigor and chaos, and then, after so many hard moments that you tried to fix me, you became dissatisfied when I turned out to be a living organism. I've become something you hate because I am so much like you. Anger becomes a splitting atom in my head, knuckles turn as white as the snow, like that day you left me to die, in the cold. It's raining. I see the drops fall like I saw your salty tears collecting, the waters lift all the rafts and boats, but they leave you to drown. The clouds obscure the sun. The sun feels so useless because a moment passed where it was unnoticed by a sleeping planet, so it sets itself into an icy grave. The pavement is slick, sweating like all my enemies, and all my friends, just like they used to, when they became so involved and in touch, be it damaging or aiding, and now there is nothing. Zero-matter. I accelerate as my heart beats faster; I try to become more machine than man, in vain hopes that the machine will have a function in the world. This is where the scorched, twisted roots of negative space finally have become visible. I'll be happier when I am dead. The rain has slicked the pavement to the extent that I have lost control of the vehicle, and just before I smashed into the light pole, just as my knee-jerk reaction put my foot to the breaks, I realized that there is a very real part of me that wanted the breaks to fail. Just to make it quick and easy. Find a way out. Salute all the dead cretins that have only undermined my efforts, and ride their whipped backs right down to hell.
So sick to realize that this is what I have become. Infected with poisonous traits by blasphemous traitors. I rest my head on the wheel and puke forth what could be confused as liquid leather. Hot and utterly opaque, spilling all my insides onto the spot in front of me. My stomach churns and grinds inside of me, I feel my skin liquefy, it blazes through my teeth like a black ejaculation of tearjerking bile. I'm sick of being so helpful and helpless at the same time. I'm tired of being used and cast down. With all the bitter, two-faced, meaningless love that has been stuck onto me with white-hot cauterization, I know that this planet has given me the ultimate moment to enact revenge. You relied on me through so many hard moments. I hope you’re ready for the worst.
You may have forgotten my name. I haven't forgotten yours.
MWNL,
W.
5.2.07
Due to large file size, click for the post.
5.1.07
THE GENE OF HUMAN WEAKNESS
NEW PHOTOSHOOT FOR IMPRESSIONABLE YOUNG THINGS: TRUE. HUMAN. FORM.
More in MALIGNANCE
An anger front, sweeps through the waves of tobacco, leaving behind a dichotomy of human interaction. White and black, two colors decided to leave a mark on the pressure cracking surface of the Earth/Mars planet. Chemical reactions, radioactivity, diseases, race wars, jihads, and global-maniacal conquests are not started by a particular overabundance of one trait, like a war is begun by the most insane faction to declare it, but rather, another trait, quite the opposite. The gene of human weakness has transpired to become a very formidable threat to life. In all walks and paths that are to be taken, one can rest assured that the gene will manifest itself in a variety of unknowably destructive ways. Not mighty, whereas might contains valor and courage in common association, and the gene (and its predecessors and descendants) is not stealthy, as stealth requires timing, knowledge of presence and an open mind. The gene is simply a rogue bullet, to be found lodged in the vascular disposition, through cellular modes of transportation, and through contagious means of occurrence. The gene is something to be studied and isolated, as the full effects of its existence have been seen in the most damaging and inhumane acts to occur by numb hands connected to emotionless bodies.
The gene of human weakness is, in part, a study of the causes of war, and model-switching. Instead of one horde of mongrels ruthlessly attacking a sovereign nation, it can be just as easily seen as a nation that was too weak to defend itself against the degenerate scum of faulty ideologies. If you walk into an area contaminated with radioactivity without any physical protection, you can’t argue that you should be excused from death because of your negligence. Human interaction works in that very same way. There are humans who exist to destroy and negate, who wield misappropriated arms of wrath and venom, and act as an active scourge to man. To be human is to interact with the world on a massive scale, and if you fail to take the darker sides of nature into account, before you trek off into the uncharted wilderness in search of adventure, you’re death will be as quick as it was necessary. We are social beings, true, but we are also warring factions, just as we are sexual and degenerate in many ways. When a tall man sets the bar for the standards of human height, he then begins to see many forms of genetic mutations and cur that are below the line, marked for the acceptable norm.
To be human is to be human, and that is to accept the parts of the being that aren’t naturally ‘civil.’ We fight because we must fight, we drain blood because we must see blood for satisfaction. In this aspect, in order to disprove the claims of human sexuality and the human traits of war and unrest, the cynic must declare the inverse in the same proportion! How exactly are we not sexual? What traits negate the human will for war power and the human war for willpower? There are none, in the basic sense, because the human mind is created of a series of circles and dots, not lines and angles. Everything blurs together. A man who was beaten by his father may grow up to have a sexual degeneracy that intones a theme of being dominated, or fatherhood. Same applies for the inverse, where a being is sexually active at a young age, and in some way or another, that sexual activity will find itself expressed more and more through extroversion and physical actions. Mind yourself that, like war and violence, not all sex takes place in the physical realm.
The gene of human weakness is where the provided circles and dots are over sharpened, and they become direct lines, separating that which is FACT from FICTION, WHITE and BLACK, GOOD and EVIL, without landing upon any given distinctions between the polar opposites. In this manner, a man can only have true friends, and bitter enemies, but nothing of an acquaintance. He can believe in the absolute good truth, and that anything else is an evil lie, but he cannot understand what there is in blurred facts, or spun facts, for that matter. This degenerates further, creating a point where the being can no longer tell who is watching and when, and in sometimes it can grow to the point where the being can only think of himself, and that only he has the modes of communication. The interconnectedness of all things, past and present, seems to have no meaning or account with those affected. Thinking slows, the heart rate increases, and the passions are incited more readily than before. Soon enough, the gene will have assumed full control of the human being, and it will render it an active body, with no strength, but with the capacity to undermine blindly, to reverse faces and rolls, and eventually, all of those who had formally known the affected will cite a personality shift in them. Sex and violence rise up from their above-dormant normalcy and they will begin to be incited viciously together, through a variety of terrifying acts, rape of humans, rape of nations, rape of the human mind.
The gene of human weakness is very present amongst the people. The gene can be passed down through generation to degeneration, and, depending on where the being began in the first place, on how much of a human being was lost in this activity, the gene can become very contagious. Protect yourself, and leave your associates to protect themselves. Those who do not take precautions will find themselves infected.
Loving everything is the same as loving nothing. Hating everything is the same as moving mountains, and hating nothing. Moving love over a mountain of hate is will find you in contentment.
Wolves tend to their kin. Sheep need a shepherd. Beware the pack, for their intentions are never human.
Make War. Not Love.
W.
4.28.07
A MAD DASH THROUGH BOILING FLESH
TWO NEW PHOTOSHOOTS!
and
JACKKNIVING THROUGH MAD FLESH as seen above.
More photography is ready for download under malignance.
Consider this day a bit of a notable date:
My photographic portfolio is now over ten thousand images, spanning almost one hundred individual shoots and events.
AND:
I added sample photographs to each available download, provided new operation instructions, and revisited 'autopsy'
I breathed in life, and built the obscene. The perfect sin being seen. Guilty in the temple, the river of mad flesh, a degeneracy of the spirit. Replacing humanity with an ocean of wine, on a throne made of compacted blood. I must sterilize my needle in vermin before it swims underneath my skin. Moving forward with riddles and jackkniving through abyssal haywire. I sit and stare; grinning, mind engaged in a bloody crimescene, and I remain unmoving until every last one of them is dead. May such massive planets rise and obscure the sun, may they never drop from sight. I have been lied to, and I react like a cannibal under influence of ipecac. I want you to cry. You don’t seem to care. I clutch a fistful of hair on the back of your head and grind your face into the asphalt. Just bones to be tested under infinite pressure by infinite mass. The infinite stretching of matter. Guilt knows no boundaries. I don’t want you to ride it; I want you to read it. You believed everything but the truth, I tried to keep you safe. Now I shake and bleed it out, the treads shred into me and I have made peace with it. War does something to you, where so much of your brain matter is destroyed through a variety of cruel and unusual methods, now all I can hear is ringing and all I can feel is the vibrations. I coughed it up to shed that excess weight, and now it’s on the floor looking back to me. I breathed in life, and built the obscene. The perfect sin being seen.
This is an essay from the hell that I have been born into. Not a grasp at the bitter fruits of sympathy or empathy, and if that is the knee-jerk reaction, I’ll let those who react, fall. In a short moment, the stalactites reflect on a pool of sulfur, a swirling cauldron of noxious fluids. A moment that I promised to pass so quickly, and after losing so much, I don’t have anything to give. Moisture creeps up the jagged onyx slab, where the acid meets the water, where life is diluted to perfunctory floating in space. In deep-sleep coma on a bed of gypsum, miles underneath the surface. The earth’s own ghastly furnace, unknowable, immeasurable torridity under complete incalescence, unstoppable fusion and combustion to the point of zero life. What light that can never be caught, fragmented concepts that hinder mental growth. For years, the hostage limestone particles, held captive within milky drops of water, have been released upon my warped bones. Pain that splits through you in a simple moment will be quickly forgotten, but I have been giving birth through my living pores for longer than I can care to recall. It’s been so long since I last felt awake and in motion at the same time. As it’s been, I am a susceptible body cast through a negative field of grids and havoc, or I have been awake and on the operating table, tasting no anesthetic drip, mind static and white. I put the human heart, my past hearts, on such a pedestal. Now they’ve disintegrated with the stones, and their cells collect on my neck, a second head. I put a gun to that head, and release.
This plain is not horizontal. This plain is vertical. This is my final goodbye to a world that has forgotten my name.
MWNL.
W
4.26.07
If There Was a Purpose for Peace, We Would Be a Generally Peaceful People
NEW PHOTOGRAPHS: PRIPYAT
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2891915’2126322854.
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58719576316131954664129571555547.
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91436995329572812.
SAYING NOTHING.
SO LOUDLY.
YOU CAN’T HEAR ME LAUGHING AT YOU.
4553.
W.
4.25.07
ZEROING IN
new wallpaper in malignance
It rained today. If it didn’t, it threatened. A heartfelt explosion. Information heralds a genetic menagerie of faulty programs; love like life has lost its luster, the scratch marks that were on the outside, now aim inward and the inverse. Something wants in and out, and neither is possible. The sun can only shine as I shed my skin, until I grow boils, then it leaves to watch me freeze. I’ll let the vermin bleed it out like they were purging a plutonic plague, casting a heavyweight catastrophe into a feeble concrete sarcophagus. The giving sustenance becomes toxic; it eats through the skin, leaving but a boiling fever and a throbbing headache. Things work for a short second. The failure rings a thousand years.
I wish for failure, that you find yourself the unwed mother of a child that you never wanted. In that effort, there might actually be life inside you, for the first time. Just like all the other problems in your world, you could rest easy on the fact that you could abort before any responsibility would fall into your hands. You can whimper and moan about how hard he is, and how hard your life is. The hurt will arrive without warning, as you’re learning a new name and title as a junkie, a bleedfreak. Like one liquid through another, blood and sweat, your heart will be pushed out of your chest like a cinder through a wisp of tissue. Eggs hatch, the problem incurred, and the warble flies will hollow you out for every gasp of nutrients that your flesh will provide, a feast for the maggot. Happiness escapes like gas from a deflating balloon. The living vigor leaks and dissipates; it is the product of prudence in sudden disintegration, in dismay. It’s not about heart, not mind, not body; it’s about betrayal and karma. This is not personal, because you are not a person.
My stance is against peace. At this point, progress is violent. A bull in a china shop. You’ve helped me before, but now you’ve subtracted all of that. A traitor. You’ve shifted your shapes, and only before a warped carnival mirror do you look anatomically correct. I won’t give you a moment to beg. I will catch your bullets in my teeth, and spit them back at you. I am zeroing in. The sound of dismal chaotic hope spins through the pipes as it is wasted away, chanting lies fresh from the tongue, resting on a stygian gurney of tender flesh with glistening teeth like tombstones. Places you’ve tripped and fallen before. I have tasted your sweat, I know your secrets. You’re not safe. You stripped nude at your own funeral. Your blood will bare witness to the truth. The diamonds you gave me are all cubic zirconium, those teeth you shared with me are prosthetic.
Life is full of question marks. I have found a period. I am not a believer. Such facts exist to negate the hearts determined/undermined efforts. I inhale a napalm supernova, I exhale fragments of heart and mind that tear holes in the fabric of what makes you human. This is the human space. This is the negative space, the colors have bled out.
So, if you cry over my death, you’re a liar in life. A living form of faith denying itself. You have given up on me, and on yourself. Yourselves. When I found out there was another face to you, I realized that there isn’t enough room for all three of us. This is it.
mwnl
W
4.24.07
THE FEROCITY OF HUMAN MISERY PERVADES THROUGH EMPTY HANDS
So different, the way you act, when you realize YOU ARE BEING WATCHED.
Breathing to reconsider the losses, trying to push through the softspot in vain hopes to reach the subordination molecules. The magic wore off already, so now all that is left for the rats to devour is the somber, pale corpse of the heart occult. So damaged and bruised, so hurt and left alabaster. A disaster of heartshapes, in history I have found the hystericalciumachine still in the midst of a bitter awakening. Touching the flame, a quick burn. I see the water boil over the edge, angry, rolling waves. You’re lying to me, through your teeth, and I’m crawling back in to hold your tongue. For ten seconds, I wanted happiness to grace you, I wanted you to find contentment. Now no such ideologies exist, where they were is just a coma of pensive antimotivation, the wishes with cruel intent. You’re not gifted with golden bones, you’re gifted with a quartz heart and a brain of iron. The quartz will disintegrate and the iron will rust, and in the end, your bones could never bear your weight. I realize I’m dancing on a grave while the rest sit and watch, and know this: I’m citing the one true philosophy by engaging your futile demise, I’m revealing the capsule of logic and willpower, uncovering a snarling snaggletooth that has been stuck into the thigh of the truth, as it attempts to escape through the bowels of religion and complacency.
Looking Forward to Death. I’m scouring the surface for signs of life. Shingles stripped by the blast, windows with plywood eyelids shut over the pupil, rendering permanent blindness. Rape through life turmoil, a cancer crisis swept through briefly, leaving atheistic banter still echoing in the coils. So lifelike, so spiteful, cleaned out like the last of a rotting breed, and edited until it was acceptable by a rebellious norm. Simpletons put a dollar in the change machine and become enraged when the quarters are spat back, the process is already underway. The deepest human flaw, a crack in the sarcophagus, a hole in the hand, heart, and head. Finally, it’s back. I was so fragile, I was so sensitive, but now the coal in my chest has been extinguished and I only wish to belch carcinogens so near to your lungs. You eat your heart out. You’ll eat your words. I’ll poke holes in your happiness. The black sun will tan your skin faster than the beds in which you lay. Words echoing, your demands for equality as you trample the weak, as you grind your heels and lips into the necks and chests of the dead. No. I’m not backing down quietly. You wanted to show the world that I could smile, so you dug your fingers into my eyes, missing my mouth completely. I don’t require sight. I can smell you coming, and coming hard. Your heart races, but my blood runs faster.
You cannot hide from me. I am in the air you breathe.
W.
4.22.07
FURNACE
new photoshoot: ROMANTICYST
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4553.
W
4.19.07
COSMIC BLACK [WELDING BURNS]
Waking up puking, arms locked, legs in spasm. I know I am sick, and I am only getting worse. I witness the world around me as it slowly sinks into the gulch. The bodycount rises, and those that are left alive are the most bitter thinkers of the defective degeneracy, the most putrid of the crop remain to fertilize the sands of the earth. The home, the hearth, all in cinders, swept off into negative space, where gravity and levity lend logic so vicious, it rends the circlets of matter to zero-substance. The world is a stage, I’ve heard, and I’m running the curtains. My shoulders ache, so much so, that the concept of trudging onward to a false sense of hope and dignity, while the spires gouge into my back, interrupting my spine with brief punctures and stabs, I can’t find good reason to continue.
Those legs. Like such a contagious disease. The darkest part of me wants to see them spread. I wish I could control it, it undermines my love record, but the black matter that floats and gnashes underneath my heart, like flames melting witch feet. Coma, oh, I lust for it. Finally, a path off the beaten drummer, where I can rest for a decade and return to a simpler time, where I know that no one is left to care, and that I may finally die in peace. I can’t find that tranquility, I can’t find that serenity or calmness. It’s a war every day. I’ve been shrunk, medicated, hospitalized, treated-and-released, treated-and-detained, beaten, pushed, lied to and loved, and it’s still there. I need a way out. My belief wanes as the numbers thin out leaving me with nothing but tax receipts for a bottle of sleeping agents. Failing that, a good pair of nylon stockings would do, but given my bitter ironic lifestyle, I’m sure I’d find a hole and disprove my claim, and, oddly enough, I’d regress violently, back to the Hole itself. Skeptics call it the weak way out. Right now, it simply seems intelligent. Spent? Sleep. Don’t want to wake? You don’t have to.
I’d believe in the hope, but I simply don’t have the energy. I’m seconds away from catatonia. I’ve broken the fourth wall. Now my hands are pressed against the screen, a black-cosmic failure/masturpiece. These are my ribs. This is my heart. The light glows from behind me, but beams shine through the knotted flesh. I finally feel my heart, with my own fingers. It’s soft and delicate, and a million miles away. The light flickers behind me, my only source of being. Distant, but so bright I can see through my flesh, and look upon my bones and joints, moving in distinct function with each ache and pain. A love so heavy and bright, but so caught up in a dense entanglement of cheat and web, it takes a moment to realize that it’s not human light, not solar, but simply an X-ray, and it makes me interesting for a chance moment, but after it’s function fades, I dwindle down to nothing. Cancer spreads quickly, but all lines stem from the heart.
Some call it fury. I can’t be bothered by that. I am progressively moving through the sweltering heat of human ignorance, arrogance, and utter malice, like a somnambulist moving through a briar’s patch. Skin sheds itself from me, in an effort that makes me look like I am evolving, but in the end, I am just becoming more sensitive to the touch. Breathing on me, down my neck, I can feel my blood pressure, like I am waiting for a dormant geyser to suddenly reawaken. When you’re as trapped and stuck as I am, at least you know that you can’t escape. I know that there is a way out, but I have become so incapacitated, at this point, I don’t even bother moving my head. It’s a timed door, and it will close, and then I’ll know the sober peace of nothingness, numbness, and what the living would like to brand it as, death.
It’s either ignorance or determination of will put towards plotting against me that has brought about these events. My heart is old news, you said so yourself. My brain is current and caustic like a worm and maggot, eating up each part of you as it slowly becomes necrotic, feasting as you decompose into nothingness. The knife you left in my back poked all the way through, and when you wanted me to catch you, you got stuck too. All the diseases and bullets you thought you had dodged, all the dysfunctions that you thought you could leave, your black history comes screaming back with machines of vengeance, with momentum through lead weighted old misery, and the jagged, fiery tongue of new spite and hate; leaving you skinless and writhing in your own arrogance, no better off than I am. I have been cheated, and it continues. The pain in cheating is in the bitter surprise that it carries. A shock to the system. Now that I know, I have the superior knowledge. The last chapters of your character are being written in red ink. There will be no epilogue.
I am here, now. I have been here in the past, and, with knowledge of exosexual deviance pertaining to extrasensitive individuals, I know what will happen in the future. I am waiting. Not for you, but for the abuse, for your sadness and melancholy to reclaim it’s old, rotten pastures. For the catatonia, and my heart is just strong enough to hope, but not enough to will it into being; hope that you’re going to look back, across your timeline, and realize who’s caught you, with hooks and coils, on every moment that you could be deemed guilty. Another decade on the bottom rung, each ridge in your emotional space to tear holes in your human fabric. It’s happened, before, to you, and you didn’t learn then, and you won’t learn now.
Your hate. Your love. Your affection. Your caring for me. Shades of putrid phallic imperfection, so bitter and pretentious. I watch them as they swim down the drain. I am a heavy lead overcoat, to protect you from radiation, and to keep you down to earth. When you complained that you were growing too hot, I turned on the ceiling fan. Now you want to take me off, and so be it. I was the gravity, and now you’ll face the blades you demanded. I spoke under the impression that you were going to listen. Now I know that you’ve chosen to remain blind, deaf, dumb, and mute. Useless. Pointless. Broken. Nothing without fruition. Your words are hollow and vacant. Absent of matter. Treat me like a fool, a leper, and you’ll find yourself stricken. At least my Cancers are New…whereas, yours are so old, so archaic, they’ve eaten away at the threads of what makes you a person. Interconnectedness will get you stabbed in the back. And it’ll use your old knife, too. Just for that tinge of bitter irony.
That ticking you hear? It’s not the sound of your bones as they contort and crackle to fit a new heart’s body. It’s the sound of a timer. The heaviest matter in the universe is the passing of time. You think you can shrug it off. Prepare to be disappointed.
MWNL
W.
4.18.07
ROMANTICYST
It happened again. Another year has past.
Sixteen so far.
I read about it. My birth was listed as an obituary.
Dawn heralds horrors night conceals.
Make war, not love.
w.
4.15.07
THE DARKNESS THAT DRIVES
Awakening as a subject to a miserable will, feeling flesh so raw and needing. I am a gardener to the body, and my seeds and my waters are the most fertile of the crop. I have forgotten how to sow, and I have recalled how to cauterize. My heart is facing palsy and requiem. The motion of bodies, two fields of water, as much as I love the grids and numbers, they begin to intersect. Shock coma-blast, my love withers in such toxic therapy, and I teach new misanthrope. A distance uncharted, as far as I want it, it begins to fade, slowly, from my view. The war is unceasing, the battle composed like a symphony in my mind, Mussorgsky pounds love with a hammer, waiting for her numbness to feather away, just so I can be sure that she feels it. I look down, just to see the blood. Her skin has become broken, her flesh torn, she’s crying, she’s gasping. I want to feel her pains, that broiling heat. My pains have left me so numbed by damage, so braindead, I can’t register the bloodloss. It’s called jealousy in some circles, but here it’s developed into a primal sense, upon the corpse of humanism, animalism reigns. When the hours eat themselves so steadfast, as I am kept from sleep, the connection breaks and my fists curl. Striking against metal, the non-believers, the persecutors, the hands that have held me down. I find my knuckles splintered, broken, my flesh; shredded. If I could only leave this cell for an instant, and maybe in that instant, I would be happy. But safety is a realm so corroded and corrupt, it’s leaking passion.
Stars begin to melt. I drink her. Birds and bees, I sigh, wheeze, and note: Birds seem to be eating all the bees. It’s a motion trend she doesn’t yet admit. When we met, her heart kissed my rings, and proceeding downward, she had created a monster. Release. Come to spirits, as a vocal tremor, as a shriek or shout that signifies that you’re becoming one. I’m in you head, my tongue licking back to just grind your teeth, and taste your secrets. It’s dark where I am right now. I can’t quite recall the sentiment of her motions, but I do know that it’s getting progressively more degrading. More violent, more vicious, less restraint and more responding to want. I want her to lose the blood. I ask for the teeth because I know the damage that they have done, and will continue to do. I want her to suffer until she sees the light. Then she’ll know where misanthrope is born.
Begging. Begging. Begging. She whimpers as she’s crushed underneath her own weight. Pores and pupils begin dilating and spitting white chthonic, but humble. Strength in the gods invested into the material pleasures. She wants my heart, and she’ll eat it out. Wants my soul, and she’ll have to find it; hidden. She wants to dig her nails into my flesh, to see me wince, to see me bleed. She’ll have to work for it. No damned pleasures come without erasing humankind, and with this, she’ll learn to detect the traces of a liar in her presence. Her fuels and energies. So archaic and present, powers combining, she wants to consume my flesh and come for it, just to grasp the power it could offer. Hard-pressed, heartstruck scumdemon. Living a deep abhorrence in such a stygian symbiosis. Her fluids collect at the bottom of the page. The ink I write in. The flavors she consumes and finds such disgust. Pin Up. Pin Down.
And I know who is smiling at the notion. The notion of a trifecta collapsing. The reason you feel so lightheaded, the reason that you feel that tingling emotion in your stomach...it's not from love. It's from bloodloss. Take a moment and patch up your wounds, and in that moment, look and see who's tasting the lips you believe to own. You're not safe. You're not alone. Your confidence is amusing. It will be gouged, left to drain until it's flesh is pallid and cold, and then it will be shoveled over and marked with fifty five skewering pikes. Around them, I will ring wires, and to those wires, I will connect a battery. With that battery, I'll bring your sense of confidence and security back to life, just so it can writhe around for six days. I will watch. On the seventh, I will rest, and finally, you will pray.
Heart. A systemic anomaly. Can’t control it. Not so sure if I want to. I’m facing backwards just to make sure that my life can’t regroup with me. The passion rushes into me. Slender, a cure through that narrow opening as the hammer is dropped, the lusty syringe. I can no longer bear the pain of waking up, and now I cannot find time to fall asleep. So distant. Bleak virtues fading and her skeleton becomes a little more like mine. She will bleed for years to come. She will come for years to bleed.
And she will turn red. So red.
We will paint the town in blood.
MWNL
W
4.12.07
SMOLDERING JUPITER BLACK [FROM EIGHTY EIGHT TO FIFTY FIVE]
PART THREE: HEART [CR-A/U-SH]
Her hand against mine…I rub them together…
CLEAR!
It’s getting colder down here, but I can still see the sun as it locks into position. The hot, hot heat of passion, no solvents to extinguish the flame, no blanket to smother the heat. But so distant and damaged, leaking precious fluids, devoured by wandering stars and kisses, particularly strangled in an envelope of warm hair. So distant, the heat of passion becomes so wearied, so distant; the depths plunged for modern love, the earth that I have made, so bitter and cold. Frost stretches its claws and it digs into the surface, spreading like a milky plague. I can see the little crystals; they form such flavorful films as they lock into icy streams across the dead harlots open eye. Her heart froze through, like a slab of kelvinized meat, entirely solid and stuck, while it was inhaling blood, and captured by the blinding, frigid air before it could exhale its product. Motionless, trapped in her final wisp of feeling.
From down here, I can see so much. This hole was dug within a moments notice, and I know, because I can see all the layers of dirt that he had to dig through just to arrive here. So many different periods and eras of dirt, layers and layers, through concrete, through silt that runs like silk. But now I am here, leaning against the edge of the wall, heart across the way, resting on a shelf before me, kept quietly in a jar, awaiting its imminent use. The sun is hot, but it does not burn me. The sun may frustrate, the sun may be ignored, but it doesn’t burn the flesh, the soul, it scalds not my hands, my eyes. It collects in that jar, and is expelled refracted, beauty magnified and enhanced by love syndicate symposium. It is a superior process that notes inferior programs that are hidden as upgrades and follow-ups. Resting, heart still thrashing about wildly, fists curled into tight knots, I rest. My gaze falls sharply on the horizon, as it is visible, and my eyes follow the path of Jupiter. The mirror planet. The fifty fifth in a column of eighty eight. Snow graces the ground. The bits of grass that dangle helplessly over the edge of the hole quickly accumulate a thin film of the falling matter. As I watch Jupiter rise, the ground around me is quickly disguised in its own solemn blanket.
Jupiter rises and remains overhead. It stops motion and shines all its light down into this hole, the snow glistens and twinkles with every ray that caresses it. It is entrancing, hypnotic. I open the jar across my way, and remove my heart. I lay it softly on the snow, and upon it, I rest my head. Sleep, deep, gnarled sleep, riddled with dreams and nightmare visions about pregnant hearts, hearts with codes, hearts with brains, hearts with tongues, and hearts with a smaller, beating hearts within them. The ground shifts, the worms are so frightened in their dirt homes; they come crawling to the surface. Waves, upon waves, pushing through the snow, past their slower counterparts, to arrive and to writhe upon the crust of the hole, a hellacious jitterbug as they, and their little worm brains, are convinced that today is the last day of their lives. They dance, they squirm, they motion in the last gasps they continuously withhold to behold truth to the ones they love, in the moment above their deaths. The ground continues to tremble and rock, and as I slowly awaken to the cacophony, my ears bend and meld to world I’ve been born into again. I can hear the sirens as they whine out another monotonous prayer, the rumbling of the bombers, the blasting booms from their exploding capsules, the flak that shatters in air, boots landing against bone, bodies piling atop pyres, coils of barbed wire being tangled and woven into a fine mesh. The sounds of war, the sounds my heart beating it’s way up from my stomach, and into my ears. Jupiter. Still frozen in place, but utterly petrified, I can see the tears openly flowing down its face. I can hear the great heaving sobs. The tides of this war are changing. Jupiter still focuses its shine into the hole.
I look straight up. Planes leave thick, black scars across the surface of the sky, but the light still shines through. Our eyes finally meet. Jupiter looks down, through the atmosphere, through the smog, through the hate, slander, misconceptions of the heart, through the lies and through the tears that had accumulated. My brow tightens. Jupiter winces and cuts the last rail of tears that slide down its face. Through a shared mental bond, our thoughts collide. Jupiter was shouting garbled volumes about fear, pain, guilt and heartache, while I was stuttering through the same myriad of pisspot blue-theatre shoutings over sadness, anger, wrath, and M.A.D. We slowly organized our minds together, and through all the cliché and misery, we became of one mind, one heart. Destruction, like blowing a hole to construct an exit from hell. Jupiter knew what to do, and he began doing it. He saw the war, as it had destroyed all that I had wanted, and because I had arrived to clear him of his sadness, he was indebted to me. So Jupiter knew how to solve this debt. The war had torn me apart; the sun had faded from view, on the other end of the earth, my heart aching under the stress of the tumor in my brain, my tongue swollen and raw within my mouth. Jupiter pulled closer to the earth, and the light in the hole grew accordingly, and with speed and the ichors of vengeance amassing, Jupiter’s devastating effect could soon be felt across the entire earth’s surface. As Jupiter drew closer and closer, the men who waged war above the hole began to wither and collapse, the intense bombardment of gravity was enough to cause their feeble little skulls to explode like the pineapple grenades they threw.
Jupiter drew ever so nearer, nine times larger than what he had once appeared as, and every passing moment rendered that digit to double itself. Soon, the noise created began to double as well. The planes that had once pelted the surface with their steel coffin-bombs began to tailspin and smash into the surface. The men collapsed and were pushed into the earth, naturally burying them. The barbed wire coils flattened, the pyres extinguished, the bodies crushed, the air raid sirens, their towers, were disintegrated like cans into the surface. Trees wilted and exploded, animals, the waters in the rivers, oceans, and streams were pressed into the surface. The rush of Jupiter’s force was felt across the entire planet, but as the force is relative with the distance, I suffered no damage, not me, not my heart, not the jar. Soon enough, Jupiter had come so close that I could not see the rest of the sky, but only the massive mirror planet, its edges in perfect synch with the edges of the hole that I had found myself in.
THREE LAWS UNDENIABLE:
History never forgets.
History always prevails.
A slow man is a dead man.
In a quiet moment. Not sleeping. Just listening. Watching the face it bears, watching it contort into a superficial knot, just to spit some untranslatable vernacular on my shoes, and to weep as I begin to use the phlegm to shine the wingtips…so sly, so smooth. Know your place, young one. I am the burial ground you think you can live on. I am in the air you breathe. In the saliva you swallow. Pieces of me. You can’t escape. I am in everything that you think you own. I will enjoy watching you spin out of control, and crash into the same reflecting pool that you are pissing into right now.
You know, for a moment there, I thought that I had my feet cemented into the ground. In the end, I found that I was merely becoming one with the building they’re both trapped in.
But, before you go: Tell me that lie. That lie you told everyone else. Tell me here, so I know that I wasn’t hearing an echo from the previous verse you rang.
JUPITER DRAWS NEAR.
FROM EIGHTY EIGHT
TO FIFTY FIVE.
W
4.10.07
SINKING BY VENTRICLE ANCHORS
PART TWO: BRAIN
My body finds itself; a temple, burnt to the ground. Hands grasping cold ribs and the solemn rush of Mussorgsky sweep up the dust, leaving nothing but the cleanest, largest chunks of detritus to remind me of a sordid past, and a sordid future unwinding. With the pitch, I swoon, cradle and fall, the sounds of the symphony pushing through me like a tongue slides into a coil of cotton candy, razor wire, what have you. Now I am no longer me, but a subject to the soundtrack, my life was preserved by Mussorgsky, my death evaded, so now I follow in each shaking footstep, subject to will of the sounds. Who leads who? I care not. I let the orchestra decide.
A subject to another will? Weakness not to preside, more of a pillar to lean on, or tenet to lie against. Without words, my mind, merely translates the notes and chords to words that fit my mind. Heartache from orcholestoral breakdown, like a pigeon scrambling for breadcrumbs. I bite what I want, but sometimes I bite too hard, the teeth fall out, and I adopt dentures from a dead genius, as cordial as they are together. On the frontier of modern destruction, the sounds emitting from the speakers of the bleak youth are, more often than not, simply back stepping and stabbing to the orchestras that were played for them as children. During funerals, weddings, and baptisms, you’ll hear them, and now they’re in your head. Implanted. Adopted. Like another bone, another organ, entirely claimed by the body, without freedom of will, simply acting as a new addition, no addiction.
But the mist overwhelms me. A fog that wraps around me like such a sweet nectar. I can’t bear to believe it any longer, I can no longer bear to live my life, in viewing what it has all become, I know. But the sounds pound into me, the warmth, the holding natures of the call, the voice of the strings, the power. That’s what it is. I am being tempted, and now I can see it, to leave my earthly vessel to achieve the power promised to me through my own delusions. The power of the sounds. Such a cruel trick to play on such a lovestruck heart…but love composes a menagerie of black symphonies, hands like wrecking balls, heart pounds through soot and dust, the groans of love as it pukes a puddle of roses and bile, the music that I have become, the pictures at an exhibition.
Hand like lead. An icy, icy embrace. But that’s beside my point. The music isn’t a chapter in my life, but it is an element in the ink, providing longevity, it is an element in the binding, providing stature and strength. I wake up every day, disappointed to find that my heart still beats, jealous and envious of those who wake and smile, and those who are dead. My heart drags through the barbs, my mind has inflamed itself until it is cracking at the seams, but the sounds of the pits drag me on. Orchestra pits. They’re shouting my name. I sleep not a night in a bed, I sleep not a night with another woman, but I dance, without moral or remorse, every night, on Bald Mountain.
Into the catacombs with modern sounds.
MWNL.
W.
4.7.07
VULGAR VAGRANT TYRANT SIREN
TONGUE in MALIGNANCE
What bitter blood, what bitter fruit, what bitter gift beyond. It bit the hand. So tired…but darkness will live on, because all lights cast one deep shadow. In every silver lining, there is a trace of asbestos, in every shimmering gasp of heart; there is a push of blood that trembles with poison. I see the edges crack and quake. I feel my veins as the rush grinds out. My scalp slowly tainted with a thin sweat mucous, eyes watering, hands shot cold. In the last strangling throws as the most loving lover dies in his own cult.
I couldn’t handle the struggle, and in place of forfeit, I decided to push holes in the fabric again, and to see how low I could possibly descend. Depths of grim fatigues, edges of misery and sycophantism that have yet to be charted by the most noble of vessels. It’s not about me, or the self, anymore. It’s about trying to make one thing, of all the billions of stars and stripes that plague my night sky, just to make one thing click together. Sometimes, it is a simple machine, an achievement that I strive for, simply because I would like to see things work out, even for a moment, and sometimes, it is a matter of one element, one brilliant catalyst that I rely on for the rest of my connections. And sometimes I can’t make it work.
So I stress the construct. I make motives, and points, and ideals, I talk to myself until my eyes are dry and red, crying as I slowly step closer to a psychotic oblivion. A demise that would be so beautiful on film, but a gristly end of my life, the snuff film. In my head, I dictate the future as it will never occur, and this breeds a deeply flawed growth plan, a series of disappointments and denials that stack like bills and deadlines. I cannot help it, though it may appear like I’ve been absent and unwilling to push for a new process. I guess you could call it engrained, engraved, dug in, and swelling.
So, right now, where I stand, or sit, or lie, I am on the outside looking in, the bottom looking up, the key doesn’t fit in the lock any more. I decided to explore the depths, and I have for you, three new photographic studies, each one examining the last three bits of what is left.
The first I am releasing here is TONGUE.
The imagery is fitting to the title, as one would be lead to assume.
Collapsed, ears still ringing, heart still pounding.
W.
4.5.07
TRYING TO PAINT YOUR FACE ON A BURNING CANVAS
new wallpaper in malignance
My human heart as it collects at my feet. Such a lifeless embrace. Promises never so crudely constructed. A feigned masterpiece, a warped masquerade. Hurt and poked such scorching holes in my fabric, my space, just to create a vacuum. I only wanted to aid. Now there are empty spots that I am forced to keep. Tragedy is a creeping vine, it sucks the life from its patient, and the doctor rolls them over for dead keeping. In sake of miserable literature, my painting has come undone, and now the flakes have accumulated at the floor, melding and mixing with my heartpiece. But no hands to blame, no hope to cherish, just spite within denial, the fruit of the bitter liquor. In attempt to hold hands, I’ve only discovered bruised knuckles, the kinds of wounds that no kisses can heal, no bandages can mend, no bones left to break. Now on the other side of time…
I fell short of the acceptable norm, and that succeeded me into divinity, and now that my legs are broken to ensure prolonged handicap, I find that I can no longer love, like such an unpolishable meteor, a life so vulgar and dry, sucking liberty cigarettes, liberty gin whenever possible. I see the screens, and I can’t bear myself into anger. I can’t hope to find the culprit, as I am, the fool behind the misery throughout the play itself. Fingers are shot numb when submerged in such cold water, as my eyes fill, the rest of the flesh blenches to meet, the frigid space. The heart grows so vacant and absent. Lies form at the base of the spine. What use could the truth be now?
The holes in the fabric. The human fabric. Whatever is meant to be had is not there any longer. I sigh and digress. It’s such a self centered ego warp here, but my heart is a focus of dry desire. Heart, such a paradox, when one world ends, another star fails its breath, the particles scatter outward. Heart, such a anomaly, when one part ceases, the rest follow suit. Now that the holes are all patched up, now that the trash has been picked up, and locked up, the purpose disintegrates. Only an outwardly bound wish; a hope to fulfill the purpose as a creature of the flesh and bone, to see through the filth and understand the carnal nature of the beast…and to live past it. The new meats rot in the divine arc, now no such happiness takes its solemn root. I gambled and struck zero.
Spent. Love is nothing without fruition. Words crumble as they leave the mouth. Trying in vain just to be heard just a moment before resemblance into worthless parts. Pennies melted down. Not good enough any more.
I spend every day hoping for something. I spend every night knowing that there is nothing.
Deaf ears, false eyes, mute tongues, broken hearts.
W.
4.3.07
My prayers have been answered.
The answer was 'No'
w
3.31.07
VIBRANT HEART MEMORIES TO SUPERNOVA BLUSH
SCALDING NEW PHOTOGRAPHS AS A SALVE TO SOOTH SUCH TROUBLED LOVE
You cut the funding just before the breakthrough, now you’ll have to live with this cancer forever…that is, until it leaves the body. Need not pray for a chance, you have already got one. You’re not a doctor, but I can say that you’ve become a failed heart surgeon…days after the surgery, and I can still feel it ticking. I think you left your pocket watch in there.
Oh, to say that I seek not a savior in a costume of a waywardly harlot, that is to say, I believe you’ve already come upon that very costume. For years before we knew it even existed, smallpox was thinning our ranks, and now we caught it, smeared our name on it, and we’re just as helpless. Just another substance to boil over. Just another little bit, to take the edge off something fierce. It’s a new form of heartbreak and helplessness, where everything counts until the great defeat, and post trauma, everything rings in your head like a bullet ricocheting through a ballroom. No modes of expression. No modes of removal. Just to sit and boil for days on end, each day getting grayer more fogged and weighed down, head spinning. I keep on regressing backwards. I’m trying to make room for new warmth, but now, I guess there is just a hole to fill. The only time the feelings stack, is when I can feel them poke into my back.
It’s a chemical substitute and it’s made you into a liar. It’s a substantial chemical, and it’s made you into a liar. And it’s made you…from twirling elements to compound such a pretty little thing, but now the last cog has become concealed. Shelves built to catch you, and not to be broken, like the subtle good remains to contaminate what there is to muster together. Such a sweet vulgarity, but in the light that is conjured, the heart still beats.
As a heart surgeon, you’re under oath, and I, as a grieving widower, am under anesthetic. I wake slowly to a rolling cloud of discomfort, on a gurney, in the middle of a meadow. Chest still open and raw, clamps still holding as tight as your arms had held me, needles still keeping my veins from running stagnant, I cast my eyes down to see that a family of sparrows had taken nest in my heart. It’s gone now, rather, the birds have fled, but the nest and debris exists still. Their eggs had been hatched, snatched, or smashed, and I guess the living remainders will return with the change of the seasons. The air is warm, like I am bathing in you, but the wind whips my skin with its dense, icy chill. My heart is beating, and I can see its product trail down my knees. My biceps give way, and I tumble, falling back down onto the gurney. Questions pass; have I been deserted? Had this nest of sparrows been entrenched before the surgery? Had they frightened you? I know not. But it’s midday and I see birds through the holes in the sky, as the sun moves into position, directly overhead.
How does this not count? You’re a scientist that takes true to the virtue, a flaw you cannot ignore, a gap you cannot traverse. You’re a broker with the mind of a heart, a flawed, but fixable contraption that still manages to activate its predecessor. A general at battle who still loves, and seeks for peace…but to question that is to question what you have been before…, and before midnight, there still is a faint glimmer of glow, a promise of a tangible tomorrow, but alas, it becomes black as the night rolls around. But even at night, you have the eyes and the heart that I can still see. You’re jumping from one anomaly to another. Just for a second, to retreat with holding hands, instead of hands grasping the holes our bullets have left, the riches and the palaces, all things the devil, the tempters provide, wouldn’t be enough. I’ve spent more in my life, more time than there has been developed to elapse, just to weave these threads into something of knowable value.
You’re lying to yourself with someone else’s knife at your throat. The grass, the flowers, the blossoms that soldiered on so persistently, I find they scare easily, and the shrink back into the soil. The vultures eclipse the sun, and, if you shut your mouth, you can hear my heart as it eats through your floorboards. I made you a promise while you were sleeping, that you would never be free of me, that I would always be in the furthest recesses of your mind, stretching the tissues and fibers, to help you think, love, and feel. I only wish I was awake to hear myself screaming. In love is a disaster, in disaster, the will to rebuild. I lay my head where the grass used to be, I remember feeling that heart tremor beneath me.
As I sign this cast, I want you to recall all those blue bruises that were administered with such grateful exasperated smiles, the blood that we lost together, and all those muscles that I had helped you tear. The scabs that I helped you build. The structure that I promised and delivered. All the wounds that were imposed to frighten the disbelief off the body, and leave only the glistening moisture that would sink into the skin, like a flavor, like a taste, until the sun begins to rise again. So heart. So soft. Not diminishing. Don’t say you can’t recall, because you just admitted it. I don’t want to fight such a losing game.
Hope sears through the pavement, but cannot burn us, as passion burns brighter, reducing the warmest wooden overcoat to smoldering cinders.
Mmh. My heart aches.
MW.
W
3.28.07
CAUTERIZE
I’ll eat my heart through the holes in your hands.
And the body is left so embittered and vacant; heart pounding like a B-52
Suddenly, the clouds drift apart, and the sun boils my running sores
You’re an antiseptic, the stitches and mirror
A cardiac shock, a vision of the true barbarism that exists, and its negation.
Million different oases, only one with a potable source.
Miles of data, crumpled into nothing, a split second, a decade in hystery.
Away from home. Again, again, and again.
w.
3.27.07
BANG/WHIMPER [INIFINITINFINT]
Moving like one liquid through another, the trade winds bicker briefly, and the climate changes. The overt phenomenon of the deepening depression has made itself a glitch to outperform the original program. It was never truly sleeping, but now it has awoken. The massive eyelid rolls back like a tectonic plate, and in its shifting, nations fall. The pupil dilates to conform to the shards of light raining down. As hope dwindles, the art is preserved, like pearls before swine; the product of man is placed on placards made from the stretched skin canvas of those who died to produce it. The world crumbles into the abyss, like such sweet poetry. The resistance to the downfall is marked, signed, plotted and puny. The defensive propaganda is laid upon the same rhetoric as good against evil, while this is not a policing action; it is a calm justification of wrath. The numbers are crunched by the weakest of thoughts, the answer acts as a potent catalyst to an already devastating poison. The best humanity has to offer is reparations. Humans have taken, and when they want to appear noble before the fairer of sex, or before the bearers of witness, they proclaim all the good deeds they have done, like planting trees or building homes out of trees that they had cut down. It’s all a fine tuned performance, one that has been undergone throughout all of life.
Nature doesn’t want you. The animals, the beasts that you evolved from are still around because they had the superior genes. Man evolved until his brain was advanced enough to notice that his body had become different when placed near his predecessor. To inflate Mans ego, continuous adaptations were made, and as the ego reviled in its own filthy and riches, more and more men were being slain by men. Eventually, the ego of one Man was advanced to the point where it could cause the death of millions, and nature smiles when the dead rot back into the soil. This is its way of stealing its resources back, while amputating the thumb of the debtor that lied. Man continues to evolve and advance, every day the pace doubling, until there is but one final solution to the rupturing ego of man; comparative analysis. Man will begin to deliberately eliminate other men, finally without regards to race or creed, without regards to family, friends or the state. Discrimination will stop and misanthrope will begin. War will be waged on all earthly fronts. The minor sacrifice, the mere discomfort of nature will last but a second of her life cycle, but it will exterminate the last of a species that had poisoned the surface.
The madmen projected through the divisive media of Man are simply the most advanced of their species. They’ve seen the end, and they have decided to die with dignity and what honor they can gather together. Their math has been decided already, and it states that the dishonor that takes root in an already dishonorable people means nothing, compared to a fraction of honor of the held by the decided of fates. The threads have already been tied together; the holes have already been plotted in. Nature is spitting its failed revolutionary production back out, and every action results in infinite reaction.
MWNL.
W.
3.24.07
THE MATHEMATICS OF ANGER
DATAEATER uploading soon.
The cancer that eats you up is such a pretty lovebite to me. I watch it grow malignant; I watch it spread down your neck. It’s such a dark entertainment, where your youth finds itself so lost and without direction, so you solve it by stabbing little air holes into the helmet, the cap you carved from the bones of a dead love. You can’t feel safe forever. Body heat dissipates quickly when the security blanket is gone. The most damage that can occur is when the domed ceiling, the chapel of your crown, comes tumbling down, taking all your precious, precocious, utterly wasted brainmatter with it. I believe to have found the cure to your faulty prescriptions; your self medication is only going to cut deeper holes into the fabric that I have tried so hard to weave. Spit and cry all you want. The concrete is already dry. The nails are already in. The embers have cooled.
I hope you recall all those times that your death was pushed off the clock, my clock, my hands, my time so dear and so very utterly erased, just in the human interests of saving a little life, so maybe I could nurture a dying breed back into its healthy status on the edge of a razor. Such a potent catalyst, so very diluted in the urine wharf, the ships the crash along the crag, the matter that pours from within, bloated and gouged, a heart sinks like a septic tank into a briny pit of disbelief. You’re either falling down the stairs or giving birth in an elevator, so no wonder vultures follow you with hungry eyes, set on snatching you up the second the spirit leaves the waking body. With as far as the solution has been forced into disintegration, the culture in the throat will continue to prevail over the antibiotics, and the sickness knows where it can burrow. Like a solitary domino. A mirror that reflects itself. You’ve become a snake that sheds its skin, and then curls up next to it at night, just to feel like it isn’t alone. It’s not an epidemic. It’s not a massive outbreak. It’s just a single glitch in the system. One to be eaten up. Just like the data it’s created.
Processes into agony. Like a progeny of subtle hubris that was created through a shaft of dark matter, just to push its own nails into its head. Self defeating, and the self eats the corpse to dispose of the shadow of arrogance and evidence. I can’t count on you to do push ups in your own vomit, so I’ll stand on your back starting now and never ending, watching you tremble, weep and struggle, constantly puking up the words you lied to the world with, until your hands are skeletal from the acids of your stomach eating through the flesh, just withered bones, tingling in a dense pool of your steaming vomit. In a way, I’ll be doing what I used to, just to add that bitter, spiteful tinge of nostalgia; I’ll be pushing you to become stronger and more enduring of worldly pains. In the end, since you’ve decided to make the devil appear before you as the Finger Prince, I can see to it that you’re punctuated with the holes of tortuous irony. If you know me well enough, you know that the mind, the body, and the soul are always fair game. Who is to know when you’re down and when you’re up, when every day is a new cacophony of apocalyptic pretension?
The septum has sprung a leak. I count on the praise that is given to the hole to be enough to stretch it until there is nothing left of the body. It’s just one new orifice. I declare this not in victory, but in your glassy defeat. My muscles hang on a hinge of bone, yours hang on a hinge of the same, though warped by decades of abuse, osteoporosis, fractures, breakage, splinters, dislocation, and electrical tangents.
And it rains. I hear that thunder. It’s not nature, little one; it’s the treads of the tanks. They’ve stopped spelling out names. Now they’re crossing them out, and the lines they leave will highlight a new funeral, now that the dead are done dancing, we can finally put the cowards to rest. In bed. With whomever they wish.
And so greedy. I bet you think this is all for a single person.
MAKE WAR NOT LOVE.
W
3.22.07
FUELS NERVES ALKAHEST
THE MORE YOU SPIT ON ME, THE LESS THIRSTY I BECOME
REIGNING IN DEBT.
W.
3.20.07
DREAM OF THE COMATOSE
New photoshoot, HUMAN FABRIC, and new wallpaper in Malignance.
It tried to smack me down, and it won. Dejected, I developed a cyclone of fear and madness. The rain pelts my skin. It takes me back to the funeral. It's a vision I cannot fight. It’s a feeling so potent, it has crept into each emotion I register, be it joy or misery, the funeral continues to spin, postmortem. I recall the scent of the bitter orchard in the dense autumn fog. I recall seeing the worms eat through the apples that fell prematurely. Fresh fruit. Dying at her mother’s feet. Her father’s footsteps. I remember the flowers, and that they were all sprayed with a bizarre plastic polymer to make them look like they were smitten with morning dew, though, with the fog, they had become wet already and the image ran loops through my mind, contradicting a reproving itself over and over. The shovels sunk into the soil without much force, but it still proved difficult in dress shoes. Everything felt so fake, so stilted, like everything had a secret reason why it had made the death up, but the coincidence got the best of them. I looked for a seam, but finding it would be like finding the dull end of a bowling ball. Sometimes I wish the casket was open, so I could see her face, but other times I hate myself for bring it all up again. I can’t think a thought without reliving it. It’s like the bad beginning to all the world’s worst films, or the more treacherous ending to the world’s most entertaining misery. I’m facing madness again, for reasons I don’t know, upon a stack of beliefs that I have no evidence for. And now I’m back at the funeral.
The orchard’s rotting young smelled of thick glucose, or a summer’s eve harlot doused in sour cider and cleaned with a solution of perfume and vinegar, with her cuts still open and raw. Fighting the images. Trying to tell myself that it’s finally over, and now my worries of her health can be forgotten, but the worrywarts have left scabs and abscesses that I can never refill. Bit by bit, I recall, watching her health slowly diminish until there was nothing left of her. I didn’t know what to do. At what point did it stop being real? Does that mean it was false? Maybe it’s a trick. But I know it’s not. Anything for hope, and now that there is none, I am desperate to exhume the past. At what point exactly, did hope fade from the picture? There is that maternal part of me, when I can look at her, in her blankets, deepset in her bed, and smile because I can feel pity on her, but know that she’d regrow in time. Slowly, that feeling faded off and was replaced by grim acceptance with undertones of futile rejection of the facts. I knew I could’ve done more. I know that there were a few days that I couldn’t bear to bring myself into her room to see her the way she was, and on those days, she didn’t eat. I feel I am responsible for her death, and I cannot seek solace in anyone else. Not anymore. No one kept track of her. No one saw her in storage, no one could enter through the padlock. I still don’t feel safe. When she was still alive, she was in the air I breathed, and now that she’s dead, she’s in the dirt that the trees absorb.
I’m not eating the apples anymore.
w
3.17.07
ALL VALVES OPEN
The lightning strikes me. I feel the colors drip down through the corroded teeth of the drain. I’m wet with dirty water, gray clouds of diluted soap suds roll over the scum caked on my pale frame. The work isn’t easy, I’m never paid. I’m like a heart surgeon. I’m like a graverobber. I’m like a vagrant. Whatever I am, I know I can’t last too much longer. The layers of latex makeup peel off like a second skin, slowly collecting at the drain, turning this shower into a bath, the yellowy water fills up to my knees and pours generously over the sides, to collect in the grout and work its way down to the wound in the floor, the open pit. Knots in my neck roam freely like dead fish in their respective tank. The water is still running like ice down my back, but under my skin, a bustling, pressured furnace. Stench plumes from my shoulders and chest in searing heatwaves. No soap left to wash my hair, and now the water will just make it thicker and greasier. In a single moment, I realize three points of timing. I’ll remain under the shower of water until it runs clear off my body, having removed the paint, blood and stains. I’ll remain here until the water shuts off with the lights, making finding a decent towel all the more difficult, having only lump of lard shaped into a functioning candle to guide my way. I’ll remain here, telling myself that I’ll enjoy the benefits of being clean later, while I ignore the absence of soap and the putrefying film across my body, and the fact that the temperature of the water will ultimately tighten my muscles and keep me from sleep over the following nights, rendering this entirely stillborn. The type of sensation that strangles the mind, wherein you realize that your actions are only causing you undo pain and stress, but you make a conscious decision to slip back into denial, to tell yourself that you’ll feel better if you hurt more now. The shower head jerks, the pipes gag, the water stops. My legs are loaded with a numb sensation, they give out, and I come tumbling down, only stopping briefly to smash my ribcage on the edge of the bathtub, the point where the steel had been bent upwards forming a makeshift fang in the lip. Blood spins slowly into the murk of the water, but this time it’s different. This time it’s mine. The latex and filth that was lighter than water rose to the surface to make a thick barrier. The urine in the water stings the gash across my ribs. I can see the flesh dangling, the bones exposed. The blood continues to pour out into the water, onto the frosty tile floor, my eyes blurred with soap and piercing, body flailing, I look to the medicine cabinet, the mirror shattered, it’s empty. My heart aches, I haven’t been so kind to it through our tenure. Waves of water surge from the sides of the tub as my legs convulse. The water around me slowly clouds until it’s a thick red and brown. The soap takes no prisoners, my arms and legs give out in synch, and my head slowly slips beneath the barrier of filth. Another vibration pulses the room, and the lights flicker shortly, before terminating themselves, placing the entire room in a black pit.
The facts won’t save you.
The truth will hurt you.
The lies betrayed you.
[HE]A[R]T
w.
3.13.07
as a laughing widower
with the hands of man:
the fabric of our space
the milk of our fabric
the heartfed body of man
the acquirement of things
the shapes that are shifting
a prayer to crack the chapel
crown thy good
into contamination
w[ar]
3.11.07
At the rate the pin drops, you are being spoonfed quicksand. I know the world is watching and is waiting, for the numbers to skyrocket just so they can see them plummet. Today we begin to analyze the milk of human fabric. Programs that we are being programmed. Taking on the life of the machine, we are the system we fight. New words have evolved from no ancestral background, no tapestry, no source of reason. They arrive to replace the old words, parts of the old tongue. Anti-government. Pro-colonialism. Cronyism. We wage useless wars on the backs of the dead, and now there is no reason of being; contradictory. We’re numbed to violence and discontent while tolerance is a hypersensitive grindkey, a hateful idiosyncrasy that we’ve been trained, like animals, to seek out and destroy. Both parties are now judging their faults like the jowls of a dead dog, trying to find a way to profit from salted soil. The words you speak are utterly inefficient, entirely useless at fighting off the empire that you’ve created. You’re not protesting, because they say you’re rioting. You’re not providing input, you’re stirring unnecessary unrest. IT’S NOT RESISTANCE. NOW IT’S CALLED TERRORISM.
WORK. In horror and in shock: the machine is more efficient than the philosophers that created it, and now the same menace can’t be called upon to make it stop. Starting rumors is part of spreading a cancer. New rumors on your shoulders just makes muscle, that stretches skin, that makes more room for the bruises to appear. So now your language is changing. Like your shapes. It’s not able to be measured because the measurements have been erased. Thought by thought, the organization is slowly consuming your memories. It’s a fact. You work to have a purpose. To make the ends meet, in knowing that they never will. It’s the stranglehold. It’s the literal rules of the game. You’ll die without their currency, and if you have it, they’ll do everything they can to take it from you. They’ll even burn it themselves, just to watch you die. You saw the towers fall. You saw the stock market crash. You saw the tears run. You saw the body count stacking. I’m sure you saw the resources climb, too. The organization is not being rewarded by the global market for how the keep you alive, or how many of you they maintain, they’re being rewarded by how they stretch and manipulate you. It’s a community. You’re just the grease that keeps the grinder grinding.
BUY. Acting through the will of tension, seeking heaven through pure vile acquirement. Stacking coins like a pillar of salt. So the world shakes and your beacon comes crashing down on top of you, and now your little cuts don’t seem so small. The first place the humans placate themselves is in the leather folds of their wallet, to gain physical objects of a material world, something to fill the gap where the heart used to be. Now there is nothing left to fix, not a part that can be written as missing or broken. When the problem meets it’s catalyst, the organization cites a weak monetary structure to blame for the enhanced loss of life, putting the blame on the shoulders of the weakling who saves his pennies to pay off a gambling debt, a bleak spiral downward meticulously crafted in a dark depression by the secure few who know how to knead the tears from the backs of the starving.
CONSUME. Self destruction as a final bet, it has forged a priority in the war prospect. Every company that hasn’t been pressured into non-existence is facing this new tyrant. Consume. Consume. Like conceit; conceit, but in a more formalized rape fashion style of mixing new fears with old regrets. “Unhappiness, discontent, thoughts of resistance, it can be medicated away. The medications work well with food, so make sure you eat plenty of that. You don’t want your vitamins to go too low with all this biochemical terrorism, so make sure you eat and drink plenty, to keep you good strong and god-willing. Now the medications are reacting improperly. It’s not our fault. It’s your organs, they’re spitting the pills back like they were stubborn cattle unsatisfied with our polished cud. You’re feeling sick, suicidal, or heaven forbid: Hesitant to accept the norm, resistant to the organization. Here. Take some more of these. Make sure you eat and drink with them, lest they rot in the pit of your stomach. Call it an enhanced Eucharist. Call it AboveGod.”
DIE. You’ve stepped on cockroaches before. You’ve seen them squirm. You’ve pulled wings from a moth, or held it with tweezers, in the flame of a candle. The smoke that heaves from the formless ashes, the last gasps of worldly change. You’ll work yourself to death, you’ll buy yourself into a hole and starve to death, you’ll overconsume as you have been so specifically instructed, and in that, there is death. And the organization won’t stop taking from you. Even in death. And that point exactly, the deathlessness [or lifelessness] that makes the organization so caustic. If you don’t do as they tell you to, they’ll kill you personally, or they’ll convince the public that your kind deserve to die, and you’ll be killed by your peers. If you do as they tell you to, but only to a careful degree, you’ll die of the chemicals they’ve installed into the things you eat, into the water you’re drinking, into the money you’re handling, at the job you’re working. If you’re too eager, they’ll let you into the circle, you’ll be even closer to the poisons, and you’ll die quicker then those on the ground floor, and with that, they’ll cover up your death. They’ll call it heroism.
Run as fast as you want.
w.
3.9.07
3.5.07
DULL BOY
andinthisplacei'vetriedtohide.
I am sick of everything with a hole. That’s just more space for me to fill, eventually. I know the sun shines under my skin. I pick at the sores because I can see the light poking through. In the cracks. In the gaps. In the places where I forgot who to be. Now it’s all dried in, and the heart just gave up. I want to rest from it all. To wind down. Let something inside out, but I’ve got nothing. Wind caught in a sandstorm, associated with the disease, the syringe makes a circle, and the meaning is out. Now it’s a bitter assessment. I look at me, and what it’s all been, all along. When I thought it was a needle, to sew me up, I never asked to see the string. Now I’m dotted with perforation, the unused portion, waiting to be hurt to feel again.
andwhereiam,ifeelsovague.
The fastest horse makes the strongest glue.
iwantedittomakesense,butnowit'sjustnegativespaceencompassing.
I’m not looking for answers. I just want to know what the problem is. The little warning drones away, I can feel the sounds, the siren bites my ears. The sound of metal as it finally hits the bone; it’s all I have left to hear. The doctor said I was sick, and that there was nothing he could do. Either it would grow too large, or it would just bite and sink. I think he was right. It’s been too long. It’s gone too far. My ribs have begun to show, again, like little enemies back to remind me why I am the worst one of them. The spark that lights the wick, the light that shines from beneath, the cut that begins to spread. Another addiction that fails to manifest itself, despite it’s surfacing in quick, vicious succession in deep, black psyche. You can’t measure the depth of the shadow I’ve left. I can’t reach the source of light that made it. At one pivotal moment, I made the choice to distance myself in hopes that I could find whatever machine that made me want to work, and in leaving them…
andinit,icouldhearyourheart.
In leaving them I was left without air, but my back was turned, delusional, I though they’d turned their backs on me. Luck gasped its final wishes, and now I know there is no machine. There is nothing to make me work. There is nothing to make me play. If you really want to care, I guess you're out of time. I can't say that I'm still here, but I know I can't see you from where I am. I’m not on my knees, just on my side, hoping with the vibrations of my heart rate, hoping that will be enough to tip the scale, to release what’s left, to empty the carriage. I’m not going to wait anymore. What I have accomplished is so obscure. A hole is left to mark my place. It's square one. It's where I was going when I thought I was leaving. It's where I am now. I'm not going to wait anymore.
anditshookthedustandmademechoke.
Go ahead and wear your mask. I’ve got one too. Only, mine lacks holes for me to see through. I made it while I was looking at you.
iwantedtocontactyou,butthelinewascut.
Not love,
nowi'mnotsosureyouwereeverthereatall.
w.
3.3.07
new wallpaper.
IAMINTHEBOOTABOVEYOURHEAD
If you look through the make up, look through the infections, you’ll be looking through the mirror. As it has become. It’s not about rebuilding, it’s about closure. One common principle, the lie that burns the barn down. You should have kept the mask on, because now you’re making your friends into a firing squad. The whore of the vineyard will drink the finest of wines but eat only the fallow crop…and now, separate and distant, you’ll breathe the sands of babel, the smoke of a burning empire, you’ll feel your shapes shifting. The hole has been dug, and it’s up to you to fill it.
Daylight ends formally in an upheaval of industrial bulimia. The jets that crash through the night sky, the skyscrapers that crumble into nothingness in such a few short, suspicious seconds, and the stars, my stars, that they’ve wiped from the sky. When the plug is pulled, when the believing stops and the questioning begins, we face a fearful factor of overwhelming unrest, the back of the book cover is connected to the beginning: without a system of beliefs, mankind dedicated itself to arrogance and elitism, and in the same hierarchy, perverse decadence reigns again. Sad functions of the vulgarity, as if the entire planet is a saltmine and we’re forced to work it, or face non-existence.
When power folds, suspicion remains. It’s a mark that cannot be erased. We’ve been hit as children, and raised into a war prospect, chaos is natural like the rivers of alcohol that lead to our abuse…then again, those rivers had their own rapids…our non-reliance on improbability makes guilty sheep of the fed and bastardized. You still have the scars, the bruises, and you still have the welts, but most importantly, after the seeds were crushed under heel, the will to fight back has never been less. It’s a constantly diminishing substance a hole that is forever shrinking, but it’s always big enough to eat you up. The milk of our divine impudence, the curdling efforts of the poison trait, and it eats through the straight-edge. The spoils of war have only spoiled further. Being forced onto your knees all your life, you’ll find yourself blindfolded and nostalgic, and you won’t even feel the bullets slip through your back. Patriots will crumble in tow, a casket to contain the bleeding heart, birthing hips crushed by the bible belt, eyes plucked to prevent seeing, mouth cauterized to prevent speaking.
Behold me.
On a stretcher.
The heartfed body of man.
And another nation falls.
Mwnl,
w.
2.27.07
THE WAR MACHINE
4 New Wallpapers
So precise. So exact. So calculated. The war machine pisses it's name into the snow, claiming another moment that they drag, gagged and doped, into the basin. I can see where the bullets have been shot, and without watching the dead fall limp into the snow, I know why they were fired. Here, the ammunition speaks louder than words, but what they say is fueled by that particular tyrant vehemence, that particular prejudice, the selection of a group deemed unworthy of life, by another who are gluttons of that same vice, and they are ruthlessly pinned until all the meaning shivers out from beneath them. The colors have all faded away, and in the end result, I won't even bother looking in the mirror any more. So the snow melts, to reveal a withered garden, drowned of it's life.
MWNL,
w
2.25.07
IN SHADOW OF TWO PYRES
New photoshoot: Wantingness [And The Holes It Has Left]
So the landlines rain down, the whip of frost, only penetrating the air to form a vicious circle. The asphalt that melts beneath these boots, the concrete that cracks and trembles, parts of the brain, the pandrogny [gin trap] scepter. The pastel clouds are only blackening, moving off into the distance to make room for the new blanket of night sky. Seconds of shameful fluttering only to build up to the maddening huzz, the language of the streetlight's orange bulb. Snow melts on my jacket, my cavity kept warm by boiling blood and a fever that runs a highwire act between a rock, and a hard hope-diamond palace. If one leg slips, I know the next will follow, and into the muck I will be. As an astronaut in negative space, the shuttle left, now I spin with the last gasps of pure oxygen before I am left to orbit blue. But, for now, I'll just fall back to earth, and into the snow, where in place of releasing air in an airless environment, I've been left with the last shivers of warmth, in a blizzard, I am lost.
When it began, I could look down to see the panicked footprints of escaping refugees, I spied from the cracked, warped window of the attic. I know they ran as hard as they're hearts would beat their feet to the ground, but before they even could feel the pain, they were gunned in the back, friends, family, children, the most upbeat of the downtrodden, the highlights of the lowlife, some unnameable thumb ruptured the sky, came barreling through, and pinned those miserable few, in their own individual pits, onto their backs. I slept soundly that night, relying on the leak of purifying chemicals to cloak my fervor with a scratchy gloss of pinstripe, and the persistent monotony that echoed, the sound of water and debris, constantly dripping into the myriad of buckets. The type of array that renders itself a quick moot point, as even with the grid aligned perfectly, there can never be enough points, and I can never keep up with the process, the buckets overflow, the water freezes onto my jacket at night, the act of hypothermia repeats. The next morning, I remember waking up to the sound of gears grinding against belts, motor crunching cogs, spitting fluids, belching toxins, the plow mounted on the front of the steel behemoth, pushing the bodies into the gulch, shifting their shapes, breaking their bones. Soon, it only appeared that a massacre had occurred, one without blood, one without bodies, and even under the twenty thousand pound weight of turret, shell, bullet and tread, the footprints still bled their way to the top, still visible, still haunting.
Driven, [like a golf club into an arched back] by the primal desire for meats and roots to eat, I made the zero-sum decision to leave the iced slick that I had taken hold in, down to the ground level, where the walls were broken, concrete crumbling off the edges, the ceiling tiles were yellow and dangling by wires and tubes, like my fingernails by the time of record. The door had been torn of the hinges, bullet holes and phosphorus scarring had left the paint a grainy white. Beneath my feet, under the inch of hard plastic, was another foot of broken glass and bundled carpet, staples, rusted nails, dust, disease, and metaphysical film reels depicting the apocalypse, from a moment when an accurate prediction could result in death by conspiracy. In place of no irony, as the shadow of no towers[another string to pull a puppet, a tendon of the puppeteers hand, the glint in it's shiny glass eye.] the walls, the house, the hearth and hope of it all, decorated to resemble the pulsing inch of flesh that separates the layer of defiled skin and the fetus inside the pregnant stomach. The warmth had been long gone, heat that rose infinitely into the vacuum of space, to be torn apart, spread even, and to change nothing, just another piece of the chaos theory. In moving my boot, I fell the ground descend with every step, and even though I couldn't see the teeth or hear the moan, I knew that there was a sense of a human being beneath me. Witnessing death, wanting to save the dying, as a natural complex of a man who tells himself to be kind, but in the constant case that is dictated to me, I couldn't have saved them, I couldn't have changed the event, and if I tried, I'd be no better off, just gunned down like the rest...and in that second, the question arises, the piece that tears the curtains down like a rabid mistress, the concept: Even if I were to expire in fake heroism, never to be recorded, is there not a sin written for the man who does nothing while others are being stripped of their garments, their bones pried off while living flesh shouts in agony? What man am I, to put myself in such alienated fear of a nameless tyrant, a drunken giant, while they breathe the same smoke that I inhale and ex? The smoke from the bodies of those I tried to avoid eye-contact with, before the invasion had begun? Such thought is enough to silence any living tenure, to drop a man to hang, like a opaque Christmas ornament, on a pinless evergreen in the dead of night...I only begin to hope, to hope that one being that I had loved in my days, had lived a second life behind my back, and in their reincarnation, as a maggot or warble fly, they could see my face once more before I became a skeletal windchime, a literal reinvention of all other life around me.
I must run from the wind that only blows as I collide with still air, run from the tanks that I can no longer hear, but in all, in running and dashing through the blizzard's gray palette, to keep my senses constantly in fear, fear of something unknown, something that could harm me, or take my life, and with my senses in fear, I know not what I think of myself, I feel not guilt, I quiver with no essence of remorse, as it has built up behind my ribs. Panic, sprinting, forcing myself to be afraid, in a way, is an act of self destruction hidden in an act of self preservation. Constantly, my mind loops back to the visions of the massacre, the groan of the bodies caught under the treads, the whir of the gadgets and contraptions made with startlingly cruel intent, and a scene of the tomb of the unknown soldier, where the foolish pay their respects to corpses they've never met. In running, and consequently, slipping, sliding, falling, collapsing, I collect all that there is left in the streets, flanked by identical ransacked houses, I collect the pits of mud, grease, grime and filth, and maybe, if these stains are my camouflage, my fingernails like dogtags, I may someday find myself in the praise of unknowing mouth-breathers...but right know, I don't know who will be made of what, all that I can think of is getting from point A to point B, though, in reality, I am not making any progress towards any destination, so I am just running from point A to point 1.
Down into the snow, collapsed for what, like every time, appears to be the last, I can see down through the snow, where fresh tracks of a roaming tank had led me, a hand and face, frozen under the inches of fogged ice. Trapped in time, no hope, no chance, no change to occur, while his face still read the emotion of escape, that which occurs while you know the monster on your coattails is lighting the matches between your toes, but if he can't swim, you can drown him with you. I struggled, laying in pity, to pull myself up, but alas, I failed, and hit the ground hard, like ever previous time. Nature plays tricks on me, I think, where it doesn't matter how high I climb, I always seem to fall harder than the previous attempt. With the last creaks of my neck, I positioned my hand beneath my bright red ear, to see snowy mountains of rigormortis, enclosed in fencing, sanctioned off from the rest of the grid of houses. My eyes fluttered into sleep, and when I awoke, time had left me dangling in negative space, my hands were black, my face was black, my eyes burnt and my tears ran a thick oily sludge down my withered cheekbones. Coughing until fist and thumb were clean from soot and red of blood, I wiped the grime from me eyes to see up into the sunlight, the tiny portal beaming down, poking through the layers of clouds as a hurdle trips a man, as his fall renders him broken, the sunlight could not break through the plume of smoke and grain, the constant shock waves of palpable heat, stretching my skin until it's taught and shredded. The mountains in my vision before I fainted into ill sleep were torched, and in place of new glints of awe and fear, I realized this as a symbol for life, as corpses never can burn themselves without aide of the animate, and of death, whereas, the chalkboard of the dark colossus had been swept clean, their reign still reigning, their enemies helpless and burning. A thumb came down, and laid it's rest on my back, slowly pushing the air out of my chest, in a purely metaphysical manner. Hope had been squelched by an unmovable mass that travels at unstoppable speeds, as I see it now, the pages of history are being burnt up, the dead into dust and so goes their legacy, their families, their thoughts, their prayers, all simply floating as cinders in the wind. Now I know that there is no point, so I left myself with a knuckled conclusion, a question I must ask before I fear I may expire: "WHO IS COUNTING THE BODIES?"
I have begun work towards a new art exhibition.
mwnl
w.
2.20.07
SWASTIGAGGING [A HEIMLICH FOR HIMMLER]
Hailing A--RICA. I’ll let it be known, my hate is serving the living. Now descended into the drowning pit. Fifteen years of blood and there is still more to fight. You don’t need to try anymore. You don’t need to focus in. You stopped hoping a long while ago. Now it’s authority’s fault that your church is in the state of smolders. Now it’s the pastor’s responsibility to keep the guns out of the streets. This is the world, as it has been made, where the only time that hands are together is when they are forever fused into one molten ball of flesh and bone, in the towering flames in falling skyscrapers. Tragedy always shines through the synthetic virtues that we have developed, and as a people, there is massive complex that has led the commonground ‘belief’ to constantly wage war against itself, as it consistently pushes its blame over to another man. It is a paradox that forms instantly and infinitely, where the man, as all of us have become, has an excuse for every mistake he has made, shrugging his problems off, the paradox being a man who is both weak and strong at the same time, where he is pathetic in the simple reason that he cannot control his life to the extent of evidence erasure, but he has the will and constitution that is brought when every attack can be parried. The universe is much like a balloon, where one hole can crate massive devastation across the astral plain, and a hole is in case for the same catalyst effect of a loop in logic. In this universal realm of orbits, circles, rings and spheres, loops have always been the most feared.
Faulty mammalian rhetoric climaxes through point-blank civilian politic. So now a sewer surge of wastes comes gushing from the only pore left in the surface. In a way, now that the vacuum has a new name and face, the hole must be recalled into its former glory, and anti-establishment standpoint. It’s a new way of kicking a dead dog. Purging the cleric, wasting through, it’s the process of the source, and now it is finally gone. It hadn’t a justifiable good reason to begin with. What is left of a mutilated shell of a heart, the prescriptions that are guzzled in tow, insists on existence, and the fact that, as I am now, and as I have been in the past, and without just cause to describe a future change in present tense, I endorse reality as a being of hate, and not love. It hasn’t worked out in the past, and moving on from my failures with knowledge in mind, I know what there left to do. It’s always been one or the other, hate, or love, and in the middle ground, I care for no one.
So now trust is an old mirror, dust is love like sacred. Your heroes are lying to you. Loyal. You got me drunk and protected like a tapeworm in a jar. Eating my way to the top, unjust as long as the don’t-ask-don’t-televisions say so. If it would help the story I could be abused by your role model. In anger. If you’d like. I know what it is like to be next to nothing. You’re the funeral we’ve been waiting for. Never has there been a better time to engage into the political fantasy that our lives have become, but in the end, all things that are worth doing, are verily stripped of their values when they become forced activities, engaged in for the lifesake of it all. Man spins passion through ignorance, where the absence of suffering can be interpreted as a sensation of joy. Through this concept, the basis of human existence is to feel joy, and not pain, and either side to take is foolish, and above all, fatally flawed. Existence, as it is, and as it always will be, is pointless, even to serve the Gods or to create a new plain of happiness or to dig a new barbaric trench of misery for those who have trespassed against you, it all means absolutely nothing. There is no interdimensional fabric, no continuum to rely on, no means of repeated creation, and by the laws of science, there is no infinitely renewable resource. What we have created has only been possible through ruthless subtraction, harm, and destruction, and from this, we’re trying to protect the future from the past, and erase the past by pushing our present-day duties off into the future, like hiring a body guard to defend himself, and no one else.
It’s about feeling pain. It’s about feeling again. Looking for a link in the suffering. Chemical in the mixture. A war without reason. We’re engaging …again. It’s about pride and not blood or oil. It’s about controlling the wind that shakes our flag. Why can’t I sleep softly now that all my enemies are dead? One problem breeds from the other. Faith like liberty dies in captivity. Coliseum painted white, high chair in bones. Down through fear sacrament. When will the tears we weep in joy stop our make up from running? These colors aren’t supposed to. This isn’t about being held hostage. It’s about being put off. If a prisoner holds a key, he isn’t effectively released until he leaves his cell. Just because you can’t see the walls, doesn’t me they can’t make me claustrophobic. Just as it is today, in the likeness of no standing forefathers. Just because you can’t hear the gunshots, doesn’t mean shells aren’t dropping. A nation is being run, into the ground, like a business, and with every business there is a quota to fill. Good money is in any undeniable fact, as all humans breathe, the companies that poison the air are guaranteed cash benefits. As is with reproduction, eating, and bloodshed, all the most animalistic traits, enhanced by skinless dogs in well-pressed suits. So, yes, it is a business, but in place of quotas and agendas to fill, we have rows upon rows of graves, open like sores, waiting to be fed.
Changing the facts,
W
2.19.07
INOPERABLE
w.
2.15.07
FUNERAL
NEW PHOTOSHOOT: FUNERAL
An open letter to a shallow grave.
I never made note of any promises. Now you’re choking on your own spit and I don’t want to help you. Everyday I am simply waiting for an honest, accidental death, but at the same time, I want to live just long enough to see you suffer for all the pain you’ve tried to avoid. Now you’re choking on the spit of another. Now I am two steps closer to the sun. I couldn’t care less, if this is the last transmission that I make to the living world from negative space. It can never affect me. I am sealed away, safe and sound, where I can’t reach out to anyone, and no one can infect me. In this stasis chamber, I’ll live until I die, and then my microbes will rot in hell, as with all of the life that I have intervened with. You wanted a canvas, so I gave you my back, and now the scars are layered on so thick that I should change my name to Freeman. I give. I am a giver. Now there is nothing. I hope that the world around me, choking on blood and cum, as they have been taught, can understand my standpoint, and the point at which you are crawling beneath me, hands and knees scraping through the pins, syringes, and needles, just searching for meaning in an utterly useless, hopeless, thoughtless existence. But even as they watch this autopsy on a, dead, lifeless, no-longer-able-to-be-sentient, corpse, they can understand what occurred before. I am not preaching to a ministry, I am not a minister, but there are keys here that all of us could use.
So be it. Your complex ate you up. From day one, this studio audience knew that you were a dead-in-water character, written into a script longer than your filthy, wretched gaze could stare. I don’t care about pieces falling off, because I know that decomposition is only a second rate trend of the corpses around me. Shock value is derived from caring, and now that it has obviously run dry; you’re shot, skinned, cooked, and eaten. You’ve gagged for long enough, now tighten the knot, and let everyone else in the apartment building get some sleep. It doesn’t matter if they announce a death or not, what matters is the fact that, in a worldly celebration of your demise, champagne will run smoother, and more steadfast, than all the tears you have wasted on sentient beings, forging an emotion, acting like you care. It’s a building on fire, and you are the windows. Transparent, fragile, framed in, and tortuously baked until no longer recognizable, and at the end of it all, the broken glass is piledrived away with all the liquid steel and molten brick, to the same shithole, to the same pit, in negative space, and no one could ever, on any plain, care of the feelings of the glass. Now you see me. Soon you won’t.
I hope you recall my older works, though nothing physical in this dying place ever occurred to you. It’s Adams apple, but Eve must eat everything, it twitches, you’re useless, and in giving in, you’ve finally come face to face with my old, hollow adage. The only thing I could ever promise to you has now come into sick closure, in to blasphemous fruition. It’s in you. 'Now Cough It Up'. But thankfully, I am no where to be seen, with broken elbows, it’s up to me to push you off. Exactly as it was written, the prophecy fulfilled. You’ve coughed it up, and it’s become animate. Now, tied down, gagged by a fleshy chokehold, you’ll be coughing it up for eons to come. Forever is never a time to make a promise. Now suck up what is left. I told you explicitly of the vacuum of infinite space, the pains that coincide with its ultimate power and dominance over the entire physical realm, and now, over all warnings and nuances, you have become it. The vacuum of infinite space. A substance without substance, matter without matter, being without being, where the only existing form is within sucking, as a vacuum, infinitely. Without temperature, you are dead, without pulse, you are dead.
I have tried to be blunt before. I have tried to be clear before. I have tried to explain it all before. Now there is no other way:
Open your mouth. Stick out your tongue. Down the hatch. You earned this.
Make war. Not love.
w.
2.14.07
JABULWARK
To dispell the misconceptions about me; I am fifteen years of age, and not lying.
Check back soon for new renovations, innovations, orchestrations.
'GRINNER'
The ego flatters, but a pretty dame
But the hand, to the bark, carves another name
They pick, they ponder, how I sleep so warm
“I have never slept alone”, I coo to the swarm
I fear being alone, my indemnity true
To say “I have loved many before, but not like to you!”
And not to assume, those words are so old
I’ll admit, I use them like matches when the loveline runs cold
“But you, you’re different, those others, they’re harlots”
“But I love you for heart, not where your pale flesh splits”
A question not asked, why women would dive
A concept not judged, why so hard they would strive
To service the account, of a man without heart
Destruction isn’t everything, but I know it’s a start.
I laugh because I know that you’re already fucked. You’ve built a brick house in quicksand.
Don't Say You Never Promised.
mwnl.
w
2.8.07
CRYING AS THEY UNDRESS
They’re crying as they undress.
And I’ll finally have my way.
Permission and mutuality are old ideas.
I’ve lost a limb.
I’ve gained prosthesis.
I cannot feel pain.
EYE THE LIAR added to MALIGNANCE
Power-hungry. Fear facts. Hatemonger. Death effect. I’ll kiss your neck with my hands down your throat. People are concerned over my timing. I don’t like soft noises. I believe I am the big bang, and the reversal of time is only through prosperity. I’m a tired valentine. It was always such a gamble. Like the chocolates. But now, no thrill, pair of dice lost. I hate the faithful, and clearly, I don’t have faith. Faith implies evidence, and right now, I’ve got none of that…but for the beams of light coming from the shoulder blades. I’m tearing my hair out. I’m tearing my hair back in. Now it’s just regret. I have locked myself on the outside looking in, and now I’m inside a burning house, looking out.
Break mistaken. I can’t take antibiotics for that. My doctor forgot who he was talking to. This isn’t a triangle, this is a circle, and I want out. I hope to disappear soon; I don’t think your fingernails will grow long enough anyways. I boast capacity for incapacitations, and the tenacity of tenderization. But it’s never been about me. I’ve never gone so crudely out of my way. Under the weather, with stormclouds, under pressure with oxygen assistant, a little pain tells me that there is a good-enough energy not spun through misery, and by choice, I don’t have to believe in it. I used to hold hands, no I just hold my head, and I recall all the fingers I used to have. Someone at the pit from my cherry, and now I’ve got nothing to spit into their eyes. I believe in the triumph of will over mankind’s ignorance, based in the quad-valved con-push that circulates the negative stimulus. My battles. My struggles. I believe in the organization of man, and the ability to turn love inside out to inverse proportions of targets and hate.
If you fall down, you get hurt. If you drink, you get drunk. If you touch the wire, you get shocked. By now, the air is thick with these words, being repeated time and time again. It’s hard to have faith in breathing, when I know I’ll just waste my breath. Every time I give, I lose more than you gain. It’s never been a one-step-forward-two-steps-backwards game. It’s just been the steps backwards. Lower. Down. I see that the hand is made of plastic with the paint chipping off, I know you’ve scoured my history for evidence on disability, but in doing, you’ve only strengthened my case. The smart ask the right questions. The foolish ask safe questions. The faithful already know the answers. Give, give back. I never wanted to prepare for this.
I believe in fear. I believe in making it worse. You want payback; I’ll smother your virtues. Don’t deny it just because you regret it. Everything is written in stone, and I will cast the first. The rock of your church quivered beneath its own weight, and now it’s up to you. Face the facts, eat the charges. I am not here to help anyone. I’m not here to make the pain go away. I’m here to tell you what you’re being cut with, just so you know how to avoid it in the future. I want to know if it hurts more to step on the same nail twice, than it does several times. You’ll find that it is a lot colder at the bottom of the gulch, but where there is water, there is life.
I don’t care if you’re molting. Your feathers never kept you warm anyways. What should it matter if your castle of cards collapses, when it never stood for anything at all? Breathe the fumes, take me back to the hole, my heart is in sterilization, I’ve declared war against your kind before. Now I have it. It’ll crawl into your mouth as a whisper, and dig its way out like a nail. So shapeshift. I’ve hated it before, but there is a difference between pulling a chair out for someone, and pulling it from under them. This is your chance. I’ve opened the door. Stop making your pains so big that you can lumber, but never fit. We all know you’ve got the scissors.
I trusted that chemical to do the jumping for me, and now I’m running a race without feet. I fight information with colonialization, the people say that I don’t know what I am doing have never tried anything new. Don’t tell me about how you trusted me. Don’t tell me about you cared. Don’t show me your excuses. I have seen the footage, and I know that if the trust you boasted was complete, you wouldn’t care about anything else. I’m not an ear waiting to be lied to. I’m a jaw waiting to bite. The all-too-thin blanket that you knit me is hailing the surface in shrapnel and cinders. I can’t stay warm with my body heat alone, so I have burnt each painting and portrait for its healthy glow. If I could forget everything I know now, and put myself into a coma, I know that the answer wouldn’t immediately be ‘no.’
No progress. No change. I’ve decided to look back, and analyzing the input, I realized how hollow every path has been. You’ve fallen asleep against the windfall, and I’m watching you bite your tongue in half, and your mouth to be overrun with blood and lies. Your smog hangs thick like a funeral veil, where everything can be transferred to another mans account, where no blame can land on the innocent grave. My will is to sleep with such swagger, and to breathe and live from the soot that rains down. With a daily bread, and of daily sugar, I motion towards the burn ward to heal the tissues that I’ve welded together. The majority has always doubted the creator. Now my head is in a vice, and my knuckles are crushed. You should know the rules by now, because they never, ever change. I go where I am needed. I know where I am not.
I’m coplanar with the index. I live lives and kill sex. I’m a rough in a diamond, colder than I am long. So here it is: my belly full of coal, and my appetite for critical mass. Tell me you’re here for the stage and not for the performance, and you find yourself singing a sad song to the smallest violinist, after I’ve cast you the lead role, into the orchestra pit. I appreciate the lie because I think it’s cute, like you can sneak one more skeleton into my closet without waking me up. I’ve been the camera in your bedroom, I’ve been the fingers trickling the light fantastic inside of you, while whispering NO. Don’t act like you’re startled. Don’t act like you’re amazed. This is the government speaking, and the voices come through me. You’ve been watched, and the results are as follows: I am a giver. With a taker in tow, the appearance would make for a seismic atrocity, or an unbreakable bond, but as the deck has been stacked, the facts have never been in your favor. I’m the cold shoulder to cry on, as it has been. I’m the muscles behind your aching. I’m the siren you dread, I’m the alarm you installed. Right now, there is no place I would rather be, because, for once, you’ve shot down everything in the sky, and I know that I, finally, am nowhere at all.
YOUR SKIN IS EVERYTHING BUT THICK ENOUGH.
BELIEVE IN ME OR BE LEAVING ME.
W [AR]
2.4.07
SMUT ROCKET
In content efforts to make bad things worse, I have come to a dismal realization that I cannot cope with. I am home to die now, and in the nest that I have forged with spent matches and cigarette butts, the cancer that I am clearly willing and able to contain, has spread to my living ward, my safe haven, killing my pills and swallowing my patient. My hand, crudely decorated with scabs, warts and welts, gently nudges the back of her head, just to see if it is still alive. I consider death to be a wake up call to the living, not to point attention to the body, but to the thing that removed it from life. So misery has been entrenched behind spinning, laughing coils of barbed wire, dust belches out from the punctured surface, and beyond that, I see teeth dashing into the belly of the beast, with an ego for pluralism and giganticism, I understand the hunger for its polished grimace.
I miss the briny taste of fish scales, lipstick applied with hopes smashed by dissonance, and bitterness, growing every moment that passed, like a terribly misshapen second skull. I miss the way my hands used to shake so angrily, I miss being able to see my heartbeat through my frail ribcage. When it hit especially hard, I didn’t know if I would die or live forever, and every so often, they became on in the same. Napalm mutilates the non-believer, and thusly, the paradox is formed[love eats itself.] It’s not about one thing, but the paradigm that was manufactured by a solipsist with four hands. Having a tinge of cringing, singing hope here is like waiting for a tornado to retrace its vicious steps backwards, and reassemble your house.
So the hardwood floors are cold in the morning, but the nails that are pounded into its structure are long enough to keep my feet in place until the escaping fluids warm the entire room. I can see the sunrise from here, its tender locks of inverted Heidi-kike luster, shadowing flawless hydrogen decomposition in that particular fiery haze. The snow eats through the trees like a tumor through the heart. Here is another day to wake up useless but in a world of errors and no-outlet zones, where there are nails to be pounded and grain to be gathered. Snowing and bitter, cowering above a frozen grave, my shovel cannot penetrate the rough skin of a dying planet. I am asking for a blood transfusion. It’s possible, but sometimes the veins are just too rotten to bother pumping the life back in. Sometimes the living must leave the dead to rot, but right now I’ve got a needle in my spine telling me that dying means nothing unless you’re living with meaning, or in sin. I don’t want the bones back; I want the throat that choked on them. I don’t want the home; I want the warmth it contained…but I understand that my thumb is still bleeding because I stitched a curtain of ‘Home Sweet Home’ in vengeful pretence, as if all attacks that never engaged, can be called intercepted, or paying interest on a loan you never took out. Back to Baghdad. I’m dry heaving but there is nothing to vomit, like squeezing a lemon rind hoping for limejuice, I can’t cry because the flour in my mouth is the salt in my eyes. This is the only stage left, the only wedding ring recovered at the circus, and I’ll eat and puke theatrics because it’s the only language I can speak. Only a fool would skin a cat for not singing a birdsong.
I see it but cannot speak. Inverse proportions, inverted perceptions, the holes poked in the fabric of negative space are now simply floating circlets of matter, so when I look away and try to ignore them, I can only see the ocean of opportunities that have grown old and withered to death, and when I recoil from that, I just go back to those dreadful little circlets, the places where I hadn’t ignored the opportunity, but seized it and bashed my fingers, and the fingers of others, to crackling little pieces. Now I know that I am nothing to shape it, and at this point, where two lines intersect, my eyelids have become heavier with each gust of morphine, and the EKG fades from aural presence, leaving nothing but a sharp, soulless screech. Somewhere, there is a wrench interwoven with my muscular fibers and now that the mechanic is gone; I must face a new apostasy. The bridge is out up ahead, and I can’t use my only shovel to dig my way under the valley. Staring down the hatch of the gulch, I can still see the depression where my feet have been, on all the times that I’ve climbed up. Waking up again, now at the bottom of the canyon, I tear the wires from my head, disconnecting myself from the EKG, unsure of all things past, present, and future, I can only see the distant edge up the steep, rigorous slope, and my mind can only think one word: DESTINATION. Broken glass, vertical nails, cacti, while I may have holes in my hands, feet, and circulatory system, also have holes in my head, so I consider each setback to make the climb to be all the more worth it. Only a fool would be excited to eat pottage when he is not hungry.
Eye for an eye makes the whole deserving world blind. Junk in, junk out, makes us all junkies. I puke hot tar after eating it to impress myself. I am a liar, but it doesn’t matter when no one is listening. I wouldn’t steal unless I knew someone was going to be stolen from. I am looking closer and closer to the mirror every day, so when I whisper, I think it’s someone else. No one else knows it, I tried to keep it a secret, but butterflies in the stomach can make a snitch out of a Neanderthal, but my stage fright IS my stage presence. I call it theatre because it’s a low art beheld on a balcony, I am not a dramabomber, but the carrying, solemn hymnal that shouted it’s decadent aftercry towards ‘Romeo’, as an actual ‘Elvis has left the building’ moment. So the schism that has developed to contain the ever-writhing heart, like a flesh eating infection, to keep the wanter, the wonder, and the shambling horror of decomposing meat, safe to rot in their own individual tombs. It took practice, but I eventually taught myself to pull the nails into my coffin from the inside. Everybody pays for the crimes of one, and even then, we’re still not equal. Only a fool would grovel to a operahouse.
You’re not crying because of what happened, you’re crying because you could’ve prevented it. Egoism, survivalism, each human trait painted black, set ablaze, knocked down, and shoveled over with dirt, and each piece of a sacrosanct relic, depicting true human behavior. I keep seeing ugly men punching mirrors because they’re afraid of what they saw, be it a hideous apparition of the degenerate specter that they have become, or a wiry nymph with an icy hand on his shoulder. It is understandable for a human to avoid a terrifying conclusion, but after the tragedy repeats itself over and over, the logic kills itself off. Now there is no where left to go. At some point, after picking shards of broken mirror off your fist and forearm, you’ll begin to notice the scar tissues, and that if you flex just right, they all line up to form a convincing pattern of warped, gnarled flesh, reading: ‘ONLY A FOOL WOULD LIVE TO DIE TWICE.’
That’s it. I’ve hit the threshold. The most stable a ride on an airplane can be, is in a complete freefall. The least discomfort the human body can record is in a state of shock. It’s always darkest before it goes pitch black. I may have broken a chain that bonded me to the surface, but I still have a shackle to remind me great failures can grow up to be miserable tyrants.
Smut rocket.
w
1.29.07
FORGED IN WAR
Credit: CJ Bruckner
NEW PHOTOSHOOT:
More in Malignance
Good mourning in Hell.
I woke up quaking today, in the breathing fields. The girlmice slithered away, hiding their malice, while the boymice remained to discuss whether or not they should be considered rats. The flowers bent towards decay as I walked past them, pushing toadstools into the dirt. The trees looked away, but their branches held strange fruit that day, pits of crackled necks and strangulated men were dug at their roots. I felt so tranquil there, staring deep into the rotting, pungent basin. After plucking a tranquilizer dart from my neck, I looked painfully up to see that the sun engaged mitosis and its two halves were burning out. All of my birds flew away, all of the snakes in the grass slid off into the gulley, the grass laid down flat. After several tense seconds, the suns had finally burnt themselves out entirely, leaving nothing but a black lagoon of wretched bog air to penetrate my senses. Above me, and all across the sky, colossal orange beams, protected by rigid steel girders flickered on until they were fully illuminated, belching a sweltering, mind-numbing blast of heat, smothering all the flowers and all the trees, scorching the hair of my arms, legs, head and face. The oven was on.
I pushed down the daisies, and stuck my hand into the wound of the earth, reading each stitch like a hole in my head. My fingers got caught in the fan below, and with the blood constantly escaping; I evaded a terrible death, of being baked alive. It’s not about protection or warmth anymore, it’s about realization. I put it in, so now don’t tell me I pulled out. After the circumstances, it’s been boiled away, and I am nothing but a festering mass of proteins and carbon. So I’ll wait for the new negative, unless this is the newest version, if that is the case, I’ll just wait another minute, and the world will have been unutterably disfigured since then. There are no copies. There is no data. No duplication. No redevelopment. We’re not going to rebuild from the ground up, but we’re going to have to take our construction in the opposite direction.
Love duplicates, and eats itself.
FORGED IN WAR.
w.
1.27.07
DISLOCATION SYNTHESIS
So here it is, again, the raw flesh has touched the bulb and the tingling shockwaves have turned into dull aching pains. I am on the outside looking in, floating in negative space. I see something pretty, but marred by indigestible dysentery…I draw short breathes from my cigarette and burn holes in the atmosphere…poking holes. Now I can see the pretty thing for all that it was. The only people that ever talk to me are the ones who hate me because my smoke chokes them.
I’m swallowing it to censor you out.
w.
1.23.07
Two New Wallpapers in Malignance
EYE THE LIAR
'Eye The Liar' coming soon.
Every movement results in an echoing fatality. My perfect parlor includes a suit of blood shouted at the wall, each hole from whence the guns speak. The lights are on, the sockets undone, my stained apron cannot begin to analyze bleached decadence that showers down from inside. I watch the television when it is on, and I have my eyes open. I see the violence. I see the bloodshed. Public beheadings mean nothing to me. I exist to negate. It’s become more and more obvious. I can only see my reflection in the blood spilled to desecrate the ignorance that orbits violently around me. In my eyes, I see figures knocking teeth out to clatter on the ground, biting the concrete, tasting the bullets that roam freely across the surface and above.
So this is motion. The quickest way to the heart is straight through the ribcage.
Incomplete and unstable, the taste of metal in my mouth. I’m leather and wrought iron, nurtured by rust synthesis. I’ve made a world that I cannot bear living in. I know who I see well enough to be able to state that they lay in their virgin beds and wake up selling themselves through click-by-click degenerate pressure. Your holes are boring, that is why I’m boring holes. Lick up what is left. I’ll show you what is right. Don’t censor it as magic, situation comedy portrays the thinker with a machinegunhead. I live as a sponge for knowledge, for knowingness, but I’ve been left in an unhappy pool of dry liquor. I read the books, and with each statement of fact, I have a grain of salt. I know that I live in a world spitting lies and coma every way that you turn, and that nothing can entirely be trusted. Learning the ‘facts’ is like learning the tricks of the trade without learning the trade. I hate what it has become, but what it was before was just another realm of inhospitability. Watching the news, counseling myself with political pundits or general ideas of the advancing world is essentially the same action that is embraced when you read a tome of fiction, and test your findings in the real world. The flaw is that not many people are keen to the entire idea enough to sense a pattern of thought. They can only take literal interpretations, and after that, they’re hung to dry, without any grounds to stand on.
GLAMOUR. I SEE THROUGH YOU. Pleasure is a want-not, happiness is such an overrated commodity. For one day, things make me happy. Things and not people, and that makes a man shallow over time, and time eats itself. Kiss it, and see ‘Go Ahead and TRY.’ I read it off the page without having to watch your lips. You can’t hide it, but it’s cute when you try. As if shut eyes stop the camera from recording your crime. It’s comforting to contain that thought, I know…the thought that I’m sitting here, just twiddling my thumbs as you’ve gone off to spread your own miserable focus to other futile coal-miners. I know. It’s more fun to see you cover up more and more of yourself, more and more of your life until you’ll eventually realize that it’s not worth the effort. I don’t have to lift a single finger in order to take you down. You’re only adding weight to a ship peppered with holes and gouges. I would encourage you to give up now, but nothing else has slowed your pace in the past, so I assume it is now a hopeless endeavor.
I’ll bit your lip and hold my tongue.
w
1.19.07
POKING HOLES
In circling the lower deviance, I discovered an archaic torch of distant virtue, the ender of things. With it, I began a war, in my efforts to understand the beginning of life. Now the magma is hot and heavy, and my eyes are thick and tired. Peeling back from the saved bell crisis, revealing the nevermore tree. I tried to silence it, drain it dry, bleed it out, put the luggage away, but the sound carried over into the following night. Someone, slovenly or heavenly, made my mountains into molehills, and now they’re not satisfying to climb. Another feeble release down the hatch, along with all the other fruits of this given, denied womb. Nettles, poison oak, ditchweed, it grows on the sidelines, near the crop of pallid sun flowers, and in due time, the water collects in the basin, and the stimulus dies off. When I came in the room, the flowers wilted, when I passed under the door, they withered to dust.
It’s on your sleeve, like your heart is beating another drum down to its knees. Drag it like split knuckles, the taste will always reveal the bitter/crucial side effects. Now, I think I could be producing more than ever before, simply for the fact that I no longer care about human life, even on a biological level. Dead poets push up their glasses, and daisies, and ask questions about an unmovable mass without regards to its own existence. I can’t be tied down, buy emotion, slander-purchase [law], because the rule is written down on the concrete that we beat with our rubber soles: ‘If you can’t prove it, you can’t find someone who can preach it.’
Every day, someone asks me if I have a loaded pistol. I shouldn’t be stopped by pretty inanity, but I can’t stop thinking about the gouged, bleeding to death terminology that has been adopted. Yes, I do have a piss-tool, and I can tell you that it is loaded…clips, drippings, slit-kit, clit slip, scuttle like butterflies who are humbled by heavyweight wings. Fieldmice in a ricefield. But back to the side effects. I take on problems when I take one problematic pill shirker. No new borders, no new walls…just another line. That’s what they called me, one dimensional. Not even reacting to light anymore, stimulus is a game of luck, even if your cards show it best.
If you are weak enough to die from a cheap shot, you deserve it. The new world is held entirely hostage by the police state, and the state of unconsciousness. Unwilling to stop fighting, and unwilling to start repelling, like a magnet turned backwards, you’re not making an art movement, and your vote only matters if you cast it as an actress making a money shot into her ballot box. Heartfelt, I’m raising the debt, helping grow the no-ozone, you can’t make a cage match with two parallel lines, prepare your perps, and open up the sores, the third eye is erased gesturing the third line into existence.
I have two ears and two eyes, and with that, I still can’t see or hear the depth to your words. Kindly stroke the velvet pelt of your captured pet, but no addict gets sympathy from the veins he’s corroding. Between your face and the mirror, there is a small distance, and in that, there is a short breath of time to transfer the reflection back to your eyes. I’m living in that second. Just because it doesn’t hurt now, but I’m using the dollar bills you’ve dressed my wounds with, to give you cuts that you’ll tear open in your sleep. No care here, because I am a GIVER…but I am only willing to GIVE BACK. I won’t budge until you do. I’m in motion with the notion that you’re not going to change, and whenever the evidence is questioned, I bring the photographs up from the solution and into the limelight—Nothing has happened, only little cigarette burns have expanded big enough so now you can fit your tongue through them.
HATE MEDICATION.
I know when I am being lied to.
Don't celebrate on the back because you think you have escaped.
It always hurts more when you're stuck in the back.
stargrinder.
w.
1.13.07
CACKLE BLACK [ICHORGUZZLER]
TERROR GRISTLE - VIRGIN - I [VULGAR] - VOMIT [TAR NOIR] BOILING
GROANSLUTMAGNETGREED
w
1.13.07
To Help Her Stop Breathing
It’s back again, that visceral part of me, the gene that wants to be buried deep under a pile of bodies, and eat my way to the top. I’ve grown pretty things in a chimera garden, fertilized with so many spent wicks of tired fools, their candles melting, the wax dripping down their perked cheek bones. Smiling so hard, you can see it through their back. Crude crafted planet, held under hostile hostage in the global hospice, the destroyer is part of the manufactory. Muscle tills soil and reaps grain, machinegun perforates muscle structure, the pieces falling to be digested into the earthly gurney. Hope hurts, acting as a caustic catalyst to an already painful measure. Denial of the fittest. I just want to see the light, to see a net to catch myself, but I've been ritualistically jeopardized by heavy hearted plastic calves. I just wanted to keep pushing forward, but now, in my company of blind paraplegics, I am forced to keep the weak safe from mishap. Dead weight ensures real fate.
Senseless depictions of brutal violence. Gouging the eyes. At the end of it, there may be growth and rebirth, but only vague remnants of the twittering human hope are left to study it. Like nails in our hands, a consistent flow of torture leaks into the podium. Newscasters broken down into inefficient translators, groaning and puking out reenactments of grotesque mob footage. For the benefit of the heart, the home eats itself like a potent black ink, chewing through the paper. Tearing bone into human flesh, pallid gleam across the jagged smile. Killing with a heart for reconstruction. Pushing the rebels out with pointblank pointless strides of glamour explosions, decomposing within each single report. In time, the tingling lovebeat will feed itself white lies until the stitches burst, and we’ll put our kid gloves on.
I read it like an epitaph. Bitter sour streams of caustic urine leaving the skin to slowly digest itself into a scoured living abomination, acting as writhing pus with it’s own fetid ichors. My heart has stretched beyond its own capacity because you’re in the fetal position. No. My hands haven’t fallen asleep, and I know that loving sensation, the feeling of mutual generosity. Now we’re pretending to embrace snow angels with the true emotion only held by the deepest recesses of moribund, withered thought. To me, you used to be a spade that I could swing fiercely at my enemies and demons. Now you’re just a shovel.
until there is nothing left,
w
1.10.07
FINGERSMASHER
Photoshoot 'Cruelty' added to Malignance
Groanshift downwards, spinning complacence in a halo of mercury. I can't sleep at night becase the snake is shedding it's skin. Procured distortionary visitiations, angelic is nature but so warped and distended, the glow could hail from any locale. War in the revolution, embarking on new technologies with self-negating defeats, again, a little army against thier brothers, short fuses make blood fued battle vixens light up like the traintrack needleholes in the nightsky. Armed to the teeth, still teething, violence is not new, and not of humankind, or our creation. We flatter and demean ourselves with talk, acting as if we invented the holocaust. Ants were fighting wars when were digging them up with sticks.
Bombardment with forgetfulness, in a hastened effort to stop remembering, the child who picks up the gun, and kills themself, will be projected for due time, and then the smear campaign fades off into the tingling static glow of the television monitor. Even the parents don't care, because it was, under given circumstances, the childs own decision. When said child leaves on absence to kill another child, the frenzy spills faster and further than before. The cells delicate wall had crumbled, and a tiny toxin introduced itself. We're still territorial creatures, still protective of our young.
Hatesmith time-release domineering, through subversive propaganda; recording, rewriting, destroying your trace. I read pages in books, lying liars scribe scabbed manuscripts, claiming that they’re in high-taste agony from the pithy pains kept inside their agnostic souls. Now there are knees bent to world destroyers, no revolution without televisionaries. Smear campaigns, cheer bomb raids with no evaluated values.
I mean nothing. The earth spins like a comatose man rolling down the stairs.
solipsist sisyphus.
w
1.6.07
DREADED VETERAN
FULL BLACK photoshoot added
New wallpaper added to Malignance
Hate driven through filth speech, at my bone podium spewing tyrant vehemence. Life festers under death in trivial persuasion, the ribs poke through the eyes of the new born nation. As it turns its own stones, the afterbirth affixes lotion through the selfish genes. Pushing everything back, imploding, rejection, crawling under the skin just to poke my head up and gnash my teeth against yours. Muscles twist under boiling pressure, writhe in agony as the pylons tremble beneath weight of Great Hate.
Pushing through birthing walls, collapsing lungs stir the breath of wind. Guzzle grey subdivisions, innocence blackened by amoral no-you-canticles. I feel the girls in girdles, the girders, the glass windshield over the slash-dot-dagger wrist bows outward until it snaps. I don’t need your love, I don’t need your affection, I don’t need your hate, but those three colors look so pretty as they swirl down the drain, I just can’t help myself. Groaning as I become erect, standing taller than the mannequins that droop their empty heads on my shoulder. I hope you know how lovely your hair is, when I hold it back when you’re puking away a gypsy night’s worth of drinking to a toilet holocaust, I enjoy it most. Your fingers are webbed; I can’t fit the ring on. My heart is a furnace that doesn’t want to be tamed. Deny the monster his meat, and you will soon be his game. I took the strings from your wedding gown and now you’re strung up. No promises, never promising, no conviction into stigma. You’re not inflating a life raft, your dropping an anchor.
Virtue chokes in avarice. I bleed on tap like the veins of weather. Sing yourself a lighthearted carol because tonight, you’ll drink the mud. You wanted me to get between your teeth, so I came in your mouth; you struck like the chiming of the clock, like you could chew me up. So now I’m in your gut, on the bottom looking up, and I force a reaction, and I, with all the rest of the things and people you’ve eaten, will come tumbling out, scorching your throat, eroding your teeth, pushing glistening glass tears through your eyes like diamond saint saviors. Concerned, again, I know lies when I hear them. You picked me because you wanted an ego booster, a shoulder to lean on after an electric bolt between the legs or to the withered, crackled heart. Now the disintegrator is back online and with us in person. Red is your color. You will wear it well.
crater grave,
w.
1.1.07
NO YOU’RE NOT.
COUGH IT UP added to Malignance Section
Meatgrinder, feet first. Just two more unjust reasons. Wake up, and hate it, scowling like you always do. Going home to play passive aggressive with little plastic toy soldiers, toy guns, supremacy taught you to be weak at an early age. Harmless little bug. I put my thumb down to your thorax; futile squirming motions never reverse the grip. A specimen of a dying species, collected and held, observations, documents, little art oozes out of the cuts. Let’s try this again. Let’s try to hurry it, just because you never seem to apologize when you’re spilling the substance down your blouse, and I am curious to see if it will change when you’re being shoved. It’s been read before, because I’ve broadcasted it. You’re in too close a range to hear it being shouted, but I know everything that you’ve said. Pushed to the South Pole, while I’m home at the north, I can still see the frostbite from where I clutched your bicep in deathgrip. Floral, lunar, astral, my hate transubstantiates, becoming [w]hole, physical matter from a physical relationship, it is already on the walls, you can’t talk yourself down. Scanner, I can see that you’re still in hiding, so read it, the headlines announcing that you’ve missed the deadline.
I can’t tell if these are hickies or just burns from having the rope around my neck.
Leathery skin is draped on my frail frame, nothing left in life but my torched joints, barely holding my bones together. I can’t ever seem to find a decent exit, so this will have to do. Awake and in bitter shape, shifting to meet ever present demand, cowering to none but the same goes for revealing. My back is a girder that groans when I move, crying out to shame the empire grime filth that I’ve left in my wake. If I had eyes in the back of my head, I’d see the stars and every shovelful of dirt that layers atop. Grim wax casket, coincide with little romance candles. Red Death, as I am, bolstering as a swivel urchin. I have a myriad of reasons to hate being alive, and truthfully, I try not to count them.
Piss on the dollar in mind controlled faith. Spinning, biting, tearing little bricks down with, it’s hard to choke away the last bits as the blade grinds them out. The machine that does the chewing for me makes my chivalry-monster a lighter tone of absent-minded gray. Just wanted to be one little flower. Just wanted to be one little petal. Just wanted to be anything else, but now it’s going to change, and change damages everything. Don’t cut the roots out; the stains from the dirt are the only places with color. On the neck, the cream is rising, the crown inverts and the color comes rushing back. Guzzle poison, pinstriped for killstyle, catatonia from the aftershock. I wanted to be a child of the sun, and they put me under the UV lamp, and the cord has been cut.
On the axis of human want, spins the wheels of the war machine. Never enough to go around, everyone fighting to get what is theirs and they’ll all get what they have coming to them. Letters from the living are carved into the backs of the dead. The horse with blinders on gallops off the edge of the cliff, the ocean blackened by tar opens its mouth for whatever it can grasp. Little guns that shoot flags, reading ruse of ignorance shifters, like bullets have an expiration date. The gears keep on turning, problems solved with mass graves in blanket arrogance, genitals asserted with hollow, scorched pelvises, mounted on trophy stands like fragmentation parades. Fold your hands in prayer to trigger finger justice. Round them up, whoever they may be, and push them down onto their knees for whatever it is that they did. Governed by church and gunhouses, the belly has bloated and knocked all the walls down. Now no exit can be constructed because there is no feasible way out, and no reliable way in. You’re up to your neck.
The womb is ticking.
w.
12.30.06
URINE WHARF
Urine Wharf photoshoot uploaded in Malignance.
The will to live, the will to strangle. Desperation moans as I bend into her back. Knuckles crackle, necks writhing together in feeble dry coitus of disapproval. Inbred through family orient, hate mastermind its own glory through charred spiritual deliverance. Suffocation, though I savor the last gasps of your electrically sweet scent as it rushes towards me in the bubbles bursting at the surface of tar. When it gets hard, your eyes will be shut and held down, the tar mixes with the coughing swirls, as it has been written, an abyss, a plague, a new reason to hate the fact that you’ve got no reason to live. No points can exist without a counterpoint, and as they are, sold together, items. You breathe beratement, you sleep with eyes wide open because you flatter yourself with the idea of rape. Barbwired shut with asthma leaking onto the floor. I hate what it has become because now there is only a new gap. The bigger hole you dig, the more evidence I can hide, and eventually you’ll slip down there and be swallowed up whole.
Bornography. Shut your mouth unless you want your scales to show. I’ve turned the spotlights to you, and you seem to enjoy the attention of the theatre, crowded with bored doldrums. The make up smears with forced passion, enduring though that overshadows real reasons that you’ve ignored. Watching you melt under the pressure. Something is inside of you and the closest you’ve been grown, is underneath the little six that you’ve been bred into. If you’re going to keep reminding yourself that you don’t care about me, give up, it’s all over the carpet, the lumps in your neck and the welts on your hands, the punishment of our fathers.
I look outside and I see that it is raining. Will the water drip down into the sewers and get your hair all wet? Maybe it’s not up to me to know anything about you, but I just know enough to hate it. I got close and you changed, and that is how it has become to simply be human; I am not rebelling from that, in this given case. The fact that you’re missing your hands and feet, the hair on your head has molted off entirely, but you still flash skinny portraits of two years ago as if it were today. Subject of a guilty crime. I’ve got no gain in this, I’m making no money or emotional profit, and as I’ve explained before, it’s no great release for me to write about that which is shredding my documents. I know that there are parts that will never leave, and instead of having a bulbous cancer, I would much rather have thin, pummeled films of cancerous desires that permeate the walls, it’s hard to breathe under the cumulonimbus stench.
The flowers wilt, the ground trembles, the light eclipses from the growth. It is expanding, and the stretch lines in pale flesh are clearly visible like negative zebra stripes in positive ichors; I’ve learned to paint blue colors with black ink. The new slide of fake posterity, Glits and Glamour to Clits and Clamor, you’ve matched your mascara to your personality, lumpy, staining, constantly running. I don’t need to reiterate what has been written in stone, I don’t need to recover the dead agony just to enhance the morbid fascination around your enlightenment. It’s true, what the bottle said, that you’re glowing, and thankfully, it’s the only light you’ve got left. I’ve only tasted one of your tongues, but I know that it splits off somewhere.
And God said: Let there be blight.
w
12.28.06
WITHER WITHOUT YOU
mwnl.
w
12.24.06
WILT QUILL GASPING
Two new wallpapers from the newest photoshoot.
Official release statement coming soon.
Bones break because I can feel you watching me. Things fall apart within you, the cold steel cacophony when your heart disassembles to shambles, resting uneasily on your slicked interior. Jealousy. I know it because you’ve labeled me, you’re setting land mines with laughing gas, and I know when to quit. I can call it out, saying that I am a giver, like a weed gives purified air. Debts, diseases, sicknesses, unrest. I can give it all, and I know that you’re a taker with a smile. So promises mean nothing to you, leaving no room for surprises, but luckily, I’ve been jittery with a knife in your back all along.
with or without you
w
12.21.06
LEPROSY
So sellebrate, marry economy. Dollar pills spent like thieves capturing diamonds, tripsters echoing backwards to assess their predecessor’s mess, just to make the self feel better for destruction. I can’t wait so I hate it now, just like you dedicate your death to a source of life. Soon, you’ll see me dancing through the graveyard: I know that each tombstone will eventually turn to dust. I know that each man who has praised an undying name will die with the words still on his lips. Each and every enchanted little poem is written in solemn pact: Blasphemy to a God with the condemning powers of one. I can’t breathe fire, but similar vernacular, to purge the weak that trespass the few, to die overwhelmed is to die in honor. Schizophrenia. I know it and taste it. Repression, depression, regressing. I take a few steps backwards to speculate, but every day the guns still speak to me, whispers like a .38. I can play both sides but neither of them truly sound as they should united.
grief pact,
w
12.18.06
THINNING THE FLOCK
It is my firm belief that 99 percent of the people, who claim to be victims, are not victims. They are liars. After 9/11, after the holocaust, after each tragedy, the victim is secretly given a small card that they can infinitely play at any point in time, when you don’t have an argument, when you don’t have an opinion, when you feel pressured to think and act as an adult human being should, you can reveal your card. One card says SLAVERY/If you demean me, you are a white supremacist. Another; RAPE/If you demean me, you are a rapist. And yet another, this one played now more than ever; HOLOCAUST/ If you demean me[or suggest that any one fact concerning the Holocaust is not as accurate as possible, or suggesting that the entire story may have been fabricated in certain parts where the conclusion was unknowable], you are an Anti-Semite. Purges create the ultimate bragging rights, if a thousand, if a million, if a hundred million die; you can shift the blame in any inconceivable manner. If you haven’t been victimized, and you say that you are a victim, you are lying and you deserve punishment.
thinning the flock,
w
12.17.06
w
12.11.06
DECEMEBER HATE
And yes, I am happier now that you’re dead.
w
12.9.06
VESSEL
Inside you, with no sustainable proof of my past, I have decided to live strictly for the future. I can’t believe that which comes without proof and I am using you because of it. Show me the bitter evidence that you’ve got left, show me the little strings that you have tied up. Things are always falling apart, but without decomposition, there would never be progress. Truth lives always; in the fact that nothing lasts forever and not one promise can be held through death. The contract that is written, binding you to this earth, may be burnt up with your living flesh at the time of your demise. Traces lost, so spread yourself, like a cancer, but now, NEW CANCERS ACTIVATED, we’re faced with a small mathematical algorithm. Life, as a race for self knowingness, is combat for expansion, is largely animalistic. Where I am, the best sling is in forgetfulness, and the most common flow is forgiveness.
I am working towards uploading my photographs in their entire shoots.
The vessel has surfaced.
w.
12.5.06
TELEVAMPYR
Violin carved into wormwood casket, symphonia wrecking ball, heartbeat lovethrobbing; crashing down. I see beauty in scorched indignity. Yes is the answer to the question you think, I know hold it the same way I’ve held you, I feed it the same way you’ve been fed. Live lives, reign lust through potent chemical agony: Fixed internal elections rendering false hopes to be ever more convincing. Sundered, tremble, I suck the heartfelt everbleeding hatred oak, no gnarled root can poison me. So the man in front of you is praying in line, cloaking the damage that his heavenly father has sent unto him, end him desperate celebration in the shadow of no line with the natural antidote, logic cannot contain fear. Questions: The stars and bars, containment? The bible, bounded by the hands of Man, containment? What does it mean, that these colors don’t run, and what does it mean, that God Is Love, but God Hates Fags? I see the symposium now: Flashing little bits, sound bite mentality, slogans considered as viable products, purchases made in the veins of that which describes them. How is it that the constitution is disintegrating, as with freedoms, but the amputated, dislocated extra few that we have dangling about are compacted into slogans…'Freedom! Never! Fails! Because when freedom fails, it truly wasn’t freedom.'
I believe that defeats the purpose. In a way, our freedoms are zirconium ‘diamonds’ that we are never allowed to touch, for fear that we may notice how fake they really are. We’re sold little white lies from little white men who insist that, if one of them is illiterate, so should the rest, and then follows the nation. Substance in bitterment, betterment of the emboldened enemies, crafted from cinematic fears of unpredictable, avoidable events, adding severe color to that which unfolds endlessly. “TRUST US FIRST”, slogans render channels, hours, newscasters, and other forms of deliterization, have become religious with their power, the increased budgets, turning the little local news station as a soothingly decorated Nativity scene, into the glamouruckus confetti parade of political conventions, as the Jesus Christ Superstar of our times. Little white men with megalomaniac impulses, proclaiming that they know the will of the divine lord, or the president, through their interpretive speech impediment, it’s everywhere. Something that should be noted and despised is how the centralized government has become so drunk on it’s glitz, so knotted up in it’s sociopath powers that it has had us surrounded since day one, and now, the curtain is up. Embrace it in hate, and admit that there is no change coming from within. No one is bringing democracy unto the little black pit that has been dug, and no one is taking a little of that syncophantic garbage back home with them. It’s a cycle, we’re stuck in it, and I don’t recommend letting any body parts out of the window.
Grudge worms multiplying,
w
12.3.06
ONE YEAR LATER
EleGaunt: ONE YEAR LATER...
Something cut into me today, but the scabs form in good humor. It liberated cells and helped me to recharge my visceral hatred for existence. It helps me look sharper, because I’m not trying as hard, and that the make-up smears to make the lines look vulgar. I know who I am and what I wanted to be, but now, after so many years of intolerance, I’ve grown a certain culture, or a nest of shredded love letters, H-bombs, L-bombs, and the constant, crystal clear chomping of the boots of a marching Reichstag, newer, improved, and healthier in its own being. If you haven’t woken up yet, I’m tired of you. Yes, I am a giver, yes, I am a helper, and now I would give anything to help, but you’re the problem. I know, I stuck my foot in the door, and I held the door open for you, but in the surrounding noise of the driving rain, and the gnashing bolts that lacerated the clouds, you might not have heard me. Maybe it’s better this way, because I only want to shut the door on your fingers. A little bruise, and it’s like plaster, it can’t spread...but little malignance sweeps through the soap-drama crown pleasers, leaving abstinence, reluctance, and emptiness in it's wake.
Just because you've shaken my right hand, doesn't mean my left can't be at your throat.
Peace Of Shit.
make war not love.
w
11.30.06
NEW CANCERS
Broadcast; REDRAWN.
The Archives; INSTALLED.
Fingers; BROKEN.
go ahead and cry, i'm not pulling out.
w.
