NEW CANCERS

The sky hung over us like the limp wrist of rebellion, like a luscious orange worm flayed and dripping it’s enzymes onto the dusty pavement. My love felt like the network of veins beneath the tongue, a confusing and sensitive array of focal points tucked away under the sycophantic leech of language. I just barely stick my finger into the cavernous void and ask aloud: how deep may you drive this needle of impassive dismissal? How far may you thrust your sap into the soil of my orchard? For the empress whose seeds have sprouted and strangled the threshold, I'd be aghast to find the same hands on the other end of the bit. The heart is sound asleep, lulled into a sensual coma of pacifism, beguiled by an aroma of fear and regret. The cross hatched teeth of the saw are enticed to and fro against the grain of the ancient oaks, while the two loggers are catatonic, lazily drifting back and forth, causing this perfect, terrible comeuppance.

But I digest…

Love is a fickle twit. How enchanting the image of being can be mislead, while the sexual demons, like damp curtains draped upon a tired elephant, tiptoe past my china. A delicate coterie of celebrations and unity rolled out like the malodorous belch from an old tarp thick with mildew. This little click that I make, the subtle, almost unnoticeable, has been viewed as a gentle reminder of eternity. Every tick of the clock, no matter how far away, is a way of reassuring you that I am still here, and that I will be forever. But…I think there is something wrong with the INK!!!!!! Because it’s turning invisible under the harsh rays of my light, my insistence upon myself has caused me to destroy my own world. By overusing myself, I have cheapened everything around me. My tick, the vow of love infernal is flawed … Because that tick can be stretched out and misconstrued, it can be lied about and submerged in water until the bubbles cease to burst. I still don’t know… and I don’t think you do either. This universal tick, the sound that I make, it may be the persistence of love, the kiss that I crave to show me you still are goddess in a bone-shawl, it may be the innocent chiming of the clock, or it might be the ticking of a time bomb. I say, I’ve cleaned up the broken glass and helped you pry out the nails of so many failed endeavors that I could build a clipper ship in a bottle made of bottles.

Nothing comes easy. The music I make is the sounds of chaos run rampant through the hearts of man; I wish to push my body forever slaveward, like the horse driven to death in Animal Farm. It’s not about faith, or belief or the struggle for peace; it’s about forcing birth trauma upon the carcass of the new world.

My friends…this planet of ours is already burning, so stop digging, I say. Now we must consider how to abort the new fetus. A carnal doom uproariously made manifest in the most serene locales. Like the fist of Mother Nature pounding relentlessly upon the ignorant and misguided, my heart beats pure red blood. Blood to hold you close, blood to keep you warm, blood that I will spill on the tarmac for whatever cause comes my way. Fiery and compassionate, I will the existence of zero to be the soul root endeavor of time across all strung strings.

Agony is nothing. We will die with love intact, embracing each other, against all our enemies. Their death rings our triumph, the deathwork of the soldiers trudging on, through the bog of inquiry. A perfect strain of passion, pure adoration made into a transelastic substance.

For your love, I will stare down the sandstorm.

MWNL.

W.

First and foremost, my apologies for not updating as regularly as I should. I've been dealing with all kinds of hysterics from a rainbow of vulgar colors, so my time has been monopolized.

I have nothing to tell of my life or times, because nothing resonates. Silence doesn't echo, and my image shrugged off it's reflection. Now I just hang portraits over old mirrors and pretend to defy the difference. I stepped softly onto the white tongue in the jaws of death today, my feet sunk into the shifting flesh as I balanced my weight. I could feel fatty tumors resetting their benign bulges beneath the soles of my shoes. A thin slick of water glazed the otherwise dry surface, stapled together with rivets of black tar. I felt my skin sizzling on the concrete. The sun's terrible furnace belched with a fiery ferocity. My every motive was drawn up and seconded out, like an old lover exhumed for an anniversarial embrace, and in the clammy arms, the corpse became dust. These hands are still soft from birth.

And I look into the throat of time, and know that I mean nothing new. I'm here, real, still, on my throne of the Dead Animal Kingdom. My wealth is burning to keep the hearth awake. Nothing begets nothing. My head hangs in my hands like a cinderblock in an Easter basket. A cerebral shock screak shredded my insides, a wasp bit my lip. The methane from the net rot hoists the venomless sac from the deflation of my inflated ego, like a grisly zeppelin of pallid, gurgling colors and the ninth cloud of nine combusts to a hellish screamscape. My madness let loose like wolves into a sleeping tenet, the structures of principle and withhold are made into charcoal black bombshells The vents of decomposition eject inhuman hot air, warble flies, teeth and other vitals, spat onto the carbon tarp of heaven's deep orange sky. Bile and blood, like the thick membrane mucous ejaculating from the forever stretching range of dead animals. A stomach ruptures, and another small volcano is formed. My kingdom amongst them is constantly shifting, the bloody tectonics grind against one another, creating new realms and plains, mountain ranges of bloated animals colliding, dividing.

There is a society built around me. Atop the highest peak of animals, I gouge the legs of my chair. I can see the dump trucks in the distance, unloading another cache of animals to my domain. I can see the glint in their eyes, as they see me once more. I register as nothing more than the strange man atop the pile. They drive on, and have their own incantations of beauty. I chew the tooth of a wild dog, swallowing the small shards that chip off to sustain my parched throat. A tongue is in my hand and I view the garden. Fires roam across the fields, projecting a haze of acidic smoke in the air. The smell of death twisted with the scent of burning fur placates my dead nostrils.

A pox forever wished upon my skin. My house, I burn, eat and regurgitate. Leveled am I. To this kingdom, may the dead forever be kept. A hell has been born unto me, and the plague blemishes all who wish it vanish. The termites begin their relentless march, like the maggots chewing through bones.

And if you'd rather fuck a scaly filthcock than keep a single promise that asks of you nothing more than to stay a habit for a holiday of two weeks, you can stay the fuck away from me and all that I've done.

YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE. KEEP OUT.

Nothing begets nothing.

Dust remains forever dust.

Life wills to spring.

Blight denies it chance.

MWNL.

W.

I've been working on my novel on full blast for the past couple months, and I haven't really had time for my photography. These pictures are from a variety of different photoshoots. They are totally without meaning, simply for visual pleasure or interest, and their 'message' may be derived from your own personal interpretations of nothing.

Hence the title.

i want you to see who i am. i want you to make a spectacle of me, this moticom of matter floating in a sea of discontent and imcompletion. I want you to understand that i am just a thin grimace along one of a thousand impotent and uncaring faces. I want everything impossible to rejoice in their inaccessibility, the crude, lethargic counterbalance of nature to be gilded with such a great furnace of gold and urine, I want to erase all forms of knowingness and peace, from humility to confidence.

I want you to sip the milk of my most inhumane of sacrifices. I want to see you vomit uncontrollably into the pewter cauldron of my being, and I want you to lay down your arms and fall before me.

I want to cleanse the spirit world with bales of fire, to set the hearth of mankind ablaze, and to extinguish this universe of all signs of life, just for a single moment of my peace.

I've hit the cold jowls of selfishness and egoism, the most vile and carniverous mandible of solipsis made manifest. I read that all good things must come to an end, and I simply suggest that the only good thing in this existence, is the fact that all things end.

I give this world nothing, and I wish to take from it everything, and in the stale truth that I am ultimately powerless and crass, I will only rest in knowing that all this writing, praying and hoping will draw me no nearer to God than murder and burglary.

As I said before, there is zen inside the zero. Not only to be the owner of nothing, but the knower of nothing. No facts, no skills, no weights to bare.

An earthly vessel barren of any features or distinguishing parts. Smooth and without interuption. A perfect fit into the system. A puzzle completed. Pure concealment established, the inabilty to differentiate perfected. What was once many, becomes one. What is one, becomes nothing.

MWNL.

Last night, I saw a musical legend. A seven foot giant, fervently bemasked for his adult life, the guitar virtuoso sensation that is Buckethead played an astonishing 4 hour show. The venue was packed and their love and appreciation for this otherworldly mastermind was made clear with the pulsating gyrations to the obscure metal-jazz-bebop-funk chords plucked by Bucketheads massive hands.

There was much clucking.

If you don’t know who he is, I should refer you to his website, [link] , and for his life story, visit [link]

A short summary of the man:

He is the product of a whore and a pastor, who was confined to a chicken coop for most all his early life. With only chickens and his guitar to keep him company, he went somewhat mad, and then broke free of his confinement, liberated the chickens, and burnt down the coop. Now he tours the world, forever beneath a KFC chicken bucket, and behind a featureless white mask. He’s released nearly 40 solo albums, and he’s appeared on at least 50 more.

In short, he’s fucking amazing.

Nothing much else to say about the man, outside of the fact that he is easily one of the best musical artists out there. He stopped the show to rifle his hands through a large garbage bag of toys and comic books. He threw them out to the crowd, and chaos ensued. He did the robot, and played with his nunchucks. There was a small fat man playing with his mandolin. I still cant hear out of my right ear.

I took many pictures, and a full-length video of his song Revenge of the Double-Man off his release Monsters and Robots.

And I’ve been working on DAK as much as I can with my other projects. No rest for the wicked.

It's been a while. In our time apart, I turned 17. I'm writing more to M.O.. and I got toether with Chessna to do a long-awaited shoot. It's called Dead Animal Kingdom.

M. O. FORNAX IUGULUM -THE END-

Hey. This finishes Fornax Iugulum. It's quite long compared to my normal writing, so I'm going to outsource it to my other site.

This next friday, I'm turning 17. What the fuck? I should be dead by now, and to be entirely honest, I'm rather disappointed.

I decided that posting the whole story would stretch the page too much to put here. For the full post, and the six page long continuation of last weeks story, click here: [link]

And direct your comments regarding to story to that page, please.

As for the new pieces?

These are pictures of a petrified human fetus, from Thailand. I bought it for a friend/bandmate, steve: [link]

Finally, a real corpse for him to play with.

planto bellum non diligo,

MWNL.

W.

MANUFACTURA ORGANICA

ONE NATIONAL SHOUT: "GET OUT."

Move.

A love affair with unrest, a dreadful throbbing migraine dethrones this earthly vessel. Impeachment and the seizure of power, my inner diplomacy undulates, throwing the control of my anger between totalitarianism, fascism and anarchic genocide. A lineage of rebels make an orchard of nooses, and in ten years time, the soft soil that marks mass graves will become sprawling victory gardens. All war heroes are simply fodder for a much larger, more frightening machine, a cantankerous titan that has hid in direct view for all of our civilized history. An elephantine bastard, a mutant of flesh and steel, where veins would pump blood, there are cacophonous chains rapping relentlessly on the plate metal skin of the beast. An arsenal of amorphous teeth, spinning wildly in their sockets, shred the fabric of peace and solitude. Tremendous columns of flame erupt from snorting nostrils, elections sucked up in a whirlwind lies and malevolent intentions, platforms dissolve in a self-corrupting economy. Erasing human error with the same fervor as removing the head to dispose of a blemish, only the dead have seen the totality of war. Romance with dislocation, refugees contracted to take residence in the cyclic tread-scars of this one national shout.

So goes the hell, so goes the pits of wrath, so goes the rest of it. I’ve made an absolute decree to myself and to the rest of this deaf world. I hate beauty in all it’s forms, I hate peace and I hate justice. I hate fairness and equality, and I hate smiles and I hate all things that I have been unable to attain all my life. Sixteen years too many, and in this vile attempt to create world that I can tolerate, I’ve put the chopping block six apparent inches, or at least, six when erect, too high. By denouncing life, I hath created. I despise all these earthly creations, and in my grave, I wish to take nothing with me but the tangible remnants of guilt that will, by then, have coagulated and become the very clots that have lead to my death. I collect these rotten fruits, and relentlessly I attempt to plant free lines of life. My open graves collect moths of regret and unhappiness. Where once, I have felt lied to and betrayed, I now hone my ax on the bony spine of conviction. The sparks that fall from this action collect and ignite a raging inferno that marks my territory with absolute, undying permanence.

Kick. A spineless coil of human synaptic thought, a noospheric tendril deeply rooted into the consciousness of mankind. A whip cuts through the source of sound, a crack repeats the process, entropy perfects paradox. Hysterically cackling vermin barge smashes through this frozen ocean of impulse. Wisps of gray snow like silt, like curled up black hair after being singed by butane flame. The scent permeates, the whirlwind of ash rushes and grips my teeth. A Boolean renaissance of this clamorous uncertainty, the simple aspect of not knowing. In this unending void, combative aldebaran. Virgil coin, hypnotic entropic. Misguided and blind, a cynic damn lies, real eyes to score this card. Pathetic insignificant rebellion, your useless colorless shade of gray is just making me smile when it all comes full circle. You can’t kill history, you can’t fight the system. I am the thing, and leather leashes won’t get your any closer to your orchard.

I’m not alone in being absolutely sickened.

This is where I stake my claim. Cutting off the head is a good start. Physical confrontations, violence, the dance of the brutes, I implore your savage engagement so that all three layers of my brain can be filled with the ichors of superiority. I’m reinforcing an insidious wall of hate, with all that this life has failed to deliver. I have a reason to cut down every tree and watch this world suffocate, to drain the rivers and let them flow with vomit and blood, and watch this puke bake on the streets in the summer heat. I have a reason to chain down all the goodniks brand them with the companies they secretly answer to.

I lead an army of buzzards, and I encourage this type of paranoid behavior.

There are a collection of bones that circle my corpse, of all the ignorant who have attempted to stave my way. Regardless of your incipit rebellion, the miraculous glow that hails from your cuts will fade when the new darkness dawns. History never dies, the strong must never accommodate the pathetic, and those who are gouged by law are the ones who write it, but even in this, my blood pools with HIV in it’s crimson tenacity. The absolute broiling furnace of human ignorance is my magma-churning gut, the most terrible war machine is my every innocent thought, bounds of molten steel make up my muscles, and my bones are obsidian girders that resonate with a whole new spectrum of sounds.

It is simple, and yet, so many refuse to understand. All that you have invested in affection will be bled to death, and it will turn to dust, before your very eyes. So flex what you’ve got, and I know that it is temporary. I’m the beating heart of this wounded dog. Self love will lead to self destruction. In short, get out of my way, before I have to make my presence known in a very severe manner.

MWNL.

W.

So I’ve had some seizures, unrelated to your drugs or to your history, I’m perplexed by what brought these on. I’m being physically asphyxiated, my wants and needs welded together and reamed apart. Wrapped up in this spiral of nostalgia and regret, I shovel a little more self out of the grave. Sickened, poisoned, the noose tightens. Forever in this awful hole, I descend only further.

To travel without motion. To speak and remain silent. A sentiment flows, like a razor slicing the darkness of human ignorance, our ideals press through like weathered gouges into supple flesh. Accepting the absolute, universal human debt, the unrelenting guilt and punishment in exchange for true exponential knowledge. The light that impedes progress, snuffed. Selfless, non-ritualistic. One moment passes, and the bodies meet a quantum junction. No tails, no trails, no path, no going back now. Two inhospitable locales enmeshed with life, like a creeping mold spawning upon a barbed wire coil. A martial siphoning of celestial bodies into a vacuous gullet, the godless organ grinder of stars and teeth. The mammalian brain obsolete, the reptilian brain deleted without recall. Bodies lost into this static gap, consciousness remains as a tortured wisp of tendency. Without a moment in the state of process, beyond hesitation, simply stimulus with instant reactions.

Awake, under the moist tongue of sleep, asleep, strung upon the dancing electric wires of consciousness. Out of body, a tremendous force crushes the windpipe, my face blue and swollen, tonguing the giftless gasp for oxide sustenance. My muscles battered from the inside, internal wounds open and furiously contorting obtuse shapes. Inhabiting my bilious lungs, rapidly dying tissue. A seizure overtakes human form, and the skull strikes the pavement. Circuits fried, now I’m up and awake. Legs disobey, but who gives it? I crawl, just like I’m trained and neutered, I pull my limp, useless body for each rung on this listless ladder of non-existent qualm. A sudden plummeting into sickness, an ictus of malevolent benediction. The stomach leaps from the pit of me, pools itself with blood and vomit. I drag every damning failure behind me; every piece of this collective oblivion slicks my downward slide.

Waging war on the living, cheating on the dead.

MWNL.

W.

Jaws unhinge like a tremendous blast furnace. Eyes smoldered shut; the psychic new me. Glitter and bile pound these withering veins, singed to the root; a hairless, scabrous scalp. Ribs of iron constrict forever tightening lungs. Mechanical bellows murmur from my concrete esophagus, a coarse exterior hides vile insides. From this world, I dedapt, from this plain, I escape. The infernally wound noose warbles a new hymnal of dematerialization. A machinist of entropy, an engineer of dead flesh, considering what man has done with the confines of earth, the earth does unto man. Unplugging and devolving, a revolution in thought. Releasing the untested chemicals into the mouth mainstream. My hate is thin and fragile, my love; sacrificial. Efforts to maintain a simple neural heart missive, I’m inwrought and retiming orderly fake bravado. I rebel from rebellion, a pink anarchy hawk, like some easy fatigued faggot on the menstrual cycles perch. Spellbound and in plaster cast, I’m easy to forget, I’m not me, I’m not special, not talented or original, a constant threat to myself. Undeniable self-erasure, bloodletting, mutilation, inward hatred. Investments in me are fleeting and selfish, no stocks can climb without realizing their shelf life. A practiced young novice, a whispering old crow, the cracks on my face are like the bones in my spine. Neither are seen, neither disturbed, just a forgotten past piece of me, another missing identity.

A mirror transcends and mocks with leather faces, a bishop moves diagonal as the rook is straightforward. Full forced with a stab wound, a calm thunderstorm approaches. I’m pragmatic against dogmas, synthetic with regulated carbombs. I entrust new faith into old lies and I’m ready to commit to any temporary goal. With scorched fingers, I drive my spire into the carrion hide of this dark earth. A million teeth vibrating like crystals in an old pocketwatch, yellowed enamel clashes against the pallid white of my fungal tongue. Inhuman autonomy breaks. Dust plumes as belts whip from their cogs. On the streets that once held undulating riots and protests, oil drips relentlessly. A coil of lethargic fervor forever winding around the neck and wrists of the body of life. My inhumanity groans and yields another fleshy crop. Like a tree that grows strangulated fruit, or a man spitting lead into the muzzle of a gun, death slate by momentary madness. A blooddriven rampage for control, the gates of unreality blown open. Consciousness subsides.

A thorazine rush. A sedated victim.
My ferocious appetite satisfied.

The unhinged jaw relaxes. The furnace cools.
Orphans of my mental gap erased.

This hunger staved for a few tenuous moments. This terrible debt temporarily repaid.
Infernal, obsessive desires resurrected.

I am the omega of the alpha.

MWNL.

W

A mouthless shout. It echoes through the basin. After years of sleeplessness and starvation, another decade awaits me. Lethargic and uninterested, an obtuse, fumbling shape rocking down a featureless hallway. An as-of-yet unnamed disease has eaten away most of my brain, and with it went my legs, arms, eyes, ears, and nose. My mouth is left a rotten shankwound on a head with infinite peaks and ridges from infinite surgeries and blunt object connexion. A quintessential form of utmost failure and rejection. A cumbersome image of defeat and neurotic euphoria. Consider those who talk in depth with gravestones, or mothers of dead children who keep fleshy collections of their shed blood.

Bewinged and beheaded, the top of the ending tower. Into transversal theories…I need help with getting out. I take the high from the high priest. I stick my skinny prick in the theory and I pull out a wind of intestines and a bulbous fact. In this…tenacity, interwoven with barbs and chains, another dreadful tock of the massive cogs. Machines made by nature, architects of the imposing unreality of fate. Greenlife curls inward and reveals a knotted, broken back. Blood humbly smiles with a core of disbelief. A big smoky mouth, looks like a calliope, ten ton heart lolled to the ground, arrythmically writhing to a thumping brainbeat. Hands numbed and parents dead, faceless and submerged, I’m serpentine with my tongue up the thigh. I’m writing this to you from inside my own head. Nothing special…just a sinking ship, like watching a beetle scuttle across the spines of a stove top burner. Love is God’s way of leading you astray, like bait on a fishhook, but more like the hook is through you and without struggling, submission is key.

Evolution is relative. I’ve adopted the worst traits from my counterparts and now there is this odd cocktail of inhuman parts, connected with fleshy boughs. A new face of a headless thing, the probe for concatenation, the link that suffocates and constrains. Again, it’s not the drugs; it’s the absence of drugs. Culled from the asteroid belt, still spinning with savagely pulsing thoughts, like buckshot sailing through a congregation of jellyfish. Muscular freeform, aperture departure. The me becoming viral.

This swirling, emotionless vortex of relations, where dark matter is replaced with the hypothetical ability to care, and dark energy is replaced by the illusion of trust and safety. With this sentiment, I have been forced to develop a sort of net to keep myself from plunging too deep back into the hole that you left. In this chalky absence, I’ve found nothing more repulsive than the fleeting efforts of tenderness, the vague plastic impressions of human kindness. The glow of affection and the warming feeling of mutual love reflects in upon itself, constantly rearranging distrust and sadness into a soulless, inhuman contraption. A contraption vast and complex, with a sledgehammer tongue and molten magma eyes. The fibrous tissue of my body becomes the meat it feeds on. Evolution is present, and I will adapt to an increasingly inhumane environment. After these miserable decades, my bones have nails hastily rewritten into their splines. My blood and plasma is now partly mercury and sawdust. From this relentlessly tightening noose, from this forever-concentrating poison, evolution exists and creates this unique blend of listlessness and suffering. Controlled impulses, the urge to forget is beseeched by the permanent vomitstain of regret. Self digested. Self loathing. Self mutilation, and eventually, self destruction.

Eyes fixed on that one central being, that point of absolute focus, so steadfast that they fail to notice the object is nothing of the original vessel. Everything has changed, and because I was so intent on things staying the same, I no longer have a history that I can wistfully recall. There are no better times for me to look back upon, nothing to regress to. I have erased my history and foolishly, I expected to feel anything other than nothing. Without a surface, all matter is voided. So goes my being.

Electropsychic supertrophe. Drowned, the klaxon strikes the death knell. Sourceless clicking machine relentlessly interrupting itself as it drives a barge through mental ice floes. Ignorant inventions. The disenchanted few. Floating parts collide and connect, steel amorphously absorbed into the human frame. The grin of the blindfold conceals ocular vats, an epidemic through frozen color. Ungenetic, ungenius, a terrible magnetic mouth that swallows graphite thoughts. Beyond the most massive of scales, beyond the gaps and voids. Humanity lost. One end of the wormhole is fed into the other, and in a single concussive implosion, a universal tendon is assimilated. This bilious cord vibrates, radiating a mist of infectious ichors. From these poisons, a new universe is compacted and set into motion, and following that, this awful story begins again.

Twitch, jerk, shout.

Perpetually ending, I signal the klaxon mord.

MWNL.

W.

I’m progressive in awkward satisfaction. I don’t need to give her some big write-up because she exists. What is a single drop compared to an ocean, when a prose on caked up love could be laid against arm-to-arm encounters. I’m not going to devalue her by comparing her to you. I’m not going to call my friends to some sort of pointless raid for my emotional rapture. I’m not going to write toothy letters and hope for some sort of outcome. She’s not a weight, and she’s not a fulcrum. She’s balance. From all the subtraction and division, from all the come and form all the go. It’s balance.

Euphoria is not peace. It’s just a split second of time. And this particular sensation…the one that is so…sensationalized? This is thrill, and truly, it’s nothing more. History is permanent. No apologies, no changing of dates or of data. This feeling is common, it’s a calm commotion, it’s surfacing, circular and serpentine.

I enjoy being this thing that I am. I revel in the hate mail, I sincerely adore this unrest and I go out of my way to provoke this kind of malevolent emotion. I’m not a demon, I’m not a god. I’m just a man, and with that, I am an undeniable, tremendous burden on you and your friends. You, for personal reasons, and your friends because they have to deal with you, dealing with my innate qualities. I enjoy being able to take people apart, I cut relationships in half, like stomach acid blasting through the gap between two front teeth. I enjoy causing this kind of dislocation and confusion. Wedges & Sledges. I enjoy being a part of the problem. The fact that a vast majority of the hurt I stir is in the hands of the inept and confused simply magnifies my amusement. The fact that all I have to do to bring about crying is to simply remain living, it’s one of the brightest dark lights in my life. It’s not a gimmick, it’s not a shtick. It’s an involuntary aspect of living. I’m just a ray of fucking sunshine, and I beat down extra hard to make cancer the thriving, superchaotic problem that it is today.

In other words, I’m not scary, but I’m glad people are scared.

Every single place on this planet is capable of being a nesting ground. Down here, I get can pull the strings and see up the skirts, down here I can climb up on the backs of the dead. From day one, I have been enjoying my suffering, my ecstasy is in agony. From the very beginning, I have employed manipulative theories for my own amusement.

Leaving the subject, of miserable will.
Mouth filled with bees, begging.
And she had turned blue. So blue.
The starkness of our lives.

Final
Use
Could
Keep
You
Off
Using

W

            Horrifying realization in shambles. This pinpointed logistical corpse withheld by my single universal lie, the greatest smothering of all life. Thriving hopelessly in a swirling coma of unhappiness and epileptic shock. A hand twists the neck; the neck drops limp and the eyes roll shut. In translucence backward, history proves itself a charred cortex of guilty thought. Chained down to this form, my lies are fluid and amorphous, everything with a spine is one spine more than I. Into hell, I shed the truth with a single dystrophic glance. The headless, the witless, the slithering whip as it arcs through the air. I made this shit existence, my mendacity echoes pointlessly.

            My magnetic hell.

This emotionless, self-welded juncture. Relentless encore of withering existence. In my efforts to describe my history, to write my autobiography, I have driven myself mad with guilt and sadness. Truly homeless and zeroed out, listless and lethargic. One hand covers the mouth, the other gouges the eyes. A national shout.

            Transcendent progressive internal progress. Light beam shines down upon itself. Reversal of thought, the teeth, themselves; ate. Inversion and pervjunction into crookedness and the bait, on the end of the string, attached to the stick, attached to the back of the slave, leads the infernal progress of human thought astray. Contortion of the bleach injects uncontrollable fits of inhuman motion. Dehumanization, remechanization. In my path to kill myself, I have refined and strengthened my immune system to the point that I cannot die. In a split second, flesh reinvents itself with a scorching magma core. Neurons belch spiteful acid into the shivering, frayed nerves. Touch descends, and light is welded to the neck of absence, carved from the terrible grid of colors and coordinates.

            Carved into an incandescent surface, a wondrously straight line, horribly wounded by infinite lines cast through it's never-ending head. Too look upon an object is to forever mar subject. The human eye curves, and therefore, all of our vision is bent. So goes the law of the spirit and the interpretation of will. The process undergone to create a vision, the invert the images that we receive, irreducibly complex fibers translate pulses of visceral imagery into blooming fits of color.

            A light shines. It blinds those who see it, so that they may never see darkness, but they always have their final vision in light bound substance. Those who divert their attention will have infinite vision, for infinite plains of existence. Partially removed, the body disintegrates into streams of code. Hexes and conscriptions, the orchestra of mental relapses conducted by a feverish transdynamic fit. Organs react and retract; the gears in an awful machine are worn down to feeble, awkwardly fumbling cogs in elliptical orbit. Half of the smashing contraption creates rubble; the other half of the crushing contraption destroys form.

The terrible constriction of fate. My all parts not ever forgot. Secrets withheld, they scald. No one has touched my contagion. With no one have I been truly honest. Deserving of nothing, infinitely smothered, directionlessly downward. Beheaded.

O U R E X O S K E L E T O N S

These chains interlock. They bind. The constant resonance of the ‘I’ in trying. Trying to preserve the pure essence of life at its very end, without disrupting the flow of death, into life. Two monogamous chemicals become bound and they are inseparable once they meet. An inalienable circumstantial decision held without jury or peers, in every ounce of transorganic form throughout all of history, and forever into the future.

The deist will look at the universe and ask himself, whence cometh creator? A skeptic looks at this question with a negotiable learned eye, and asks openly, what creates the unperceivable? The persistence of regulatable matter in this known universe is the cause of improbable citation of deism and undeism.

In a burst of dimensional irony, or for those of you out there who still scan the skies for chemtrails and pixie dust, this could be interpreted as a vital cluster of Godly humor: The only thing consistent in this universe is the sheer absence of consistency. Every planet, and every cell is different, and, as edumurican as it sounds, each snowflake will forever be unique in comparison to it's most likely candidate for the office of doppelganger. Erasing the commonly cited Christian god from our slates, we could establish a base of reason and good in a earthly war zone that is already damned by the efforts of scientists with bones to pick up. In retrospective overview, genetic solidarity and diversity spawning from two absolute clones who herald no navels and have a curious family tree, it's simply confounding. Such transmutations of literature and the natures of human belief are always astounding, and at that, exceedingly entertaining. Man's tawdry efforts to redistribute wealth, housing, and faith have died in manners that kings and dukes of the schadenfreude domain smile upon. To think that any given document, as the inalterable and perfect word of god could be handed down through war, conquest and through generations of murky illiteracy and stupefying superstition is, in essence, a great idea for a dreadful film about dragons and wizards. This tale is passed in the halls of schools, in temples and in laughably deteriorated military chapels stationed six clicks from Sam's Hill and two from Goddamned Nowhere. I’ve often thought about this concept, this vague idea of a book so perfect in its words and its message that it is the one and only undeniable word of the creator of all matter that exists, the architect of time itself. One would think that sitting near the book would increase your blood pressure, or that the book might levitate, or maybe even have a scarcely detectable glow with the trace odors of blooming flowers. A man can dream, and dream men have. This is a lovingly horrid concept in and of itself: There is no single word of God, and there is no undebateable source of knowledge. If you find one, I’ll be glad to debate it, because as long as there is someone who believes in angels, I’ll be the advocate of the devil.

And, on a more realistic note: if Moses, upon the mountain, was given these commandments by god in a firm and directing manner, where he chiseled them into slabs of, presumably limestone, would a surpassingly old man not mistake one word for another? What if it was sheer chance that he wrote down ‘Kill’ instead of it’s rhyming component ‘Mill?’ As in “Thou Shalt Not Mill.” Who is to say that this Christian god is deathly against loitering, or maybe god has moral oppositions to the pulverization of grains? You can’t say for sure, and if you do, I’ll cover your mouth. Fuck you, no you can’t.

So, outside of opposable thumbs, fossil forms, DNA polymorphisms, tonsils, domesticated animals, genetic sequences, male nipples, or, in the most hopeful and, for best cases, the decided values, one can’t quite disprove creation stories. If you want a clearer and, arguably holier-than-thou tone of argument, just take any biologist or physicist to any movie that features larger-than-normal bugs or insects or vicious animals. Undoubtedly, they will launch into a slick tirade on how bugs of that size could never exist because their exoskeletons//regular skeletons would never withhold such tremendous weight. This position is factual and correct, and thusly, it disproves the idea that this earth is balanced upon an unthinkably massive turtle. Beyond the creation story in Genesis, and this turtle nonsense, one encounters rumbling Jacuzzi of fermented dribble, secreted history’s most deified pseudophilosophers. While science can’t disprove any god entirely, it can disrupt any field of belief with ripples of pertinent questions that permeate all parts of the religious quandary. What creates the creator is a common question, and there is no true answer. The device that deists use to necessitate the existence of a creator is the idea that all parts of matter that exist, have before, not existed, and therefore, something occurred that brought them into existence. That is to say that a chicken egg must come from a chicken at some point in time, without regard to Frankensteinian supersciences that are capable of producing particle-perfect chicken duplicates. Without regards to said supersciences, the deist argument is fundamentally right in it’s way, as nearly all matter has a source, but not all sources can be found. Surprisingly, the deist will resist any science that uses tools that enhance human sight to see into outer space and beyond, and they’ve been cited as “unreliable, as their data able to be falsely collected.” This implies, yes, that interplanetary matter, or, stars that we cannot see without telescopes might not exist for the simple fact that we cannot see them. “Who knows?” this deist tomfoolery follows “who knows that scientist are not in league with one another, domineered by Satan, to disrupt and malfluence the minds of man, by supplanting stars in our supposed galaxy that do not immediately correlate with this here bible?”

Sometimes, I stay my suicide because it’s so much fun to watch this debate rattle on. One would never fully understand the true dynamics of this argument until they have tried to take a candy from a handicapped or mentally retarded child, a child who does not actually have any candy at all. In the beginning, the debate is clear and defined. “Give me your candy” you demand, to their milky, untraceable eyes, while their lulled mouth denies the presence of the candy in their possession. You will see, as you insist on your unchanging demand for sweets, their argument will…ahem…evolve and adapt to fit their environment. Soon, they’ll be demanding the candy that you had taken from them in the past tense, and after that, they’ll want candy that you gave to them, by taking it from yourself, past-future tense, which is about the point that someone detects a howling wheel-chair goon in need of aide, that you can inform the wailing goblin that they’ve already eaten the candy, and they sure loved it’s delicious goodness. Feeling victorious and rather sedate, they’ll disregard your escape; you can duck into some bushes to avoid chastisement for playing with a retard.

Maybe I’ve lost some of you by now, but cheers for those of you who’ve weathered on. Back to my previous argument of all matter needing a previous tense in non-existence, thereby giving them a tense of true existence. Have you ever heard that phrase that you can’t love someone until you’ve hated them? It’s kinda like that. Or maybe I got that backwards, I don’t know, but in essence, it’s the same. You need to see both sides of the argument before you can make your final decision. Following that, let’s look at their side of the argument. In consideration of an apple, that had to grow from an apple tree, or some freak mutant fruit tree, and that tree had to come from the seed of a fallen apple, or a wayward Johnny by the same name. As it goes, on and on, each object has a predecessor that brought the current object into existence, and, even though the past can never predict a perfect future, that object that exists currently, will likely fall apart and become something else. Iron ore is melted to become iron, and that is made into an Apple computer, which lasts for a month before it’s obsolete and useless, and it’s cast wayside, it’s refined down it base matter, and it’s turned into a Microsoft computer, which computes way fucking better than Apple. At each phase in this cycle, the objects had a phase independent of the next or latter, at no point did were they identical. By a scale of atoms, everything is always changing and being bumped around, and nothing stays the same, even for a split second. So, follow this like a terrifyingly sprawling family lineage, one could presumably trace our faithful Microsoft computer all the way back to the big bang. Take that, Applefag. I’ll bet your computer trace you back to the big suck.

Anyways, following that backwards, you’d find yourself at the beginning of matter, where the questions run into the non-existent brick wall: Why is there something instead of nothing? Past this big bang of sorts, lies what exists before anything existed, and, as paradoxical as it may seem, it’s a fine and right concept to ponder as long as you’re not getting free rides in a tax exempt political powerhouse to do so. The deist will follow this line, and, if he’s admitted the absolute sole truth that evolution is real, proven, and consistent, and that there never was an ark, the earth’s age is in the hundreds of billions of years old, and the rainbows didn’t spontaneously exist for a way of god telling man that he promises to never kill us all with a massive flood ever again, and there are no multiple-armed gods or goddesses, cows are not sacred, and there is no superturtle, he’d understand that there is something more astral and mind-bending at the beginning of time, something that no ancient document could even begin to explain without branching into an unending string of superlatives. Past this great barrier lies one of two things: Absolutely nothing at all, or what would be had of god. Or maybe a bowling alley, you can never be sure. If, past this wall, there is nothing of anything at all, one can rest assured that the infinitely asked question has finally been answered. If, past this, there is god, even in the most stupor inducing ray of pure goodness and grace that any vessel of pure good would radiate, one would have to ask who birthed this god? Who brought this particular fish into existence, assuming that this god, was, in fact a fish. This fish would have to have some sort of god above him, and therefore, he is not truly god at all, but a lackey used for gods tedium work. In this line of logic, god is in fact, an intern for his god, and so on and so forth, which gives us this terribly infinite string of gods and higher gods that we follow until we hit the point where we get lost in space, it’s time to eat, or we just get tired of asking each god if he has a super that we could talk to for a minute.

Considering this, we must look over to the first theoretical god that we encountered on our trip past the big bang. If this god, and I’ll say ‘He’ because I was raised in an agnostic household and educated in a catholic school, if this god was to say that he has no creator, he would cease to exist! God is necessitated on the fact that he needs to exist, to explain the fact that anything exists. So, if something exist without a predecessor, his role would be complete. By any roll of the transdimensional dice, one would assume that after creation of everything ever, he would recline and relax in a way that humans can’t even begin to understand. He’d probably void himself of existence, and recline from his terribly dull duties as a prayerhost for all of the universe’s whiniest believers. Maybe it’s the American side of me, always wanting to take the simplest and easiest way out, even if it’s going to ruin the entire project in itself. So, if there is god who is without mother, than what is it to think that we are actually on the aforementioned turtle, and god is that turtle, who totes us around the universe, like a man in an brand new hat walks around a marketplace, surrounded by people who do not care for this mans hat whatsoever. Or, following this, the universe was created by matter spontaneously coming into existence, without cause or reason, which, in truth follows the laws of random order perfectly down to the very most definite cause and purpose that they entail. Both ideas are perfectly equal in their rational, but one accepts proven scientific facts and the other openly denies them. Consider this like trying to solve a fake crime with phony tools. Nothing in your life is really as pertinent as it seems, but hey, if you’ve got a fake crime with phony tools, you might as well solve it while you’re here. It’d be a jerk thing to do for someone to just ignore the tools that we’ve got.

I don’t believe in god, in any form. Metaphysical, supernatural, natural, physical, monoplanar or diplanar. I just can’t bring myself to do it. Nor do I believe in any Christ Jesus, or any of his sayings or words. I deny all parts of every deistic faith, of every organized religion, and I am, and I strongly encourage all others to be extremely mistrustful of all people of power who are followers of faith, and in even broader terms, to distrust all organizations altogether. It’s been seen so far, that every politician is a liar, every religion is corrupt, and every believer is a scientifically irrational fool. Call me an extremist, but I’ve got to protect my blood and my head. I’m more than willing to hear their conversation, but I refuse to give them any slack on their positions against reason. If you’re a deist who firmly believes in evolution and astrophysics, great, you’re half way there. You just need to shed that monkey on your back, and then we can talk.

But, as for now, I think I’ll take my water and drink it. I’ll eat my bread, and I’ll eat my beef. I’ll look at the moon for what it is: A moon, which reflects the light from the sun. I’ll acknowledge that the entire New Testament is a primitive study of the stars motions through the night sky, and that the Old Testament was scribed to ward off superstitious pagans with an even more superstitious pagan plague. Everyone who’s been chased out of the mall with well over one hundred pounds of stolen merchandise knows this undeniable maxim: You’ve gotta lighten your load as much as you can, if you want to make it to Steve’s car with your sixty pairs of Diesel jeans. God is like the most rancid pair of jeans you’ve got, or even worse, god is that sexually questionable and even more terrifylingly unfashionable teal v-neck sweater vest that some dip stuck in with all the jeans. Fuck that thing, man. Life is short, it’s really goddamned short. If you spend your time praying and getting no where, good riddance. I’m going to be busy out here, with all of this amazing, evolving, fascinating life, living as much as I can until I either kill myself, or I’m shot while attempting to kill myself.

And on a final note, unlike religion, the non-believers are always ready to welcome you back in. If you leave, you’ve got a place in reason and logic. We won’t take you to hell for questioning us. We’ll reward you, we’ll praise you.

Call it culture shock.

MWNL.

W.

Before I dive into this update, I'm just going to detail a bit into this new shoot. I've been waiting to use her for a good long time, basically the day I met her, four years ago, I knew she'd be a model. Either for me, or someone else. She's accomplished both sides of that, and in the process, she's become one of the most hated people I know. Not surprisingly, she's unwavered by this attention. I've never met a person as shameless and stark as she is, and I mean that in the most perverse and positive way. None of my friends can stomach her, and that makes her even more enjoyable. I love people who can ruin another persons day, just by being in the same room. I've been that before, and I guess half my romance for discordance comes from her.

From my abstinence and my disconnection from this new shamerican partydrug couture, she's a shaved dramafuck that is, in essence, the exact polar opposite of myself, a non-smoking decelerator. Before I ruin her already black reputation of lies and dishonor, I think it's only right that I provide a disclaimer of sorts. She's ill-sober and no longer toking, but she's maintained a drift of enjoyable dismonotony that enables her to practice extravagance like it's a gross misrepresentation of zoloft. I got a chance to do a shoot with her, and what else would I do? I lunged at it like a broken ex-girlfriend lunges for a secret sack of painkillers. It didn't take any coaxing for her to let me strip her down, and splatter her in blood. What does that say about her? You can extrapolate your own way. I love her like a sister that I absolutely hate. She's a friend and the only companion of self-erasure. Her name is Chloe, and she's a fucking monster.

Her site is right here: [link]

So it starts here.

Into the veins. The terms of emotional abuse descend into the physical realm. Scars surface with their inseparable companion, the bruise. This is resistence. Blood boils and hair falls out in rancid, yet angrily perfumed knots. Wet with compassion. Hapless, young, vulnerable, and pessimistically optimistic, an entrepreneur of social disorder. Something breaks the jaw, and something mends the wound. Scum embezzled from some dumb bedsetter, like a fashion in macabre hearted chic. Bled between two legs, two necks. Her skin is like the bible, printed on the lipstick kissed back of an IOU with onion juice. Into the snow, into the depth of this promiscuous fog. I wake up to the disconcerting hum of halogen lights buzzing with neckless activity. I’ve spent the last two years picking up the bones from when the Mouth was burnt alive. Without bones, girders, bars, pins, or tendons, scruples or a reliable identity. The ripple shreds the insides. In out. Within. Erasher.

Airbags, parachutes and acid rain. Predilection towards narcoentropic selfcentrism. If you took your medication, you’d be able to handle your problems. If you took my medication, I wouldn’t have to deal with you breathing all of my air. A nervous gap between her here and my natal counterpart. I’m enhancing epilepsy in being a common disease carrier. With the crow, the rat and the body bag, it’s off to the shadows again. Ancient infections and decisions, without precision or revision, the fat, lazy finger is lifted so that vacuum may slip beneath it. The temperatures drop. Drop low like your head when you’re blazing the noun’s verb. The heartrate stops. Stop quick and with a little backthrust like when you’re blazing the noun’s verb. Me: inconvenient and held down. Pandemic suicidal romantic absence. Just barely awake, just half alive. I’m urbanized and whitewashed. Tugging these chains to give a little tickle to my collective leverage. Stick a finger in the eye of political capitol, and redact the new world’s order. The black collars turn brown, but with lipstick, it’s like an iced up blossom: Pretty for now, but it’ll reek in a week. The cross is subverted and skinstruck, by teen vagrants with messages in the double digits. Humanity and the contraptions of electricity are left by the wayside, leaving room for hypocrisy and leathery thighs. The deepest depths of personal hell are inwrought by one scared face, the image of space. The pure sentient image of decline and abandonment recklessly echoes through the deaf parts of me. Ingesting chaos like the theory is blue blood. I kick my skit across the mouth and shout. I’m in this relentlessly deepening gap. Suck this candle by the wet end, and hear the southward jags wake up to drag the northward swag. Through superpathic iradiowaves the plague has been reinvented for this Veterans Day parade.

I am in this shit existence.

Runners run. Slave masters’ whip. Priests pray. The collective inferiority of the commoner’s concatenation of affection, develops like a black tar Polaroid on the bottom of the tank, sucking down all the excrement and negligible thought like some superfluous supernova of inanity and besiegement. The camaraderie of the debtors. Bargained down from destroying your home and hearth, we walk our crooked-happy way through your city. Feet bleed and gouges gouge. Heart rates up. Temperatures up. Up like your noun’s verb, up like your head when you’ve done a good job. It’s not melanoma, it’s hyperthermia, and there are no more doctors because the hospitals got bombed. And there are no more blankets, because they’re ripe with smallpox. So you’re sick with the feeling, and I’m sure the rest of the world doesn’t care half as much as you do, but when everything stops and your world falls to shambles, it’ll just be as loving when we rearrange our fossils to make you the queen of the shitpile.

Just one consistently pointless statement. My love is in the basement. Guide your tonsils down the neck of the gun, and all you want is more teeth. Teeth to bite with, teeth to chew with, teeth that are carved out of their roots from blasts of hot acid from the gorge of your stomach. Showered in cold water, never smile or think of the consequences. You’ve let the symbols fall apart, and now there is just a little shred left to keep. Have it. It even smells like me.

Call it morbid curiosity, but a strong part of me wonders how far you’ll take this pretentious travesty, and how far it will extend past the borders of your comfort, just to reassure me how little your heart’s finality truly means. Part of me wants the whole thing to fall into nothing, in seconds flat, just like before. Then, part of me knows that the vile aspects of self-doubt and mutilation are already there, so, in no fewer words, the cake bakes itself. I trust the redundancy of nature to slowly, methodically crush the knuckles. I’ve seen the worst of it already, and I know that it will still persist, and the pains will grow, and you’ll find yourself homeless, betrayed and cold. Legs are like doors; if you open them too wide, you’ll find unwelcome visitors, and for the fact of it, fruit flies and June bugs. Now I stick my greased finger into the eyehole of history, just to test your welcome abilities. I bow, bend, and break my weak white shoulder blades. Giving backbones for the comatose, the testing values of a perverted future. Discoloration of the rebellious tendency, it wasn’t pondered as much as demanded, that you feed from the infinite basin of defeatism.

Call yourself a swinger, but I see a ring on your finger. Persistently in dilemma, a failure of the memory. Crashing and burning for everyone’s short attention. Skin splinters. Invest everything into a weak vein, pulsing temporary blood to an artic aorta. Only circuit in existence is pointed to ensure that the war never, ever stops. Since the game has no rules, it should only go as would be assumed that one liar should feel the sting of so many vulgar punishments. Only one truth, and even that has been misunderstood. Believe as much as you want, but you will never escape the animal farm. Deceleration. Inequality of efforts. Pollen derived from the husk of our breached connection. Walls downed, floors up. Easy for such prolove sentiments to be entangled and tied up in the deepest six possible, because your little statements of purity and fruition mean nothing when one eats the other. A swinging sick cell devours the piteous knowledge withheld.

My eyes weren’t even shut. What made you think I was asleep? You will reach, but your fingers will never touch the outermost edge. Beyond this, there is a simple white canvas of all the paints that have been so nobly escorted out. Like we’re muddying up the bomb threat to make it seem more non-existent, and in that, we’ve made it larger and more threatening. Here’s a short, but sharp drink to suicide, like it wasn’t already the most popular option. Ensheathed in elaborate falsehood, as if there was one single idea that would, in turn, throw you on your back, kicking and screaming like an overturned beetle. So slather on more concealer and hide the wound, absorb the running mascara with an unused tampon and cross your fingers that you will remain ignorant of the worlds’ prying eyes. Pray this letter conceited, but valued, as half the words spoken in this day are pure fabrications. Laying down knee after knee to different phallic gods, pretending to exist for a single second of self denial.

Before your death, I didn’t know what life was about. I was pointless, an ex-planet, a blank amputee with coffee stains for lips and knots of pig gristle for eyes. Shrug of tear gas. Just at the moment I began to believe in the soul, I felt it being sucked straight out of me. So I made this shit existence, but sometimes your persistence towards distance is what made this existence so consistently resistant. I digress, I deflower, I define. A vacuum of self awareness, a compellingly reliant sugargrinder that loves to rest it’s little head on my cold shoulder to test the limits of love and it’s atrophy.

Cut down. Sewn back together. Cut down, again. Sewn back together, again. The headless, the entrenched, the guilty. Knocked out. Knocked up. Strap on. Strip down. Come in. Come on. Shoot up. Shoot down. Shoot out. Shoot in. The camaraderie of debtors. An aging outfection. The new black is the new polio. Sexually trashed dance, the ethics of centrifuge. Pour your sores out through the skin. Genital contact, a congenial contract. In shuttles the meat. The united atomic disorder. Out counted, over drawn, inbound. The opera of the cultural demon, the brain desert of the heartless factory of pill. Only light. Slightly lethal. Drank. Hung. Shot. Plunged

I made lines. I erase lines.

I won’t waste another second on this catastrophe. I won’t spend another penny. You’re an expert at one thing: Pretending to glaze me with care. I’m not blind. I’m not deaf. I’m not dumb. Fuck you, and fuck yours.

MWNL.

W

Doubt for function, doubt for permanence. Had and I’m ad-libbing for the sake of our argument. I’ve given up on fighting the inevitable. I’m dumbed down and unjust and if I had any money left, I’d invite you to sue me. Every step I take is weighed down with a hidden cost. The cost of my love, my friendship, and, that impudent glimmer of soul and character that I had once nearly completely polished with dog shit. You can stay on cloud nine. I’m back here at square one. Someday, I hope we can meet again, but now, I guess it’s off to the salt mine with me. The greatest irony is the fact that I am the only one who notices the irony when I am GIVEN a pick-ax. I’m the one who makes the salt for your drinks and your dinner, I mine the salt that makes the ice melt away, I lug up the glorious veins of shimmering sodium to keep your fleshes fresh. I don’t get thanks, but I don’t really deserve them.

You just keep on eating and drinking. No guilt for you, and that’s just divine and right. No ice on your roads, but a spring in your step. A pan-utopia for everyone, but you especially. Do you like your new knees? Or that spine I gave you? I’ve got more where they came from, if you ever need a new one.

Probably not, though. You’ve got your own supply. Gotta cut out the middle man, I guess. And I know my place, I do.

I AM AN ERROR THAT NEEDS TO BE FIXED. I want to be in that Von Maur. I want to be in that jet plane. I want to be in your dreams at night. I want I want I want and I never get anything at all.

I’m just a lump of abhor. IF I HAD THE GUN YOU’D HAVE A GREAT SOB STORY.

I’ve refined this little trinket you gave me, this music box made from the salt of my earth. In cleaning it, I broke it, and now it no longer sings. It looks damn good, though. I guess that’s all it’s worth. Kinda ironic, again. Sometimes space is what is needed, and sometimes, when there is space, black holes form and devour everything, replacing it with sheer blackness and abandonment. Sometimes, space is good, though. I’m just wondering how long it will take before your little spatial entities will consume each other, though. That ought to be interesting. You win, but everyone else loses.

Honestly, I can’t believe I signed that contract. I can’t believe I trusted you, or anyone involved in this nonsense.

Forensic vomit. Not human, not alive, not worthy. We’re the lower half. I began this world half awake, and alone, AND ABSOLUTELY CHEATING TO WIN. And I will never be happy Regardless of spiritual or emotional cost, unworried by the unnoited vagueness of my animals as they are children. En. You. Dea. Ea. Ay. Dea. I left god behind and there is no truth, none whatsoever. I strike these keys randomly and without I am in chaos as it is so lethally described by my twin schizophrenic mother and fathers mother and father. There is no other truth; there is no oil in the dirt here. I am just a scribble on a napkin. Something gloats about her floating overhead, a great big lie living inside a blimps skeleton. SO YOU ARE DRINKING SO YOU ARE DRINKING NOW AND AGAIN? I am the I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND THAT THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL IS SIMPLY REFLECTED FROM WHAT YOU LEFT BEHIND.Love is the nature of this gamely grotesque promise. My veins push bells down staircases. I alarmist. I kisk natur’s Saturn. I’m for sale. Fear bought me this ticket for your little black dress. The wealthiest edge of the knife. Change me and you’ve bought yourself a money for your back. I HAVE BEEN USED UP AND HAD I AM THE RAPIDLY DECAYING PERFECTIONIST.

I am nothing, already.

The fingercrushable ribs that encage us like moths inside this tear steined limelite. I feel like I am a lowercase letter caught in the middle of a word. This outfilters your trenches, this creeps all up on your sleepers. The crouchwear is the dukes king queen joker jester peasant queen king duke king queen joker this is treason. I don’t have net to catch you in. I don’t have a shoe to drop. I don’t have a heart to hold you in. I don’t have a I to, don’t have anything that you ever wanted in me. Break me a half of your violin and I’ll just take the second half. Nil, like it, like me. The limitless punishment of the rich and famous. The unescapable doom of the loved and happy, the headlessness of the pretties whore on the chopping block. Let’s make a monster for all the things you have ruined. Let’s make a treasureable keepsake for everything that you think you’ve fixed. Let’s find you a dog to kick, a baby to choke with this impressionable cancer that you breathed down my BEST THROAT. MY SOPISTICATION IS MY SENTENCEMENT. THIS PRISON IS BUILT ON THE COURSE OF YOUR MENAGERIA DEATH. Vision is wireless and incapacitating. My smile is elastic but crooked and this dwarfing nature is justified by your incapability MOANING SO WET AND BROTHERED. I DROWN AND YOU SPIT INTO THE WATER.

I’d like to wear a heavy overcoat. I want to be unalive. I would never know pain if it wasn’t for you

And I will never be happy.

Will and compassion are important, but now they’re both gone. Every single word written will erase vital space and your brain will be remade as a everything I do is quick and meaningless. I am absolutely certain that you are perfectly happy without me, and you’re just going to forget me and when you’re reminded, you’ll pretend I never existed. Touch me and I will die for you kings are made when the queen dies from boredom. Absence of evidence is evidence of lucidity. Strangle me. This is the softest and most quiet gunshot. An ax with lipstick on the wet end it smokes a fat cigar. I jack my phone into your eyesocket and you will spend your entire life running, and getting absolutely nowhere. You will wipe your mascara off with my ear and you’ll shout your name so I cry now that I know you’re gone from me. You’re just another teardrop in a dense cloud of hateful, self mutilating memories. The kind that one inhales to overcompensate for a suicide. Two hands hot and cold waving me down. You used a pretty knife to cut me in the shape of a knife to cut that knife into someone else’s shape. This is a jagged edged clitoris, a cherrygrenade. The moment your happiness collapses will be the moment you tried to escape from it. Trial by promenade, this enclosure of legs and mind and heart will be glued shut by a fine fumigation of cobwebs. Your needs aren’t being met, you’re unhappy, and your knees are dirt. Your elbows look like they’re your little secrets. Have you ridden a pony? ARE YOUR THIGHS AS WHITE AS MINE? I sigh and glass shoots out of my throat. I hope there is no one after this. I’ve danced for two men already, and I don’t think that I can crow another line. Confusing hell built on a linear system of failure and open heart surgery.

1. Hold the rope in your left hand you and the end in your right hand.
2. Form a loop, crossing the end over the rope and forming an X. The end part of the rope should form did the part of the X running top-left to bottom-right.
3. Hold the this X with your left hand.
4. Wrap the end of the rope around behind the loop, above where you are holding the X. This forms a circle behind to the loop.
5. Poke the end of the rope down through the circle and pull the knot tight. The knot should stay in place while the loop remains me adjustable.

Pretty and narcotic and life threatening as it is, this is a religion against peace and my heart totes a gun that ejaculates piping white feminine venom on the child-demon that I have become. You are no longer alive. This is life outside of the iron lung. Physics and pan-mechanics are essential to the protosurvival of the worms that will worms that will infest your corpse. With this electricity dies. You are the chemist that had hands melted off by her his hissing own creations. I’d never focus my love on a burning man, but someone who’s just like you is perfect for me. I’m no longer awake. You are my dream and I just want to wake up with a pitchfork through my throat. My snake is a wire lied.

Love is absolutely temporary.
Love is absolutely temporary and it is never going to be enough.
Love is absolutely temporary and it is never going to be enough and I will never be happy.
And I will never be happy
And I will never be happy.
And I will never be happy.

Enough about that. There is salt to be mined. Rich threads of salt interweave beneath the very foundation of your heart and mind. The structures of your structure, the bones beneath your bones. You want more, and I’ll get you more. I’ll feed you, but you’ll never get fat. I’ll satiate your thirst, but you’ll never be completely quenched. So I’ll keep mining, until every last trace of salt has been excavated, until my back has been shredded raw from toting each wound of ore. Each drop of my sweat will be dried, and it’s salt will be collected too. The most worthless gem of them all, in the end. And when everything is done, and there is no more salt for me to mine, and I’m no longer needed, I’ll go. I’ll leave and watch the very core of your home implode, and the dust of your more fertile fermentations will be dragged down into my living tomb, into the mine.

I’m not a collector, not a mouth that needs feeding, I’m the supplier of this culture, and I’d be damned to hell without my sweeter half-- the consumer. That’s right; a posh existence makes this intolerable lagoon of a life possible. And this isn’t make-up, it’s real age.

All in all, I’m glad you’ve found your way. Enjoy it, but when you’re dead, I’ll know. Someone will retrace your footsteps, and I’ll meet them face to face when it all comes back to me. When you were a shell, I gave you a shotgun. I gave you an inch, and now you’ve switched over to metric.

YOU WILL NEVER BE FREE FROM THE DUES YOU MUST PAY.

THESE SHACKLES WEAR YOU WELL.

Erasing everything,

MWNL.

W.

I’m all pins and needles and I feel the dead weight slip out. I’m uncomfortable in this state and my stomach is digesting itself. I give up more than I can stand losing, but this is what it feels like to have nothing. In my head, I’ve rejected everything. I would kill myself just to erase my past. I have surrendered to you. You win. Now I just wish that I could forget everything. I can’t beat the memories out. I tried submerging myself in snow, I tried drinking bleach and I tried overdosing, but it seems that my blood is too well prepared for my destructive advances.

Skin. Eyes. That velvet voice. Just writing that makes my heart race.

It’s all I ever dream about. Being had, being erased and forgotten. My wildest nightmares come true in the fruition of my empty hands. I’ve not been replaced, I’ve been removed and a newer, better module has been installed. One to fix my wrongs, one to rebuild what I had destroyed.

In this irreverence. In this acid bath. I just wish I could reach and touch that frail little dream, that insignificant kiss, that stupid ministry, and crush it. I feel more violent and outspoken now than ever before. I’ve begun to mutilate in newer and more virulent ways. The pig blood I was doused with, that I consumed, was not cleaned. It was pure and infectious. I ingest more poisons as the days go by, and I’m always disappointed with the persistence of my pulse. I’m a man whose hand is caught in a horribly grinding machine. While one hand is being pulverized and erased, the other is frantically pawing the control panel, hoping to find a termination switch. The process is too far gone already. The unbloom has set in, the rot has begun its terrible stitching.

Stupid. Ungrateful. I was wrong, I was lying in my previous words, yet I tell the truth. Confusing, I’ll admit, but it’s resolute in an undeniable manner. I hate myself more than I hate you for being happy. The frustration compounds. I’ve begged and pleaded every bitter night for over a year now. A dark and unimaginably miserable year has been fruitlessly passed, because of one single mistake I’ve made. In true paradoxical form, I have tried to move on, sew seeds to an unwanting, infertile soil.

Once, we were equal. Now, we’re not. I grovel to an empty chest of rings and cut-outs. I convulse and weep uncontrollably at a simple thought. I’m below the earth, I’m in this mendacity.

I was hardly a man before, and half of that is what I present today. This is the Defoliation process. The process by which a tree loses it’s leaves. A flower wilts. Plants rendered bare and exposed. This winter has been brutal and unforgiving, as the best would expect, but I can only see blacker tides in this coming spring. So odd the haps of love and life, where snow birds sing, some snakes hibernate forever.

I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t like people who do. I don’t believe in spirits either, or in anything I can’t see or interact with directly. Even with this, I somehow know that my time is up, or that it’s rapidly winding down to it’s quick conclusion. I don’t believe in authoritative powers, but one should never disobey the third person omniscient voice. That uncontrollable drive. It’s behind every single act of self destruction that I’ve undergone. The single unstoppable architect of my failure. Unchartable, infinitely compounding and humiliating, mocking all my efforts in it’s carnal tour of my id.

I realize I write about myself and the I and Me extensively, but understandably, it’s a very open and diverse concept that tortures me with every turn of it’s many faces. I write simply to voice my misgivings and miscomprehension, my faults and failures. If you’re here for it, so be it.

Untrustworthy. Backstabbing. I was so close to finding my peace. My real volition, my true self. It’s all gone now. I kicked myself into this torturous redundancy, every moment repeating a previously gutted paradigm.

I made this shit existence. My teeth are worn down past the enamel. I coughed it up.

I’m the tree without leaves. I’m the garden without flowers. I’m in the air you breathe.

MWNL.

W

Foreground updated with shots from Bitter Extremist. Work on Transelastic done. Blood spilled.

Before I jump into this update, I feel it’s time to announce another formal project that I’ve been working on. My close friend Steve and I decided to assemble our friends and start a band. So far, I’m on vocals, mixing, and synth, Steve and Matt are on lead guitars, Ray is our drummer [who is blind, by the way.], Dakota is our bassist, and Bob will be our Tuba player. We’re going to make the tuba deadly. Trust in me.

We’re called Transelastic. An elastic substance, traveling, will keep its bond with its original point, while it touches down on another. This relates back to the interconnectedness of all things, and in many ways, forth dimensional physics.

I’ve been working on lyrics for the first songs. The first assembly of lyrics is tentatively titled Lug.

Enough of that bullshit. We’ve hit the Entrenchment.

Pale and naked, gesturing a new birth to a dreary old world. My birthmarks cover my pupils and I know now how blinded I am. A prisoner sees the lock on his cell door as the focus of his confinement, while he ignores the fact that it is his own skin in which he dwells that truly confines him. I’m porous and addicted to sentiment; I will unjust occurrences and bad nuisances to happen for the fact that I’ve found myself relying on anger and frustration to get me through. There is a part of me that wants to be cheated, that wants to be mislead and lied to. I want the ability to, in one impossible way or another, go back in time and live in that half second of safety that I had so long ago. I don’t want to leave those that surround me, but I want to change them back to what they were before I found this network of deception that entangles me. I’ve found myself unwilling to cooperate with the undeniable presence of ill-will, and the nature of this volatile cancer that consumes my every waking footstep. I have reached the end of this known universe, at the transdimensional bridge that binds this form of being to another realm of comprehension. I’m no more wise or strong, no more pretty or clever than a common dormouse. I understand that, if I were to get my old friends and loved ones back to what they were before the shift, they’d no longer know me, they’d insist that I had changed and ruined what was once so jovial and kind. In a way, that could have already happened. They may have found their own ways of changing, after I became the monster that I know myself as today, and they’ve found me to be just the same in the future and past tense. My entire existence predicates on the redundancy of my nature, my unwillingness to learn and adapt, my selfishness and arrogance that invades every possible nuance of the self.

One half cradle, one half coffin. That’s the hole. I’ve never really been able to define it in a perfect tense, but in a way, that’s as close as I can get. One half cradle, the sustaining, but unpredictable and spiteful wing. The other, the coffin, the grave. It’s just as nurturing as one would assume, but in this context, it’s a little more subversive. The only promise I have yet to see die in mid air is resting in concrete fervor, in that wicked black cavity of being. The promise that guides death through it’s every resolve, the unrelenting mendacity that is the basis and consistence of all human nature. Everything that has ever lived, has died, and everything that is living now, will die. Like confusion, disappointment and disease, death is consistent and everlasting. The Hole is the embodiment of this oath, and in the end, the cradle and coffin metaphor doesn’t even stand up to full scrutiny. The only way to define the hole is to look at myself, and to see what I have become from its influence. Its metaphysics are radioactive and potent, its face is bland and without notable points, it can only be withheld into what literally holds it. The Hole is held within another Hole, and consequently, that pattern continues forever. Within the first hole, is the second Hole, and with that, I am. I’ve found myself, in a sense that I’ve found what I used to be, and now understand what I no longer am in relation to what I see today. I’m the third part, the final egocentric component, I am the Hole. I’m not Winslow, nor am I War, nor am I MWNL. I’m nothing of these dainty shreds of pretentious habit.

I’m the gap. The unknown space between two gluons. The smallest electromagnetic leap, joining a pair of diodes.

I stretch my bones and break my muscles. Every moment I awake into sleep, following a hardened line that guides down the mobius. The yawning half of boredom and impotence, the incomprehensible haunt that permeates every earthly interaction, the echoes of thought. I’ve got this knife in my back that I can’t seem to shake off. Can get this image out of my head. Kept from sleep and from function, I can feel every little stimulus change into something unworthy and empty. A shift towards the unhappy side of this equation.

You managed to bring out the very worst in me. It’s incredible, the thing you’ve made me into. I honestly don’t know why I keep you around.

I had my heart entrenched in you
I know this isn’t healthy or wise.
Watch you lie and sneak away.
Your vested interests are your disguise.

A butterfly flaps its wings.
And the pocketwatch is returned.
Keep your drip, shed the real.
This union pathetic; now adjourned.

In cold leather, we’re trudging through this brisk marshland, heading towards the entrenchment. Transelastic, contorted, malformed. Scattered.

Assimilate or die.

MWNL.

W.

Not now. But sometime. Remember my words? It looks like I'll be the one who lives up to them, as you seem to have forgotten me.

It's unfortunate for me, but it means nothing to everyone else, but I have finally realized the end of my jurisdiction. I've hit that limit, that maximum capacity to overload my weakened frame. I'm a joke, a rusted rebel, a shadow of my former self. I've only ever felt at home in a single spot, and that spot got eaten up. Now I’m freeform, translucent and bitter. I look to the beginning of my life, my love, my romance, and I see such a dreadful sight: a starting parenthesis. I look towards my future, and I see the ending parenthesis. I'm just a fleeting thought, a brief, momentary image.

I'm temporary, nothing notable, nothing worth while.

Nothing to bother over, nothing to lose.

I feel something, something brief and only slightly notable. I feel like a warped illusion of Schrödinger and Freud in some sort of dynamic transient blend of brains. My friends are so much more than I am, and I get jealous, but sometimes, I'm maddened by the simplicity of the events and their environments that they are found in.

"This is a sad picture. How do you feel when you look at this picture?"
"Oh! I feel so sad. I do."

"This is a happy picture, see! How do you feel now?"
"Oh! I feel happy now!"

"This picture has nothing on it. How do you feel now?"
"I..."

And then constancy is found. That's what this is about. I can display direct ideas, and I find the exact reactions predicted. It's been taken as an inherently bad idea for me to harm myself, and I understand the concern, but it is treated like it's purely text on screen, and not an actual concept that deserves, not pity, but speculation. I'm not engaged in the selfish gag of razors and narcotics, but I do push my body to physical extremes and I engage in excruciating and painful endeavors. When I'm gone, you'll do exactly what I'll be doing. Nothing. Nothing will be different, nothing will change. I am unwavering in my resolution. I've become the very utmost point of relaxed thought.

I'm just a faded memory, a phase. You'll forget me, and it’ll be easier from then on out. I promise.

Yeah, so you can lie down, but I don't think anything will happen. You won't fall back in love, you won't fall asleep. But you can lie there, if you want. I can't control myself. I hate you. I hate you, I hate you. I hate you because you CAN sleep at night. I hate you because you're happy, because you're better than me, and because you've found a way out.

I hate you because you've found someone who's better than me. I hate me because I'm not good enough for you. I hate you because you're prettier and you're not weak enough to need me around. I'm busy dealing my zeros into contortion.

I'm stupid, and hate is the only quick response that I've got. If I spent it any other way, I'd probably have a great deal of cuts to show for myself. Hate is easy for an angst guzzling teen like myself. It's simple and it feels good. I wish I was smarter so I could handle other feelings, but I'm not.

And to clarify, for the purposes of some of these shots, I was exposed to the numbing cold in nothing but a pair of thin brown slacks and a wifebeater, soaked in pig’s blood. That’s the same mixture that is on the face mask. Recovering from the chill was one of the most painful moments in my entire life.

I think this year, I'll try to kick the habit. Failing that, I'll aim for the bucket.

Drenched and shivering,

MWNL.

W.

Your insecurities breathe. You can't build your castle in the cracks of another. Step down, stapletongue, and lug your dumbed up title from here to hell. grease and nails woven into the flesh. Might pours furious and degenerate radiation into the fold.

The clasp makes a swastika, because I'm the cotton on your back.

I'm rubbing the rough edges of my second tongue against the cross of your hips, with a bookmark on my favorite page. Skin weeps and the white base devolves into nothing but a glimmering sentiment of our rapturous glow. Take everything off and get in bed. I'm a Nazi, a white power skinhead with a fleshy bone to pick, but in reality, I'm not. I'm just a pandemic of self. I'm a gun with a trigger, and only now can I feel my safety click off. With the us that we've made, I feel spectral and deceiving. But in a good way. I'm the light of the candle, the warmth of the blood, the nervous clasp of integrity ruined by an instantaneous grasp at chance.

But it's fine. It's better than fine, actually. It's like we've become something more galactic and freeform than anything before. True entropy. Selflessness, egolessness. Now I can contort into this odd little ball and feel truly universal and shapeless. Now I'm placed and understood, kept warm and inches away from total strangulation. Only at the edge of the mouth, only at the brim of the mind. The circus reels and the mind collapses inward. I'm placed now. I'm satisfied. I'm drunk, but stone’s-salt sober. I'm awake and being sourcelessly and voicelessly electrocuted.

But it's fine.

Sometimes you have to burn some bridges to find the middle way.

Let’s ride.

MWNL.

W.

My apologies. My internet has been behaving erratically, and I've barely had a chance to check my messages. Here's an update to keep you coasting.

Knotted burgeon suffering encephalopathy. Filth remade into cackling new form. Existences had and feathered away, the particles reversed by forgetful young things. Shedding grace and foreskin for the sake of self erasure. End upon end, in odious neurotic ambulance. Isolated, oxygenized fear had. Keeping with the tides of war, the company of smokestacks and knuckles. Decalciated, the bones bend. Uncertainty modernized by criminal guilt, the church and the state seamless blend into one embodiment of wrath. Enabling nuclear capabilities and shaking down the poor for another dirty dime, we’re cutting the tails off our cats and hoping they’ll walk upright. All so useless and eaten up, the fermentation of Man and his crippled sidearm. Muscular dystrophy entropic hysteria, one finger on the trigger, another finger slides to the uvula’s dangle. All of the worlds simplest creatures caught up in a gaseous vortex, beyond conflict and war, beyond the most fundamental flaws of man, festers the simple redundancy of life. The sole beauty in the circular method is desensitized and made useless. The foolishness of aggression is negligible, the warlords, the reverends and the prophets can all be pushed aside for the most basic forms of life. Cellular violence. Anger misguided and had embittered by spiteful strains of ignorance. Science believes in its own atomic god.

Untouching and inbound, caught up and let down. File smut plague embedded and weak, had unalive and upside down, chiseling bytes for the terablock to form datacrippling nanoformitives. The only form of solitude is the sense of non-solution results. No more me, no more her, no more of anything. just make the programs work and run properly and peace is had. But to hell with peace, the purpose of machinery is to spread discontent and torture. Hotwire grounded and downloaded into orthogonal space. No shapes for the shameless, no love for the deprogrammed. Rewriting. Kiddie porn for script kiddies, nailing the softest hands to the hardest law. No one is a harder heave than the rule makers. Pessimal minimal thick pedophile. The tongue infinitely laps up the fluids.

COME.

Lightning strikes, heat ripples. My skin sheds off in thick, moist curls. Hung upside down in hell, with all the other liars and fools. Super diluted, deluded, dilated. Wide awake, half dead, caught up in an entanglement of barbed wires, eyes reddened from tear gas, muscles hopeless gyrating. Vivid sexual degenerations of the self. I imagine my beloved entrenched with another man, constantly and endlessly, I create this mental abuse warfare of paranoia and deceit. I tremble and shake when I look into those hollow eyes. I see the lies and the sex pouring out of every crack in the skin, I see every account of irreverence and cruelty shot before me. My eyes stuck to the mirrors fast reflection. I spilt black thinking ink on the greasy canvas of my pubescent skin. I’ve donated my heart to a thoughtless, loveless charity, and with it went my mind. Pitiful little shrewd gesture of self, it was, but one not really worth fighting for in the beginning.

Bloodletting rewritten.
Neutron Ash inhaled.
Cells spread.

MWNL.

W.

SELF: THE TRANSPARENTHETICAL

The inner unsane body, the transpathetic humanoid superfailure incarcerated within a glass cage. Spit and suck for all to see. Losing ground constantly, burning away the biorhythmic. Fear and bloodlust twirling together into a barrage of unknowable suffering. I’m parenthetical. Legs and arms uncrossed. Bent, broken. Think, destroy. Hurt little things, tear down walls. Little girls, like little leaves, the pure androgynous sentiments of rapture, the secretions of uncomfort and unhappiness. I bathe in this. I revel in this. I break my heart with my massive, swollen knuckles and I wash my machine gun with the humors of the self. Inpoxed, the tremors of the awakening holocaust. Centrifugal force bloodlet, heartstoppingly smashed inbound, chained down, X-rayed and unbelievably toxic. Here’s a drink to the solids, here’s a breath of the liquids.

I’m in this mendacity; I’m a swimmer in the short circuit. I run laps around the graveyard because my heroes are all dead. My heart throbs, chugging tar through my mechanical supersonic pipeline. Something other than human, I’m ungoing, outrospective and ensickened by the frailties of human nature. Now I’ve become brain damaged and stupid, pulling the shortest straw from a stack of needles. Sew my futility, now gusts of arrogance suck the riverbed dry to quench my crackling skin. I’m the someone who you’d never expect, but I’m profiled like the shooter with style. Nothing happening, crass and girly, I’m cast out by the incasted outgroup and now I’m just another immaterial thing tossed around like an empty suit. I throw my hat into the ring, and I throw my towel. Shut up by lovey-dovey corporate law, hunted down by frenetic sociopathic psychics looking to pump their theories into my dust bowl of a skull. Immensely powerful, viciously fed and still I’m preaching from this bone pit like I’m underloved and not appreciated. I’ve got wedding wings on an electric phallus that I aim at the temple of any one person who declares me unlovable. I’m here to be feared, but at the same time, I find a way into this new world oblivion of superpsychotic order to declare myself the most having and the most needing. I kick start the jabberwocky and flex muscles that don’t exist. Love is lost, but love doesn’t know it quite yet. Here for the disease ridden faceless empirical megalomaniacs, I’d slit my throat and juggle my four stomachs. I sleep wet and perturbed on a bed of nails.

Phantasms spread impudence. Surrealist anti-biological sex grenades employed by loves’ crippling vixens with force and style. Glits and glamour, clits and clamor. For the asphalt chuggers’ teeth, for the scumsuckers tongue: I’m the pastor’s masturbation, a blood sacrifice and underage hypertrophic bone licking. I embed the perfuse, the neovascular ultranabolic extremist length training. Introsexual misbehavior and unbelieving, subnormal stroboscopic seizure inducing meiotic cum shooting. Collapsing, epileptic shiver shock, furiously twitching and weeping. Into the clouded uncapture. Porn star, the pseudoreligious nanoparadigm. I am part of the sky, my headache gyrates wildly to the beat of the ultrasound. THE HEAD. To the new world of Judas, I descend on the whipped back of the pistolchrist. Belching obscurancies, the shuddering, thundering billows of malgangrenous unvolutionary gas. Puke cytoplasm requiem. Switch choke, guzzle and spew forth hot hateful magma. Kept slumbering and out of synthesis, disillusioned and unexcited. The little charred parts floating in a dense fog of uncertainty.

I’m the lickable dirigible.

I’m so disconnected, so vulgar and disambiguated. Unsure of my destiny and unsure of my religious connotations. My sexual motives are clouded and unclear. My love is trite and draining, I’ve become ready and willing to accept whatever comes my way and I’ve found myself absent. Self-abandonment, the rewriting of the I. Unaligned, no solar, no lunar, no emotive and no cerebral. I practiced blood sacrifice, flesh sacrifice, soul sacrifice and self-elimination. I have been open and shut, alive and dead, awake and asleep, in and out, dumb and intelligent, and I’ve found myself outcasted by the outcasts themselves. Subversal transitive. The common law is within the holding of the self, in other words, to be able to interact with something with certain intent, you must first acknowledge the existence of the object in question. It is this same law that binds me to life, where I do not feel a connection between my actions and my well-being, my attempts and self erasure have been in vain, as I have not truly realized the state of my waking being. I’ve been good and kind, crass and malevolent, I’ve visited every contemporary and newfound state of mind that can be recognized.

I, on the very edge of the vacuum, and here I become the obscene. Facing the continuum of space and self, I descend into a place uncharted. Unhappy but not sad, dead, but not unloving. Without all transitive parts, without all connections. I believe in nothing and I touch nothing. Freefloating, outside of friction, independent of gravity and form. True gaseous nature, true stagnancy. No way out, and somehow, no way in.

To first believe in simultaneous existence, one must believe in common existence.

Afraid and loathing the outcome of being awake and listening, pan-dynamic and overloading. POUND THESE VEINS. One great big hand sweeping the throatless congregation from view. The subterranean tests of macroradiation remind us all that infections rise, and the cancer rates skyrocket. Every waking second is spent in a tremendous blast furnace, in chemical, biological, and retroactive scorching. The skin melts and peels off in sheets, the eyes dilate and fuse. Beauty is in exaggerated numbers. My mind’s eye is in the stomach’s mouth. Behold the beheaded; the common bullets rain down upon my frail paper face. I stir the dead from their graves with a common human gesture of trust. With the voluptuously ascending plume of nuclear disgust, the artificial life is unplugged and the gurney rocks as humanity rides it’s last ride on the erect cadaver of the universe. Upon a table, rest’s it bleating, twitching head. Feet restrained. The mouth. The head. The hands. The unmappable thrash of labyrinthine tubes and cords of flesh. Id acting gunshot, throttled, blackened and prolific. Entering the vulgarsphere, the harrowing gaze extends for miles uncharted.

The cherry tree blooms. I pick the blossoms. The smell is so sweet. The setting so tranquil. The cracks of my leathery hands brush against the youthful stern of the tree. The sun set’s gently on the cloudless horizon.

And if the medication doesn’t work, I’ll invert and kill that cancer myself. Blood, tears, jeans and a wifebeater. I’m something else, now. Something sociopathic and unsafe. I don’t need or want anything. I run myself to death, for fear of being alive.

Laugh. I snip and I shout. Laugh again. I drag the hammer to the very furthest extent. Into my vein, it begins. Down, the hammer plunges. Eyes shut. Mind collapses. Self lost. Form had.

It’s snowing outside, and only now to i realize how much i miss you. i've been in touch with the extent of my longingness for a great span of time, but now it has become uncomfortably anxious and, in a way, moved me to the realm of the lethargic inattentive. but it's not about me now, it's about you. you were the first, and by god, i'll be here until the end. We were the first to find obstacles, and the first to overcome them. The first at arms, the first at peace. A promise made so long ago, that i'd take you out into the snow, and we could spend this time together. Now, I still want to, but I don't know where you are. Are you in a hospital, or in a home?

I; Egouge. Self: THE TRANSPARENTHETICAL.

MWNL

ASSIMILATE OR DIE.

W.

Some Spanish churches are built to outline the body of Christ. The tabernacle is at the front, the head of Christ, and the right side, the right hand of Christ, the hand of creation, is where the earlier incantations occur, such as baptism, confirmation, and life blessings. The other side, the left hand of Christ, the hand of destruction, is the more funereal half, where the dead are kept before services, where prayer candles are lit for the most unwell of the parishioners. I wonder, sometimes, what I would resemble if a structure were to be built in my image. I stop upon the lighthouse. I believe I act as a sort of warning for others that are taking the same route as I have, to tell them where I have failed, where I have gone wrong, and what is it that I have brought about, leaving me, somehow, both imprisoned, and exposed to the roughest elements; I am without shelter.

HAD

I found Zen, wedged between a pair of concrete sarcophagi, bedecked in glittering pink enamel, like giant crooked teeth jutting up from the gangrenous gums of the basin. I found this Zen with a neatly woven rope in my hand, dangling it from an imaginary bar to create a picturesque portrait of self-erasure. Ah, the final exhalation of life, to finally be released from torture, it tantalizes me, like a starving man spies his brother, ripe for cannibalization. The ponds are thick with acidic phlegm, barren of life, and creating a heavy light paradox. One source belches fluid into the right half of the skull, sarcophagus the first, it collects and pukes itself about, spinning and gyrating, then exiting to the basin. In the basin, the substance is collected and unmoving, it isn't a river; widening, it isn't a lake; deepening. Across the way, on the opposite end of the Hole, finds the Cage, where more water flows forth, in direct opposition of the first. Imagine two mouths spitting spit into a similar point, and even though the point is the nexus of this aqueous activity, it remains dry. I remain confused and, in spite of the past note, utterly soaked in this grimy filth.

I'm had, held, and throttled to within an inch of gravitational tolerance. I've met the last point of sight, to look past one edge of the self-digesting universe and to see the reverse of my bare skull; within my universal stomach. With clubs of bone, bedecked with iced intestines as gilding about the subsacrosanct fierceness of mental violence, I am beaten into submission. I swim about, eyes gouged with hot tongues of flame, I am blinded. With me, always, the hypocrites who love themselves and are emotionally vacant to the point that they promote the unhealthy nature of saying one thing, and doing another. Who, amongst you, is the one pure cause of my suffering? Is it just one? How does that not ring of selfishness, and, in its own way entirely, disrespect the bond we share? I demand nothing but the simple act of mutuality, where I give thirty; I only expect three in return. Sometimes I am left with the bill.

I see you people every day. I look you square in the eyes and I can tell that you are not to be trusted. That smile so vain and cosmetically enhanced, the teeth in your one, massive mouth, are spaced so far apart that lies slip through them without touching bone. The mechanics of your machine is really beautiful, in reality. Anything that could move so fluidly, so undetected and strike with such ferocity and thoughtlessness, it’s almost to be envied, it is. It is such a travesty that the skills of deceit and cruelty are abused in this manner, to simply stir up general drama about me and my closer associates. I’m sure you know your place, but I’m not so certain that you know to stay seated for the duration of my oratory.

Unity promotes discontent. I slip into the motionless. Self begotten in friction, a wake spun of murmuring rest. Fluid and solemn, shot into hell without being told to brace myself. I blend in. For the heartless, the headless, and the weak and stupid, I am. A gut gutted, an illusion disproved and still accepted, for all dislocation and longing, I am. Amongst the ignorant and feeble, I blend in. Feel freedom in the same way that middle link on a length of chain does; freedom to avoid comprehension, freedom from responsibility or thought.

I know when I’ve been selected; I know when I’ve been found out. It’s a simple, albeit boring game, unsuccessfully spun up by a twist of arrogance and greed. All of what I have is nothing, it’s worth no money, no sentiment and it has no value. Being loved and loving, in the same line as hating, or any other feeling felt, it's all so easily canceled. Spent, had, used up and over. What can be done with what we already have? I am not suggesting that he who has the most money when he dies wins, in fact, it’s oft found to be the contrary. I simply acknowledge the limited longevity of what is had on an emotional level. Of all sorry, I’ll conceived shapes I have formed, and the few good things I absorbed, I can only be one true thing. Of all that I have, of all that I am, above all my names, all my work, all my effort, and the squared sum of all the relations that I have held in my time, I am but on still object. I’m simply a beacon of impermanence. A symbol of what is purely temporary, just a single moment of time. I’m a single fruit fly. I’m a cornered lamb; I’m a goat, gouged with a great pike, slowly sliding down to the floor, bleating out what is left of my punctured lungs.

So nothing is regulated. I can tell that the brief moment that my little resting place was restful is over, the quiet is shouting and all is swirling and chaotic, the pink wears away. Now we're back to square one, where everything is balanced on the head of a pin. Simple, chaotic, and the system made is dedicated to exposure and self destruction. You can lay bricks until the sky is blotted out, but dead promises don't ever seem to stack up.

I, in my physical form, will not last.

Everything that makes me what I am, is taken from the elements that ensure my temporal state.

Into the Reichstag,

MWNL.

W.

Nipple/bottle/pills/muzzle in my mouth.
kick you the fuck out.
i've done the fucking math.
fuck you fuck you being helpless.
i'm stupid for making this make sense.
you're an angel for making years into minutes.
so suck the triviality, so fuck being the first, and get ready for the fucking last.
My whole life is in freefall, in heartbreak, panic, and unhappiness.
You signed a contract in a dumb little note.

I'm not going to photograph you naked.
In fact, I don't really want you naked at all.
I'm not going to get you drunk or high.
I'm not going to try to get you to do something you don't want to.

You're trying to fix it?
give it all you've got.
And you ain't got a lot.
Unless you bet it all on something consistent.
Thanks to you, i'm unstable and unreliable.
But I guess you've gotta let things change.
Eat your fucking heart out, you already got to mine.
When I heard your voice, I was actually surprised at what you said.
You decided to not forget me, for an hour, but you ate your words.

I got my sketches of you. I've got my photos.
I've got my notes you gave me i hid them from myself.
And I put away all the trinkets and everything i've been given.
I cut your face out from the photograph.
and i light it up.
Don't suck, don't swallow, don't drag, don't bleed.
What the fuck did you gamble?
What the fuck did you lose?

If you loved, I'd know by now.
If you cared, you'd have shown your heart.
If you knew, you'd have cut the cord.
You are etherized, sedated and woundless.
Just a comatose plaything, ready for abuse.

You'll wake up soon enough.
Look around, act lonely, be bored.
And have anything be your anything, just like that.
And you know it won't last, you know it won't last.
Because you don't learn.

Wear my funeral wreath like it's your crown.
So proud that you drove me to this.
And you'll find yourself asleep on the bed of flowers, just six feet above me.
And you won't know a god damn thing.

Real.

MWNL.

W.

G i A a R m G i L n E i R

Shudder cutter I’m a blood letter gouging my eyes out so I can ignore the consequences. Pick me up and throw me down. I’m rag doll and stupid, I don't eat and I don't sleep, I’m unclean perverted unhappy and the subject of so many hilarious tales of sexual abuse and torture, Christians try to put stickers on my face. My eyes don't dilate, but everything on my body shrinks to fit my massive pupils. I puke blood and cry urine. I hate myself and I commit suicide with little frameless villains in my head. I’m all caught up. I make hell into a friendly thorny playground, I push myself off the edge, I break my skull on the concrete.

Disambiguated unanimated. Just a shaved ape, I’m useless but such a tool, a mime in a man suit. I'm only semi-attached, just half dead, but for every one part I'm seeing, I've got a clone in blindness. Just part awake. In twilight. One entire universe with a stark absence of motion. Every conceivable edge frozen in place. No gravity, no center, no concept of time. Within a massive zero, a single perpetually strained infinitely filtered stretch of life. Coiling and weaving through the celestial body, warped and distorted, not circular, not linear, not without interconnectivity.

No leaders. No love, no culture, no government, no justice, and no peace. I’m all for nothing, I’m the naught; I’m the unbalanced isotope furiously whirling and ready to split. A bloodless foolish killing machine, made ugly by eons of war and conflict, just holes where I used to have feelings. Everyone I have ever loved is dead from shrapnel. I'm eager to hurt, a sadist disguised as nothing other than death itself. I unhinge my jaw and eat an entire pig just to see a family starve. I'm the hand that unplugs the breathing apparatus; I’m the obsidian chip at the end of the scalpel, vibrating and ready for a fatal mistake. An uncontrollable vacuum of misguided angst and hate, sucking up and spitting out all human affection like a slug of steel caught in my mouth.

I exhale asbestos and breathe in all the clean air. I'm the scarecrow without a heart. I’m a mistake turned into a chaotic hurricane of tragedy and ill will, I am godless and I am without scruples. I spit sperm like a HIV fountain; I'm a black hole greedily warping up all of life's loveable things into my puke choked belly. When I snap my fingers, wars are waged. I'm what man picture when he first wrote of unkindness, misery, and suppression. You can't just vote me out, you can't shoot me down or ignore me, the schizophrenic, the brain-dead, and the delusional all recognize me. I can't be concealed or hidden, i can't be dematerialized, I can't be erased or forgotten, I’m present in all dimensions, i am the concept of simultaneous existence.

I punish the victim and empower the criminal. The very core of brutalization and inhumanity, I am what makes the crosses burn so bright, I am what makes the ropes that connect the feet of a faggot to the fender of the pick-up truck so durable. I am the underhanded, the witless and slow, the cancer cells eating away. I sweat nicotine and each of my teeth is a cigarette. My tongue is throbbing and silver, I’m the perpetuator of self mutilation and desocialization. I am columbine; I took the holocaust under my wing and made it what it is today. Nothing happens. The earth rethinks its deal and sucks the water into its hollowed core. All of life is simply waiting for death. Convulsing violently, hysterically cackling, I’m skinned alive. Here is a drink to accidental death, murder, and suicide. Here is a drink to the end of my life. I'm forever sick and miserable, forever scarred and wounded, bled dry and still breathing. I submerge myself in boiling water and emerge reddened, and wrathful. I go down into the hole and I lay in the water and hope I freeze to death. I took a girl there and I told her that that is where I was going to kill myself, and nothing of my words ever registered. I’m a ghost.

I fill my goblet with tingling brain matter of the Christ child, who remains disassembled and unmoving. Here I have nothing and I want nothing. I feel strong again, now that I no longer care about living. I hurt myself and I no longer feel regret. I am the shameless, I am the shapeless, I am the heartless, the thoughtless, the callused and broken.

Here is a drink to the end of all life. Here is a drink to you. Here's to the slashing of my throat. The poisoning of my blood. The discharge of a rifle into my mouth. Here is a drink to death.

Forever Haemorrhage, and I am with you.

Make war, not love.

W.

This isn't my photograph. If you took this, and you want credits, please, contact me.

I don’t have heroes, or at least, I didn’t for a long, long period of my life. But, I still don’t. I’ll admit I don’t know where I stand on having a hero. I never really was connected enough to another human being to really revere them in a healthy manner. Entertainers served to entertain, but even that was a fraud. They’d produce an album, or paint a painting about drugs they’ve never done, or they’d tell me to never do drugs, and then they could be found backstage, or at their filthy apartment opening veins and nailing their friend’s friend indiscriminately, and in a manner that would haunt them, if they weren’t blasted off the planet to be able to remember anything, for the rest of their lives. It’s hard for me to believe in anything at all. Every major institution is fake. Every form of government is fake, and there is no such thing as a kleptocracy, in the idea that there is no word to describe what takes up space where there is nothing to take up that space. Democrats, Green Party, Republicans, Whigs, whatever, it doesn’t matter. Fascism, tyranny, dictatorship, monarchy, anarchy, tribal religious, theocracy, whatever. It’s all based on taking from the little people, and feeding the massively distended belly that hangs precariously above the heads of everyone that works honest hours. I never believe in pure love, I never believed in pure hate, not in anything that’s ever been advertised, and really, the moment the words are recorded into the microphone, and played across the radio, I no longer associate myself with that idea. That’s why I’m here, and not there. I’m on the internet, where there are no rules. I’m not on the radio, or on television, where the government can close in on you and tell you what you have to say, or what you can never say. There are no seven deadly words here. It’s just pure, vile, disgusting humanity. The true face of what this civilized life has become.

So I’ve got no values because I’ve got no morals, because I’ve got no connections, because I’ve got no God, because I’ve got no patriotism, because, or so I’m told, I didn’t buy the newest product on the market. When did this start? I should’ve been told that I’d have to pick up the ads for the newest electronics, the newest clothes and ideas so I could stay real. If you don’t pay attention to what is in your pockets, or in your homes, in your engines, you could lose your acceptance by your religious affiliation, or maybe you could be outcast by your government. Who here remembers back in the day when wear a red jacket would be suspicious, because commies wore red? I do. I didn’t even live it, and I remember it. Now we’re here, where you have to be competitive and friendly, you have to be inclusive and select; you make prioritized decisions that effect the miserable and disenfranchised. Now you pick up a magazine, and, hold on, there was a time where you could read it, and know what not to wear, and what kind of thing that you shouldn’t associate yourself with, and then, under extreme social scrutiny, you became a rebel. A teen rebel, you were feared and not pushed around, you got laid and you got paid, you got everything that you wanted because you were the one with the balls to tell the pansies at corporate to shove it. Now you pick up the newspaper, and they give you both, and verily, they give you nothing. They tell you what the cool people wear, and what the cool rebels wear. Now there is a divide, and no one can do anything, we’re all in checkmate. And, to clarify, this isn’t about the cool people wearing polo shirts and the rebellious kids in their bondage pants[Yeah, bondage pants with plastic locks. That’s bondage, your girlfriend loves it ‘rough’, so you wrestle her chemically saturated face to the ground in the middle of the mall. Real tough, dipshit. Go enjoy your ‘HxC’ rug burn you fucking imbecile.] This isn’t about that. It’s leaked into everything. Politics is like the American Religion, and not in that cliché sense of worshipping the idols elect, no. While, yes, that is true, that’s not what I am getting at. It’s about learning who to hate, and hating them before it gets popular. It’s about protest and rebellion, it’s about making news. To stick it short, I know many people that were very, very pleased when the Westboro Baptist church, these are the people who protested the funerals of American soldiers who, by dying at war, enabled Americans to be a bunch of greedy, Jewish commie faggots. When they were sued, for, I believe, 19 million dollars, people thought that they won. I hate to tell you, but you didn’t. You lost. Enjoy your millions, It’ll all burn up soon. Not in heaven or hell, right here on earth. You just gave them enough attention that their ranks grew to the point that hey, 19 million isn’t going to do anything to hurt them.

People recover from financial losses. I’ve seen it happen before my own eyes. Two years ago, my brother woke up Christmas morning on the fire-escape ladder of a snowy apartment, with nothing to his name but a stolen yoga-mat and handful of needles for obviously dubious purposes. I just ate dinner with him, in his apartment, and discussed his choice between one of his two current jobs that will best fund his trip to Budapest. Money is nothing. Power is in name recognition; power is in how much people fear you. You can spend ten million dollars on saving the homeless, or helping the crippled, but if one man buys a gun, and puts a bullet through someone else’s head, you’re not going to be in the headlines. You’re going to be on page six, space permitting, and only if you happened to be accidentally listed in the obituaries by some freak mistake. Good people don’t make it big. Rancid, malevolent criminals make it big. If you take arms against me, point out someone who’s made it big by doing good. I’m sure a few names will come up, and, given they’re not spiritual myths, you’re guaranteed to find out, with only a little searching, that that good person was in fact, a master of deception.

You have to buy air time. You have to pay for commercials. Long hair and an acoustic guitar isn’t going to get you paid, unless that guitar is carrying a couple bricks of hash, it’s going to get you beaten do death, which, I believe, is the only good, human thing to do. All your favorite good-doers are liars. All those big-screen morons, with their fresh faces and just-say-no attitudes are constantly compiling and distributing complete insanity. Calmness and complacency are the only two sides of insanity. They’re the only two symptoms that have been found. I see those mental institutions, and I know what their telling themselves, they thing their doing good, they think their little cherubs, with dumb little wings spreading joy and contentment to the vermin below. In actuality, they’re overpaid goons, throwing pills into gaping mouths, or, if the inmate is sane enough, he’ll resist, and then he gets a needle jabbed in his arm. For his sake, with our reanalysis program today, I hope that needle is just air. No medication, just air. End it quick for the sad sack that found himself with those padded walls. People have tried to institutionalize me; they’ve sat me down, given me pills and talked to me like I was smart as a stack of shoeboxes. They make it sound all reasonable too, like it’s really going to help me. “Listen, junior” they say, in that voice that is trying to sound down-to-earth, but loving and caring at the same time, which, amazingly is counteracted by the two massive thuggish guards flanking this frail psychoanalyst “we know you’re paranoid, you think people are always going to get you, you feel that you’re being monitored” at which point, he smiles, like he’s solved the problem, and his bachelors degree sits without honor or use “So we’re going to put you in a fluorescent coffin, where men can watch you shit and piss day in and day out, for several months. That’ll pick you right up, now won’t it?”

Then he musses your hair and snaps his fingers. The guards grab you, and it’s off to fucking candyland for good.

I’m sick of it. All my heroes are dead, and not because I had them once, and then they died, but they’re my heroes because they’ve died already. That’s what my goal is, in reality, it’s to die with dignity. Seeing that fail miserably, I guess I just want to die with grace. And knowing how I’ve lived my life up to here, I guess I’ll have to just die in an interesting way. I’ve got not institutions, I don’t believe in any morals, nor any judgments, nor slogans, no religions, no god, and I can’t say I even believe in atheism. That may seem self-contradictory, but it’s not. In this lonely, and increasingly stupid society in which we wither, even the atheists have rules now. They have to fight for their beliefs, they have to go to philosophical combat with their ideas, and fight for their right to not have to fight for any rights. They, the atheists, politely excuse themselves from guilt with their coy line on how religion is being shoved down the throats of our people, how Christ is everywhere, and how he should be confined to the churches. It should go without saying that they’re drowning in their own hypocrisy, and I sincerely hope that each one of them suffers for a great long time, and then dies for their foolishness. I don’t hate them enough to wish hell upon them, but it’d be certainly hilarious to see that they wasted both their life, and their death for a non-existent cause.

I can’t get on the bandwagon for saving the environment. It’s so incredibly disconnected what these people believe, what they lend themselves is truly tremendous, it’s on the same level as someone who believes himself to be God, come to earth, to judge the heathens. It’s staggering, really. You can spend your life printing out pamphlets, printing books, or broadcasting from your plastic-steel-wire-amalgamated computer about saving the environment, and at no point will the irony slap you in your greasy, unshaven face? That’s sad beyond measurable measure. It’s just depressing. You think that you can save the planet? Are you serious? That’s impossible. Thinking that you can save the planet by biking to work, or by buying a low-flush toilet is the same as taking a whisk and a dustpan to Chicago, and telling the mayor that you’ll have everything cleaned up by sundown. At the rate you clean, the rest of the world will be moving ten million times faster to ruin your chance, to kill your trail, to eliminate your efforts. So, if it entertains you, run your hot water heater to take your organic-soap shower, splash some patchouli oil on your unlovable skin and make way to your fossil fuel van, and drive, drive six hundred oily, greasy, smoky miles to your save-the-earth festival. I hope you overdose and die.

I don’t believe in freedom, in peace, in warriors, in the bible, the torah, or any god or ministry, I don’t believe in any organization outside those who exist simply to cause harm without discrimination, and without slogans or marketing. I don’t believe in happy, or love, or product satisfaction. I don’t believe in Hollywood, or in the indie morons who try to rebel from Hollywood, hit it big with their screenplay, and then move twenty minutes from Hollywood. I don’t believe in the psychiatrists, in the psychologists, in the politicians, in the brokers, in the tellers, in the sellers, in the buyers, in the people. I’ve got nothing here. I’ve been stabbed in my back from day one, every good thing that I’ve had faith in, has died at least once. I’m confident that it’ll all die soon enough, and I certainly do hope that I go with it, and take myself cleanly out of my damn misery. It’d be nice.

But, out of all of this, I did get to experience something very amazing tonight, something surreal and exciting. I saw one of my heroes, even though I’m not sure if I have them, and I saw him perform live. Lewis Black has been my favorite performer since I saw his first special. He’s got brains, he got balls, he’s got everything I look for in a guy. He’s down to earth, and he is absolutely genius. In seeing this show, I saw another side of him, and even then, I was still awestruck. He’s profoundly human, witty, and kind. While I never did get a chance to meet him in person, I do hope to someday shake his hand, and buy him dinner. Or, if you’ve seen enough of his act, a beer would do much more sense for him.

There isn’t much more I can say. I’ve really had a long, hard life, and so far, not much has been worth it. I’ve been brutalized and abused every step of the way, I’ve been lied to, spun around, spat on and pantsed over and over and over, and still, each day holds unbounded, unknowable humiliation and suffering. It’s always nice to know that out there, somewhere, there is someone who not only has the heart to make himself laugh at how badly he’s being railed by the system, but he cares enough to let other people laugh about it too.

Thanks for all your inspiration, your rants, your anger, your work. It’s not gone unappreciated.

||X||=√ p2=q2=r2=s2

Hexidecimate…

Cut in half. My venerable, broken inner-self stands in the weathered doorway, a true and permeating presence of ghastliness in its eminence. Face battered and swollen from decades of abuse, it’s mat of hair cropped close to the reddened, speckled scalp and cancer-eaten plains of hairlessness reveal pink flesh hiding beneath. Eyes cold and empty, but in a queer way, beaming and cruel. Skin infected by millions of surface nuisances, cuts and abrasions, minor harm done. Sweat slicking the malformed muscular tissues, calcium deficiency and malnutrition since birth left the bones soft and bowed inward. Beneath the flesh, the nerves are swept up in a frantic entanglement of sparks and transient aimless shouts of indeterminate feeling. Dangling loosely, but guardedly from a grease soaked, aged hand, a warped sledge hammer, clutched near the weighted end, the handle cocked backwards. Partial paralysis in the face has left the head unable to form a glint of a smile or smirk, and even if feeling had been retained, it is unknowable if the earth would express its wrath through teeth.

The decades have not treated it well. In the wake of its motion becoming fluid, the floorboards moan and grind, shifting their uneven load between their massive, flat palms. Over the years, violence and confusion has trailed in its footsteps. Unsure of it’s place within the body, it reacts angrily, breaking down borders and forcing itself to the top. Lies fashioned and spat forth, parts of the self destroyed, my history slowly being erased. The root cause of my unhappiness, my instability, and my most cutting fears, and they can no longer hide. Slowly, and in explicitly decorated pain, I am turning inside out, becoming something else entirely. I fear for those who’ve known me in the past, and know me still today. I have yet to inform my comrades of the toil that consumes my mind every day, just to maintain the ever-fading image that is who I no longer am.

Standing, breathing short, shallow breaths, its ribcage manages rises and falls dramatically. The chest isn’t cut to show particular muscles, but a dense, bulbous belly covers what is one hundred pounds of bloodied, wounded torso. Built in a manner which could carry itself unscathed through a packed hallway, structured in the same way that bank vaults are built. If my inner-self was a firearm, it would, no questions asked, be a shotgun. The true embodiment of cold calculated logic, emotionless drive and function. Imagine, with me, a being of pure want, a stomach that could never be filled, a sex drive that could never climax, a fit of acidic puke that would never empty the gut. Because of this impulse, I’ve found that my self control is quickly dwindling. I’m no longer in control of my mind, and my body follows in suit, like the lame sheep it is. I eat everything in sight, and at the same time, I’ve not eaten single meal, not a crust of bread, for years. I’ve stopped seeing love, and now I can only see the flesh. I fear what I have become; I hate what I have become. With every last throw of my frustration, my eternal energy encompassing, I attempted to override the system. Perilously scaling the pretentious peaks of reason and intellect, I found myself alone, stabbed in the back; betrayed. I don’t want to talk about my past. I don’t want to talk about her past, or your past. I just want to know what tomorrow will hold, but at the same time, there is nothing that I dread more than that answer. I’m playing dice with my world. No hope in sedation, no hope in containment. I’ve lied through my teeth, through my tongue and lips. I’ve lied, spun, wrought, and brought about misery and misfortune through my blurred, but sentimentally good-willed efforts. I’ve got no mindset for blame or for guilt. Just impassive feelings brought on by weakness and angst.

It’s not selfish; it’s the failure of the self. Reversed, undone, corrupted, removed, eaten. I watch everything I’ve ever made fade away, and my love is sucked into a vacuum, my fears compounded and funneled down my numbed throat, spit spirals through my drain until my bloated belly bursts. But, no matter what point of mental, physical and emotional instability I reach, through all earthly pains I will endure, I’ll be here, until you prick your finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and die.

And even then, I’ll die with you.

I’ll hold your hand, through everything.

MWNL.

W.

I T . R U S T E D . Y O U

So it seems that my upright posture has enabled little things to be slipped behind my back. So much seems to be happening without my consent, and I find myself being lied to in a way I could never imagine. I’m surrounded and overpowered. Disarming with a smile. When I’m not being brutalized, I’m being ignored. I’ve found this dirty little pit that I can crawl into, be away from everyone, and let myself fade away. Embracing suicide, embracing an end to suffering, don’t act like it is anything new to you. The only flaw in this pit is that it is painted over with words I fear I may not be able to read any longer.

I suppose that is the breaking point. Fear. I exist before you a broken, battered man. I had given so much, I had nothing, and even then, I lost everything. Whittling away, piece by piece, I feel my heart give way and become just another kidney. Relentlessly puking out substance to be heard by deaf ears. My eyes are constantly in that panicked state of half-drowning. My fingers constantly numbed, my skin is hot and shivering.

I can’t sleep. I can’t eat or think. I’m left to this petty device of loathing, left to this bitter little gap. I live in limbo. Affection means nothing now. Fake feelings. I’ve been deceived, my eyes have been blinded. I now see what I’ve become, and even more frightening, what you have become.

So impassive, numb, uncaring, and cruel. Mute upon direct confrontation, weak and unable to uphold yourself. Playing the dumbed down loving mother, but infected with side shows and bombing campaigns. Was it not you who had said that you are not in the state appropriate for this motion? Was it not you who had denied physical form? Was it not you who turned deaf ears to my repeated pleas? Was it not you who had been hurt before, left with nothing, and, after making my life a living hell, you were invited back to me, with open arms? Was it not you who has been forgiven? Was it not your actions against me and my, who have been forgiven and forgotten?

This time you’ve gone out of your way. This time I can taste the bitter, metallic taste on my tongue. This time, I don’t know if there will be a next time. Let’s walk backwards, shall we, and see all the other nails you’ve put in our coffin. Let’s see all the points where’ you’ve become abusive and coldhearted. Let’s see all the points that I have forgiven you.

I just wish I knew beforehand, so I could shut everything down then. This is your doing, my undoing. I had faith, I had trust, I held you when you were hurt. Now, I’ve got no arms but my own. Now, I’ve got no feeling. Now, I have no where to go. Himself; Hung.

I can’t believe you.

Or any of your personalities, for that matter.

MWNL.

LLL.

W.

While I ache and exist as a broken, halved man, I still scrounge up what is left to form a sense of forgiveness. I’m lost as ever, as lonesome and as hurt, and in many ways; my misery has staked a darker territory than I have ever seen. In this fit of unearned kindness, I sense blind eyes seeing nothing but clammy palms cupped over the sockets. in the end, I’ve made my way through, embraced my temporal self, and become a final, gasping bit of nameless heartbreak, spinning through steamy drifts of dissolution.

In my own, personal way, I’ve become a host of predilection, the select bit of body for the parasitic to, before my constantly weeping, constantly recording cameras, pose and, consequently, repose. And with this, what have I become? A joke, a satire of self, I feel used and pointless. I watch you say goodbye, take another drag from your redundant emotional cigarette, and forget me.

As for my pending-filmography, my photography, literature, all of my destructions, all of my creations, my entropy and other ischemic paranoid phantasms of torture, love, belittlement, anguish, exuberance, science, physics and space, I can only see a future of pupil-dilating, throat-kicking, eye-welling, chaos. Pure, unrefined chaos. Some scientists posit that there is no true form of chaos, because to be entirely without order, is an order itself. Not saying that everything has a purpose, because, if it did, wouldn't I be the first to accept my call? I know I'm useless, but I do have one thing to believe in. There is nothing more chaotic than the mind of a furious, heartbroken man, over-medicated, alone and self destructive. There is nothing more randomized and destructive than what is withheld in the confines of the unstable mind. My soul ate itself. My hung, then shot full of arrows, and then left to die in the Christmas moonlight. My body is negligible and worthless. My mind, on the brink of its own cerebral disaster, is just ripe enough, my brain just soft enough to flatten out, and sneak it under your pillowcase, and in that, I watch you writhe. You’ve told me that your dreams are bombarded with the faces of those who have lied to you. As are mine, but in mine, I don’t discharge. I wake angry, and not aroused. We’re different, you and I.

I’ve never been conscious to the fact that I am dying. Well, let me rephrase that…I’ve always known that I am dying, and I am confident that I will die young, and hopefully, by my own hand, but I never actually felt it, deep in my stomach, my bones and muscles, and even my heart, lodged in my throat, pushing tears to my eyes, I feel myself growing weaker. Giving up, like the love that had held me is just shrugging my vessel off. A constant flow of denial, a persistent source of disappointment and futile malfunction.

I hope you know what I’ve given you for you. The things I have done for you, to make you happy, and feel secure. I’ve swallowed my pride, with heaving gulps of your sweat, spit and tears, just to clean the slate. My account is overdrawn. My heart empty, my hands aching from overwork. What is it that you’ve given to me?

I suppose so. But I do hope that you find my love to be an endless, boundless source. You can’t reproduce it, it is entirely unto itself, and it is unique, just for you. So go, do what you will, but I have a certain confidence that you will find yourself empty handed, just as I find myself today.

Know what you’ve done. Know what you have failed to do. Watch where you fucking step. I love you.

On a primary note, if any of you artists out there have any human teeth that you don't want, or really any human remains that you've grown tired of, I'd like to use them in upcoming projects. Throw me a line if you've got anything, and I'll find a way to repay in some way.

I’m emotionally vacant, witless and slow. I lie to every single person I know, and that includes you. The only time I am honest is when I am hurting myself. I can't feel love, and I can't feel hate. I live every day in a blank expression of suicide and mistrust, caught up in this uncomfortable whiplash of self-doubt and frustration. The things I've tried to accomplish have failed me, and my standards of living are constantly, consistently being downgraded. I'm not happy; I'm not smart, pretty, strong, or funny. I pity those who pity me, and I wish they find a mode to move on from me. I live my life as a dummy body, a dead weight, an excess, feeling every moment like I am a malignant tumor that must be removed from the host.

I don't want a week of your time, to make me feel like I'm a retard on parade around the petty sarcophagus of our love. I don't want you to ceremoniously kick me out, while, even more ceremoniously you forge love letters to keep me in.

You're torturing me, and you know it, and it doesn't bother you one bit.

I’m sick of the abuse, but I'm not strong enough to show it.

I've spent a great deal of my effort, my waking hours, trying to find that one thing that I know can make you happy. I think I’ve found it.

Adios.

W.

Till the soil as the soil shall be tilled
Strike the nails as the nails shall be struck
Need no governance, produce no impudence
Live alive, wage war, collapse and die.

If you believe in god, you cannot believe in science.
If you believe in science, you cannot believe in god.

Beyond the blackness of space is nothing.
Beyond the blackness of the grave is nothing.

What is there to be had? There is nothing. The wars had are frivolous, but effective. The soil gags and pukes up its deep permeation. The blood shed in an invisible cause is good healthy blood; shed. When any number of religious clans declares war on the other, all of life rejoices. The sky lights up, the sun beats down its cancerous rays. The Final Solution will not be had until every last believer is dead.

The only good religion is a dead one.
The only good church is a burning one.
The only good synagogue is a leveled one.
The only good mosque is a bombed one.
The only good Christian is a headless one.
The only good Jew is a gutted one.
The only good Muslim is a butchered one.
The only good believer is a buried one.

Living their lives on the permanent manifestation of false light, constantly searching for some heavenly flashlight that belches its shimmering fraud down upon this blackened, bruised earth, such a travesty.

Ah, but to science. Evolution is not a theory. It is a fact. The moon does not glow, man cannot walk upon water, nor can water become wine. Miracles, miracles, whence they cometh again? Never. Any Houdini can recreate modern miracles, as the religious have had it, most of the miracles recorded occurred before, apparently, thought and reason were invented. Blood is lost for duty’s call, let me remind you a simple fact: When religions declare jihad, when they crusade, when they dig their fangs deep into the jugular within the infant neck of reason, the weapons they use are made by science. Nuclear arms, atomic arms, machineguns, poisons, napalm. The atom crushes the cross, the star, and the crescent into the dust, and from that dust, Man is made.

Let's put the lying dog to sleep.

I waited, today, on the edge of the street. I waited a long while, until my fingers, my face, and in fact, most my then visible body had lost its color, blenching to a sickly white, only visible to me from the reflection had by a fragment of especially reflective glass caught in the drain of the sewers. I waited even longer after that, until my fingers had regained their color in a quick survivalist mechanism of my body, pushing warm blood to my furthest parts to ensure my tissues wouldn’t play dead, and break themselves down. The air was brisk and notably dry, my skin itched and my eyes, when they would produce tears, they would only make their trip to my chin half way, before being absorbed by the forgivably thirsty wind. Underclothed, ill prepared for my own existence, my hopes furthered. I waited and I had soon found myself disappointed. Cars sped by, but no came close enough. There were no drunk drivers, no angered maniacs, either behind the wheel or wielding instruments with which they could terminate my existence. The longer I waited, the less hope I felt for the end to be had. Further downtrodden, I began my slow, funereal procession to the point of my beginning, which, tonight, would not be the point of my end.

The sky burnt a pale, sickening blue, cloudlessly gesturing the end of light. I continued my wearied pace, slowing, and then stopping, caught in a rapturous shaft of sunlight. The light bled upon me in great heaving sighs, my eyes blinded, my exposed flesh warmed lightly until frigid gusts whipped away the warmth. In the same beam, I found myself so high that all the people looked like ants, so high that all my life seemed futile, blank, and boring. Then I found that I was not high, and in a cast back from that, never have been. Even further backwards, I found that I was staring at an actual ant hill. Each faceless subject going about their arduous task, never stopping to question, never stopping to consult the head above them. Godless, soulless, substance producing machines. The perfect human race, right there, before my eyes. They’d perform the same task if they were all alone, or if they were surrounded by a infinite fleet of their brothers. Faceless, mindless, lifeless.

You know what makes me happy? Oil spills. Forest fires. I'm happy when big structures come crashing down, metaphoric or literal. I thrive in displacement. I revel in discomfort and dislocation. The only reason I have a television is for the disasters. When buildings collapse, when factories go up, when bridges fail. Tears shed, families ruined, throats slashed, lives lost, I throw my sweat painted head back in a rush of hyperorgamic sensations. That’s the horrid evolutionary trend that I have taken, I can feel pressure from so many sides at once, where I am not tortured personally, I am tortured by society and the worlds stage. It’s a sad little trait I picked up from so many years of abuse.

In retrospect of my times, the most morally absent were the most fulfilling. The morally restrictive have left me suffering more than I could ever imagine. What I face here is a true dystopia image, a hallucination become a terrifying reality. All figures that surround me see straight through me, but for a few, and those see a fluttering gaseous plume of sexual depravity and it’s fruition, moral stature found in personal emotional degradation, and a glimpse into a unsuitable, intangible ward of selfless, inhospitable hatred of, paradoxically, the self. Those who see nothing, still embrace the wisp that I am, those who see something, embrace the concept that I am truly nothing, which, in fact, I am.

In a sense, I found myself in the actuality of the polyphoric. I had accessed this ill-emotion, not a feeling, but just a sense of self had under extreme, excruciating pressure, so surreal, the sense of being in many places at once. Each self in bondage, trapped in a loveless enterprise of greed, spite, anger and the unjust.

Have you ever had a man in love with you and not in you at the same time? I’d like you to want me and not want to fuck me for once, tonight. Come off that sweat slicked podium of yours. Open your mind, and then maybe you could close your legs. I watch those hips, and you should too. Maybe your fear of conception will find you torn into with a whole different anger. Maybe your actions and your nature will punish you before the outer world can.

The continuation of movement whipped up my circulation, pulsing hot blood to all the aching, sore knots of my flesh. The bones seemed to be inversed in their place, less of a skeletal frame than a rude insertion of calcium, they felt like the didn't actually belong beneath my flesh. Motions awkward and random, steps stumbling, fashioning about in a drunken manner, though my throat was parched and spirits hadn't touched my lips since early confirmation, which I thankfully dodged, so man years ago. Though, to call the unblessed wine had in Catholic confirmations a 'spirit' is a blasphemy against the disbeliever. My nous rambled onward, finding it's home in any disconnected, purposeless thoughts...in fact, it was a sense of pure entropy.

Minutes or hours later, I found my thoughts being had slower, more laze in their pace, most of them being poorly written retreads of the past thoughts had. I'd not be quick to judge my mentality, ironically, in a sense where my mentality is impossible to be judged. Ignorance floats, I promise you, where I can decide the quality of the life of an unborn child. I rest my thoughts, and held my head in my hands. My temples throbbed, hardened and my whole body embraced light vibrations. Vision compromised, I struck the ground without grace.

Moments passed, with sand and glass stuck to the briny sweat laid upon my forehead. The light around me began to fade. Considering the events, I'd found myself in an odd comparison between my past finality and my current, as I could clearly see into the opaque chasm of the sewer below me, revealed by a clotted grate.

I could feel the sweat on my back every time the brush of wind was had against it. My ribs vibrated with the sensation of freezing, becoming iced over. My mind is constantly clouded with a dense fog of confusion and spite. I have a secret. And the most honest days I live are the most painful, and like a dog, I've learned to be dishonest to protect the self. An emotionally caustic sleuth, weaving in and out of pressing engagements in order to avoid real emotional contact. There is no way of convincing me, there is no way of converting me. I can never love someone when most of my energy is focused in this half suicidal tangent maneuver, where my chest churns a guttural pile of misadjusted, directionless self hatred.

My heart aches. The past shall remain past. My abuses cloaked, but ever so present.

I hope there is room for one more skeleton in your closet.

W.

Malevolence is benevolent. Theft bargains the economy of societal disease. Continuous machination of the angered God within me. I don’t have to give my fist a name. Bones break, for namesake to outlast. Forced isometric measures, engage paradox. Little baby slugs pounded relentlessly down into new form. Fashioning a new fuel on the backs of the carbonized dead. Prick vein, stick needle, poke through, on cross, en guard. I hate this heritage of heretics. So sleepy from the mass, I drink coffee with milk from a golden calf just to pick me up. Just in the nick of time, the mark made, the pit dug for the Korean degree, miss missy ‘excists’ for the sake of the list. I make money poorly and I spend it like I am dying, so I might as well be. I hold your little wax figure of me to the spotlight. Just like you, I melt so steadfast into the palm. Do as I say, naught as I do.

You dare forget? I forfeit the matches to the pyromaniac because I was voted too stupid to fight my fires. Devolve and deform. From ashes to lashes, from last to be first, undo the good book. Taciturn and plotting, the parts shed and become amorphous. Coalescence of spit in mid air caught on a finely woven fabric of denial. The influence of the dead confluence, behold the weak in spirit, let the blind judge preside. From parts of the past, a surgeon born into light. He wounds himself and repairs the cut. The air itself breathes suicide. Paint the face and staple the skin shut. Make up and clock in, a job done by dirty deeds for hard ons with blood money, but pray that the presidents don’t asphyxiate themselves on the rush of their life. Our focus lost, our reversal, our time and our places shared, are now nothing.

Am I talking to a mute girl? Or am I talking to a televised impersonation of the girl, with the television on mute? Am I talking to a Polaroid of a painting of a girl without a name? She still has a name to me, but I’ll be damned if she ever tells me. Love is like buckshot into a dense mob of life; consume beyond prejudice, you’ll always strike something. The beauty of backstabbing, the wondrous world of abject ignorance is had with my heart. The cultures cultivate, the romance romanticizes, the lipstick smears on so many jackets, I’d have my hell made to find the one that used to fit me.

My wallet eats the bills it holds. Consummate the post-traumatic. I don’t trust this system. I’m going to end and rewrite my life tonight. Beg for me to stay, and I’ll find a more destructive way of leaving. The modal path undone. Nothing more subversive than treating me like an idiot, chant with the columns, a dumbfounded pill crushing machine. Love is like a hole in the back of the head, let the brain fall out. With the same scissors forged to cut gaps in skin, I prepare a dainty fetish paper tiger. You want to be in on me or me in you or me on you? I count crows, because that’s how your eyes got so wise. Mutuality assured through the darkest times we’ve had. Take me down with you and drink lots of water, I don’t go easy. Underlined, mined out, forgiven, regretful. You don’t know what you’ve lost until it lies to you.

A swaggering, swing dancing cult, born with tap shoes, to dance the death waltz....my god is in the factory, the sly little cheat that keeps me from my reason being. I can't measure the gap in your little synapses, but the teeth bear through. Show me the mark left on your neck. Show me the mark you gave. Show me the blood that bruises so fast, show me everything you’ve hidden. Easily clouded vision is worthless and sentimental. I unceremoniously cast all the things you gave me into the dumpster out back, and now they're gone. All your loveletters, all the photographs, the collages, the little insignificant, temporal little mementos that were shared, all toted away. I erased all the mail you sent, the conversations, the files we’ve shared, I removed everything that binds me. I feel like your kid again, but you don't touch me anymore. I’m gonna get myself bit so you can suck the venom out, because I’d risk my life to see you act like you care, and I’d also hope that the venom was potent enough to make you puke.

THE NONREAL UNHAPPY DISLOCATION OF MISINTERPRETATION…

I'm the ideological foolhardy, a dumb mule trying so hard to play ox. Infinitesimal increments towards an impossible goal, love kicks to the throat. I got the rocks off the garden, and I picked you these flowers. I love you, he loves you not. I prayed for backwards gravity, the core sick of sucking the surface, now dejected towards the central point of the universe. Your eye glistens with fake tears, either eyedrops or crushed onions to force the moisture. Conflict ceases, and peace forms in a funereal emotive contract. Grinding oxygen down to bitter scraps. Thumb-in-mouth, eyes shut. Mind reels downward in a cast adjacent to its environment. I kiss the edges goodbye and let the gravity pull me apart.

Gray iron trees fade into the distance. Back so whipped and carved apart, it's like a saddle for my calamity reign. Off to the new nude edge, off to the new mushroom cloud, off with his head. You want blood? I light myself on fire, with words, I feed my anger. Drunk on anything drank; I’m peeling my skin off like wrapping on a present, tonight. I wove this noose for the neck, off the chair, I kick the dummy. You’re the grease for the cogs, I lick the sweat from your brow, a cold, tingling sensation. My tongue wraps around the socket, sopping up cosmetic and I vomit. I pound an infertile concoction of sweat and piss, turn the sun off and let them sleep in the dark.

Cover your cough, this is champagne surgery. Photographic wetnurse for the new age death effect. The human body is recyclable. The father figure sits trembling at the edge of the bed, head in hands, fingers through his hair. The mother figure lays spread upon the riled bed sheets, legs sore, saliva forms a slight glue to keep the dangling cigarette attached to the lower lip. Breathe, suffer, reconstruct. I don’t want you to have a bone to pick; I wasn’t the one who made my clay so fictile. My heart is agile and stupid, eager to jump the candles for love, but too foolish to know that they must be lit before anyone cares. So I am out of luck, and they say that life goes on, and to be honest, I couldn’t really see a good future with the pieces I’ve got now. Does a coal miner love the coal he mines, even when he has no house to warm? What is warmth if it is had alone? I can surely keep myself warm, I can keep the mind busy, I can keep the body active, but the tending of an as of yet unmentioned garden…it cannot replace the old. Kill your dog and buy a book about dogs.

Every single thing that I consider ties me down. Every face I see is a series of fractions taken off your original portion. A beauty base, a personal base, where the flaws in you become the worldly human flaws, and everything that no one else has is their extra shortcomings. I can’t ask you to follow my math, and if I could, I’d rather carry you. Sometimes I wish I lived near an ocean, one that I could drown myself in. I could get caught in the current, and disappear, I’d be labeled off as a missing person, they’d be a vigil or something, then all would be forgotten. Come back ten years later, ask some questions, prod to find a girl crying, cut to commercial, come back, close up. It’d be nice to be nothing; it’s so torturous being this little thing. Call it what you want.

THIS IS MY LAZY ATTEMPT AT LIFE…AND I HATE THE LIVING FOR LEAVING ME DEAD. Love isn’t deadly, the dead are lovely. I halved one finger for every time I knew you, right through the nail, I sent the saw. We must say goodbye sometime, I wish I had known you once before. I put the fingers to my neck; I draw the trigger that is my thumb. I place my little placard on the wall. Neptune shines his trident, no for seas; he made the mud in which I sleep. Something vulgar this way comes. Come here, and here and here, and here and here, show me your teeth so I can hear you flex. Think strong thoughts and the weakness presides, a mutiny of minute parts, show me a sign. Stupid little moments of your weakness, I am melanoma.

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I trimmed the hell out of this page, and stocked everything into a massive new archive.

I strike the morning bell at night, because in my dreams, I wake up with you. In so many small, insignificant ways, I’ve hung myself, because of this. Is the tether responsible for the taught bind, or is it simply a matrix of strings woven and knotted to a perfect alignment? Imagine your wrists bound to the ceiling, while a constant whirlpool sucks your legs to the spinning rotor, every day your ligaments stretch and contort, giving another inch towards the fray. Soon, while seconds last decades, the gust of water runs red. There is no perfect entropy in any form, outside the derangement of the human mind. No set balance, nothing perfected, everything gives at a certain point. Sheer chance produces the broken man, the man who believes in a single consistent element, the fundamentalist believer with no true compassion or human nature within him. Convolution is purity, confusion is grace, justice within the unjust action is a formalized informality of prayer.

To say that all machines will malfunction is a close attempt at justifying chaos, but for the machines that were programmed to malfunction. Today, in this surely vincible colony of ill-acquired land, the nature of rebellion is shifting. The majority will relentlessly cause the actuality of insecurity and the names of the outcast to be continuously inconsistent. The willfully rebellious, however, have no organization to speak of. Only an organized rebellion, within the oppressing organization itself, can cause an upheaval. Otherwise, they will become demonized and stripped of their titles as human beings. This case has been proven time and time again, through the fall of Rome, to the Cuban rebellion, through the Holocaust and onwards, and it is approaching its climax in our generation.

An organization built on oppression will always use the end to justify the means. An organized rebellion will always use their means to justify the end.

Asking if the revolution will be televised is paradoxical in it’s nature, as the revolution is television. The revolution is the internet; it’s in every media conglomerate. Taking turns throwing stones at the downtrodden, thinking each strike will break a bone, soon they will have built him a castle. A series of repeated punches below the belt will me easily misconstrued as a sexual favor. Machines take over the work, the commoner is forbidden from society, and anger burns holes in the fabric. The anger that creates freedom, that creates change and, consequently, happiness. The inhuman formula that fashions the gestalt ranks in armament can be forever shifted by the elimination of the proletariat. All machines need tending, and even if machines are made to repair others, I guide you back to a previous gesture: All machines malfunction, but for those that were programmed to do so. The value of the corporations above us is entrusted in the hands of the beaten, spat upon man.

When all the bolts are done being fastened, the wrench will be melted down to become a gun. When all the bullets have been shot, the gun will be melted down to become a dagger. When the last of the bourgeoisie lies dead in the unrelenting beams of the sunlight, the dagger will be melted down once more, to form a flagpole. The stained red linens that the tyrant wore will become the flag of the new nation.

So shameful that so many of today’s would-be able bodies are impassive, weak, foolish and easily conquered. So led on by their pop idols that they’ve been dragged lamely until their faces are all scuffed the same, leaving the same biological trace behind them. A wrathful clawing of blood and gravel, each shard of glass carving into their flesh like a meathook through a dried steer. Such apathy, such barren minds. So heartfed and complacent, vulgar, common, simple, easy to fix, easy to break. The standard of living in the youth culture is pathetic, but somehow, it’s sadly fitting.

So the culture is without culture. The rebellion is conforming. The anger is sedated. I see no reason to continue study, as stones still are stiff, water still courses the rivers. So long as these faulty abortions of the human product exist, there will be no change. Only massive, debilitating strikes will conjure any emotion in them. Peace promotes laziness, solitude, unhappiness, idleness of thought, poor productivity and greed. War denies all such traits. The time has come to exterminate with extreme prejudice. The war will begin with the discharge of a single bullet.

Let’s drop the hammer.

MAKE WAR NOT LOVE.

W.

Does it matter? You didn’t mean it. It was pity. You’re ashamed of me. I’m just a dead dog you’ve got to walk. Help me end it, and my death will be your reward. Maybe it’s not you. Maybe it’s me. I put the gun to my head in my own little way, and everyone I’ve ever known has got their finger on the trigger. Some lovely young sapling I photographed in the dregs of my life has returned to advice me on my suffering, and in doing so, I was led into the Promised Land, and kicked out the instant my calisthenics jumped. I stick my tongue into the heart to sop up the remainder. I shudder to think that it was you who did this to me. Why play the temptress? Why do this? Your cruelty makes my broken-glass suicide hasten.

I’m all dumbed down, hated, betrayed, and caught up in a violent acid urine rush, my magma puke begotten. Hunger, dissatisfaction, anger. Handless and useless, combing the ruins for shreds of the wrathful fabric. Sisyphus Chernobyl heart, growling, defeat procreation. Here comes the big pin-down, where all the ill-conceived sheets of white-cell tissue are pasted upon the face of untrust. If you're going to use an adverb, have a verb, likewise, if you're going to have a pronoun, have a noun. What data is to be had? I eat the facts with double caliber sugar and jump the quantum gap to paralysis. I’m not going to threaten anything. I’m so woozy and I shout numbers in my sleep, like it’s a nightmare and a wet dream, rolled into one psychotic frenzied fantasy clad in skinless torsos. They say that I’ll just become a statistic if I die, but who’s to say that I’m not one if I continue to live? So romantic, it is.

Maybe it’s me who is unstable. Maybe it’s me who is to be feared and downcast.

Someone spat bleach into the pilot's goblet. I guess I'll have to bring the hammer down myself. Spit up stomach staples, puke up unwanted clusters of cancerous fat, binge, purge, binge purge. A clout to the ribs, spit up and strip. Never said no, never said never, let me walk all over your clean carpet with these muddy boots. Let me fuck up the masterpiece that you stole from me. You can play pussynotes all my life, and I won’t lift a finger to pleasure you. You’re a no-good peacenik, and I’m the wargorgon.

And I don't want you to tell the cops that I found the gun in your bed, because it wasn't me that put it there. Surely the math has been done for you now; surely you've understood the whole purpose of this. Wrangling the lying mouth into a fit of unknowing, kill facts and ideals so easily. Cast down, believe what you want. Inside those who locked me out.

ANGER INVECTIVE//WRATHFUL INVENTION//MALEVOLENT INTENTIONS

Bled on pink frills, shallow rape victim, run/hide/blame. Uncontrollable pregnant spite spitter, an overloading slavemind. Punish me.

If you cut the legs off a dog, it will weigh less. Frantic blame matrix, guilty archival of incoherent thoughts, heartless and uncouth. Punch out the smiling mouth, hit the lights. Oil of vitriol unleashed into the orchestra pit, this wedding is over. Your pronouns compound and we still play these little burial games out back, with shovels and a no-legged dog. I'm a gun toting faggot parade. I kill different parts of myself just to make me feel better about the rest. Now I'm here to make the world a lot prettier. I'm the scab too many are afraid to pick. Here's your chance. Here's a screwdriver.

I'm cold, I'm left, I'm lost...

And for the first time, I hold death in my own hands. Here I am.

HYST.RICAL FL.XING PAROXYSM

New shots. Chessna, [link] , aided me by taking quite a few of them. She’s a doll, in the most literal of ways. So, thanks goes out to her. And visit her site.

Onward.

Hey, you're uncouth.

Be my sick sugar sucker, not a hot vat of spits spat into my tall top hat. I trip, tip, slip and fall, slide slow against the white warblers' wall. Pick me, lick me, stick me, kick me-sic em'! I'm plain, tetra-planar, and spatial; I'm plain, pain slept, unkept brain damage leapt. Hot, not meat. I hadn't meant it until I shouted it; it's got clout, to kill doubt. I'm the acid parade, a cascade, the floats bloated by big bullet votes to the throat of throats. Piece me apart and tear me back together, forever, I’d never. I’m a trapped gasp of December, snow snuffed ember to remember. I’m a colder shoulder beauty beholder, slept through September, I smolder.

Hey, you're untruth.

Procreation sensation, I’m an over-the-counterpart, a sore-thumb pharmer without testimonial, touch tangible unsuitable temper tantrums, temperature revolution. Kiss like leukemia, result makes braindeath a chemical atony. Anger boils thinning blood, I’m stuck like a gouge. Sweat pours from the nose down the chin, flies breed in me, begotten the spontaneous generation. Now the bullets have found rest in pushing the world one more revolution behind solution, while I am still trapped in an unsolving fit of spite and unknowingness. Confusion, dear john, I’m a choleric choler, kept chorea. Pointless infinite droll of ill heard sounds, the repetend of martial crunches

I shout body language in a desperate cry for death. I bet I can eat more ash than you! I’m stupid and without direction, just a lost heat seeking rocket in a world of cold bodies. I wish I had found the subliminal messages before they made me into this.

Hysterical flexing paroxysm hypnoid sleepless suicide, kept alive for profitable dividends. Hypertrophy. Touch my ignition. I’m a simple needing facsimile, something more than two-faced, icosahedrons jealous of my repertoire. Unnoteriety, you’d be fine with another burial attack. Can I show you the shovel? Idiomorphic, no shape, no term, no place in this bleached planet. I’m the not-society, based on lines, limbs, limn, limmer liirophe. Unlimited activation of war. Unreal mouthfeel, an unhappy breather. New blood You wanted white blood cells? Here’s the exit wound status. I’m in the towers that fell, I’m in the plane that crashed, and I’m in the unleashed correlation of conflict. Neurological thought rapist, a still-new-unborn abortion of in conception. Keep your sadism out of my schism. A nervous cancer nevus, drink me and light me up, I’m the nicotine neutron. She’s the opalescent innocent. Operational disorder. I’m the operant peep show, a weak acid that spews bile to defend the teeth pixels. You want defense? I’ll shoot myself to grease your pistons. Lucky Mickey, ground zero, cloud nine.

IGNIS FATUUS. I pledge eternal cyanide. Strip down with me to bones. I bury myself. Neckless. Kick me directionless into the zero. Crunched the numbers. I’m the meat more muscular. Hypertrophy. Round of applause ammunition. I made a gun with my fingers. You’re the one with the bullets. Suck.

Pin you on your back. You’re like a moth.
Push your head down. You’re like a nail.
Ignore your howling. You are the wolf who cried boy.

I; WRATHMORPHIC [LAY MISÉRABLE]

Wheels spin into pure hypnosis. I defy the ambulatory. A resting place for a ground tooth. I can’t believe what you say to me, but I’m glad you’re nothing important. I suck the venom from the bite, another strike gone forgotten. I’m the meat you love to eat; I’m the drink you love to swallow. You want to suck dirt? I’ll lap up the blood that collects at your feet. Conscripted by razor radiowaves, shredding all existence into perfect space. I devolve into a Godkind. I made me the master, the mercury drunk mad hatter. If you want to expose your love to such radioactive acceptance, you must shift your shapes. Be nothing like this and the ether will collide. Coincidentally, the third wheel never gets the grease. I’m here to embrace hystery, with the hysterectomy. Put the gun to the temple, put the gun to the courthouse, break the rules I made for you to make. So smoke it up, so drink it down, and I can strike you about the gut until you cough it up.

Bring me your gluttonous, your weak, your ignorant. Bring me your feeble, your indecisive, your vain. Bring me your greedy, your drunkards, your junkies. Bring me your liars, your thieves, your cardsharps. Bring me your fools. Play God with me.

Waveform angrily existing. Unrelenting pulsar shifts, the vectorscape forever switched. My brain spits spite and physical matter is created from nonexistent materiel. You want filth? I craft the obscene, putting sharp kinks in the form of unwant. I play foolish mindgames to appease the drunkard in you, my magic puncture pencil, how I get my head on so straight. I put my hard boot down; snap the frail brittle tail of the mutt trying so feverishly to escape me. I drink until I’m drunk, I eat until I explode, I kill myself until I’m happy. My misery is the cancer that you let it be. I feel the concrete buckle with malevolence, the gunshots that I craft by mental test cards echo through the halls of this hell I call home. I hope you huff that glue, the ether of your pending regret. I’ve got welding burns. Incapacitated by relentless movement. Behold no Gods, revere no love, and worship no idols. Anger; the essence sophomoric.. Formless, shapeless, endless. A gas that seeps through all mental gates and cages, a liquid that is absorbed into all emotional and mental fabric, a solid that boasts weights beyond obsidian. I want only one thing, right now; I want to beat my teeth loose from their gums. I want to feel wrath overtake me, I want to prove that I am more than bones and flesh, that I am will.

NYSTAGMUS OBDURATE.

An entanglement of nerves and flesh. Stricken fibrosis, tissues shred, welts form and blisters rupture. New skin bends over the old. Unidentifiable clusters of flesh locked into place beneath the skin, unknowable abscesses of hardened cells, subcalluses collecting and wandering through the flesh. A relentless knot of twitching chords. Refusal of decomposition. New life exposed to this harsh radioactive assault. Tranquillized, sedated anger. Misery collects like soot, I; THE MEPHISTOPHILIC. Decompression sickness. Pain subjective, name epitaph, Fuelblood. An aimless, furious eruption of directionless, unmeasurable movement. Expansion; Withdrawal. Out; In. Piercing soft loam. Graves have been dug before. Some more temporal than others. The fingers harden. Nerves fray. Every movement is debilitating, atrophying, inconceivable. Mesmerized by unrelenting realm of blindness. Black reborn. Imutable sickness. The bell rings, and for the first time in so many years, the pupils contract.

I have become so cruel and divisive. Stick the needles in me. I hate the craving, therefore I consume nothing. Make me into the fist. Pull the plug and let me breathe manually. Submit to the warship. Pieces of me floating in space, an unchained army of militant embalmation. I hear the gunfire. I tug the strings of economy, and the plot suddenly gets thinner.

Flex with me.
Show this photon what it means to be lightbound.
Show this fire what it means to be ashen.
Show this world what it means to play behemoth.

What people are willing to do to survive is incredible.
What people are willing to do to kill is even more incredible.

I; Wrathmorphic.

MWNL.

W.

That's not all there is to see. I've archived two massive caches of past works. Don't think of them as old, but think of them as pending history. Or pending evidence. Your call.