| driving seven down to nothing |
[May. 19th, 2006|11:34 pm] |
take off the bandage-
one step away from
unlit stairwell
but stillfumbling forward , best intentions to the facts
best attention to the remainder of the artifact
-Yes; links and line breaks |
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| always leaving one match unlit |
[Apr. 18th, 2006|01:45 am] |
a great amount of time,
more vacant than the others-
withholding truth in favor of truths,
eyes shining like marble
under the weight x
-thoughts are procreating at the speed of sound |
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| requiem for a sleepwalking menace |
[Feb. 26th, 2006|10:59 pm] |
yea, sure, i guess, dripping down his spine. possibiliy that this is nowhere; possibility that we cant see with our eyes, but actualy recogznize with our feet, a walk down memory lane, memory lane swallowed by the organic ocean. the ocean cannot freeze. salt.
cutting up pieces of eternity and sowing them together intoa blanket. music, music, music. no ceilings between sources, no pillows claiming to be the one and only, no rest until-
once again, a forget that never in the once was.
math like poetry
eyes like feet.
balanced on the overturned pages of blind regret, swept by daily confrontation into hazy seasick lifelong coma, (to be paid in monthly installments?)
one by one, who won?
the illusion of unforgiving suspicion. |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 20th, 2006|09:42 pm] |
more seriously affected, but not incapable of using my set
i am climbing trees, though, in search for open company
a sustained physical effort
one hour ten
himself
protect the k impressions after smoking constantly though also singing conciously
just a can of andy warhol to hold my money
but jeesus christ breathe lightly so as not to suffocateonhisown words
breathe heavily breathe heavily but when you run
speak softly
as i wake from this day of sleep
he predicted the past which was actually the future
but seriously things are a little bit out of control like a ripped up symphony being haphazardly glued together
but i guess it makes for a brand of burroughscutuppoetry |
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| i have to dream right now |
[Feb. 19th, 2006|04:14 am] |
its pretty funny how godamn obvious and seriously apparent our problematic tendencies are too us after we discover their solutions.
example:
if you have a small room, use the illusionism of painting to make it seem like its a bigger space
but seriously though, i think that art is dead sometimes, and not for the worse.
by dead i mean alive.
buy dead, i fell alive
hi god, i think ive died
thank god we tried.
who helped to create your personality? its fine to admit it these days. i always discuss with my friends my favorite records, books, whatever. not strictly or anything, you know, thats not all i ever think about, because art is not independent of life, arty and life art two coeexistents in spacemattertimethingy.
how ridiculous is everything? |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 29th, 2006|07:28 pm] |
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heres another one for the college resume: near death experience. |
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| talking another green scene for the collective book |
[Jan. 22nd, 2006|11:59 pm] |
top five albums of winter break 2005-2006
1. talking heads - stop making sense
2. animal collective - sung tongs
3. brian eno - another green world
2. the books - the lemon of pink
1. broken social scene - s/t (will forever define the movement from 05' into 06', a turbulent 04' sleepin restlessly and lucid dreaming in 05', to wakin up in 06') |
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| a song to remember things by |
[Jan. 21st, 2006|10:40 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | wait for me by the others | ] |
so anyways, life imitates art which imitated life as i fix up my pad to find theres an electronic organism in my hoouse, healthy with plenty of paintstains and musicscraps.
plans with harrison to make hip hop beats to sell to mcs to buy a treehouse on the moon..(haha)
always remember broken social scene... which has been the game for me recently...the dysfunctional function of natural (?) functions...so on and so on..."im in a fucked up band." damn straight just like that.
owen i cant stop listening to the track recorded, its veins reach all around my torso and up to my head, wait for me by the others, a reminder of everything i already knew, "you know," says narrator, who was mute but nevertheless generally understood, "whereever i am..."
no way out of your situation of conscious singing: sing like motherfucker. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 16th, 2006|11:46 pm] |
"the boy stood like a modernized eternity for a new equation, an updated question mark to fit like a glove with a world that wasnt necassarily built for his intellectual and intuitive intrigue. but despite his low chances, he lashed out against (though with the cooperation of) the intentions of his opposition (or his friend in combat, however you want to look at it)."
when he was done dreaming this story he looked back up at the portrait of the campbells soup can hanging in his basement closet.
black forest nightmares dont compare with the disagreement of a chestful of dead crowes, or, however, that old song went drifting by lazily on the edges of the recently frozen river. |
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| 'sartre never felt a day of despair in his whole life' |
[Jan. 15th, 2006|05:42 pm] |
you want me to keep on loving? frame a narrative then. go ahead, do it, i dare you. stop with the outright nihilist destruction, this is conciousness talking to other conciousness, that is, if we consider consciousness as it is, not a selfish claim of individuality but a filter for the five million little bits of inivisible crumbs flying around in that big gigantic everythinghead of ours.
its all gonna break.
this is the time to embrace positivity embrace negativity embrace the act of embracing embrace-al, the time to make up new words and form new sentences. tell a story? maybe. but most importantly, godamnit , do *something*.
this human race has been going on far to long to consider hope a useless freedom. hope itself is the vessel for all other freedoms.
fuck pride, fuck ego, fuck the rat race, fuck the president, the presidents wife, the presidents dog.
do you realize that the leader of iran is claiming that the holocaust is a myth??
dosomething! |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 14th, 2006|11:40 pm] |
a large amount of damaged umbrellas scattered throughout the city.
one holy moment to the next. |
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| thats what *i* said! |
[Jan. 14th, 2006|07:51 pm] |
oh, oh, oh
10,000 combined into one miniature sized representation of morning mealtime...wake up with no sleep accomplished and grab your shoes and gloves but forget the patriot act, only an afternoon snack for lack of sugarenergy (for best results mix with water)
saturday works best for the afternoons, we all know that, standard practice, standard practice.
infinite misery and final doom; metaphors no different than infinite love but why then choose the latter?
well i guess theanswerisyes (not rightwrong though)
but can you write as fast as i can? how productive one can be in gentle nurture of these 10,000 hands!
quantum mechanisms for the safety of the organism.
have'in's a base(ment something else)
welcome to the human race. we're a mess |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 13th, 2006|05:00 pm] |
the forget that never in the once was.
thanks, no thanks she said, 2 a.m. on a monday morning and no sleep oh well |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 12th, 2006|08:51 pm] |
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tangled bees unspoken in watering eyeholes fishing out the window of a frozen sofa straight out of alices wonderland, land wondering where the frozen sofa in time began. forest knuckles breath deep in tangled conversation, the conversion rate of a simple dionysian delight in its own musings. literary spies hold downthe wishing wells while we wait. well, dream, anyways. so hopeful that deaf ears do not offend the frontline attack planned for future arrival, but resolved anyways that this is really not a thing to be considered at all. |
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| turn into something |
[Jan. 12th, 2006|08:01 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | the collective of animal | ] |
the only childhood i remember was a a ring around the finger of a slightly twisted and altogether melancholic wandering political outcast. a line cast from yestersome to another song where dance and vision are both enlightened in a thick dish of soup lapped up by tommorow; namely: the cat. further, the progression becomes nicely sitting in storefront window christmas sales, to turn into something above the redemption of an unabashed serial killer.
ya devoid, ya emptiness, ya gasoline price 5 dollars per every nowhere nothing that we reach but its ok because none of that matters in the court of the blind king.
billboards to advertise the same nothing, yet how could it be? maybe andy warhol knows. im sick of mentioning andy warhol. but i guess this is proof i suppoose that i am not in any way responsible for these run down words that i soldier (sodder? soldier?) together on imagined pages for imagined audiences in an imagined existence, for new recipes of ear tongue sensation but really just a third rate freudian attempt at cheap willam burroughs psychology drivel, dribbling down my psychosisthroat out my anvil brain from the broken spine behind an undeveloped forest of human apathy.
who cares about caring about whom?
love and laughter and the apocalypse in 2012 |
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| all my friends are magazines |
[Jan. 11th, 2006|08:08 pm] |
so where do i go now? it has been revealed to me that america is completely full of shit, that boston is suffocating me, and that these drugs leave me with heavy eyes afterthefact. not sure what to do with art anymore (ps owen can you possibly take some pictures of that fucker to send to me?) not sure what to do with the lovely music or anything anymore really. please dont make me leave my bed, ive been to toronto and now im afraid to go outside.
(culture shock and a giant billboard of jessica simpson) |
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| ok, computer. (kid a, right?) |
[Dec. 28th, 2005|01:28 am] |
there seems to be an irony in the conception of fate as a condition of being human . the reliability of unreliability coupled with our nostalgia for past traditions and the eternal process of evolution of tradition ("values," "truths") makes for the past presentandfuture in a snowy dreamhowever, not serving to "god" but to the process itself. the process is whats beautiful, or whats been forced to be seen as beautiful, for somehow, we are not truly the host or guide of our own "individual fate," but are part of a strange organism of human existence, that propels itself off of its own being, meaning using the past, floating down a river present and future.
can you mix philosophy with poetry?
i think so?
words have no meaning..||
(nosweat off *my* back[its a game]..) |
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