I’ve started uploading a video project from a few years back on my Vimeo account… more to come…
The Human Verb
June 23, 2009
Tome of a Heretofore Unknown Personage
April 20, 2009Tome of a Heretofore Unknown Personage – by Bardolph, Baronis and Telling.
I began this review long ago in a completely different vein, a more commonplace and recognized style of ‘review’, yet my mercurial temperament got the better of me and I decided to throw those virtual letters to the virtual wind and begin again. Yet even still, as I now re-read and leaf through this Tome of a Heretofore Unknown Personage, I’m very tempted to make specific note of many, many sections of verse… however, I realize that would be a disservice to the author… a bastardization of the medium, a cheapening of his hard work. This is something he created for people to read, to experience themselves, not something to have the magic and secrets greedily sucked out of and marginalized by over-anxious commentators such as myself. I do not want to kill the excitement and/or the mystery of the novel. It reveals itself to you at its own, very deliberate pace as it is read; it was written a certain way after all – and that way only becomes clear when experienced within the meticulously constructed context of the whole. So forgive my new found tendency to be very general when I speak of this work. I’ll focus the following observations of mine around general themes and the “essence” of the work.
Read the rest of this entry »
Verbal Unravel
March 23, 2009Verbal Unravel : (a timed, ten minute free-association exercise in exorcism)
Antiseptic spittle has been sprayed into my eyes from the mouths of pretentious preachers bellowing on high. Standing behind an alter inside a larger alter resting on the largest alter we’ve yet to encounter. Be forewarned before you worry about being warned:
Our team of expertly conjoined twins will collect and categorize the evidence against you… so in the unlikely event that cabin pressure is lost just give in and die. Roll over into a bed that is all pins and needles disguised as pens and needless pencils, but as comfortable as pillowy down; dead animals stuffed into synthetic shells for your pleasure, for you to fuck your girlfriends, boyfriends, mistresses, wives and lovers on top of, for you to shed your dead skin all over like a blanket for your blankets, to keep them unmade unwrapped and undone like water on your brain.
All these dogs follow me around because I stink of meat, they want a bone, some blood to drink, maybe a chew-toy shaped like a backwards god. To appease their masters they sit and shake and concertedly convulse. Panting and pleading with dogged enthusiasm for unknown pleasures like ghosts covered in hair and stink.
Asinine alliterations all along:
Maddeningly mediocre memories muddle my mind throughout the monosyllabic monoliths: motionless but menacingly
In all shapes sizes colors and desires
Begging for fantasy beginnings but prostitute perfume permeates every proscenium I pass through…
Treble and bass as my body is the mid-range, everything passes through and is divulged in shrieking echoes all around you.
And so it goes, but when does it seemingly stop spinning on its side, flopping like an out-of-water fish… It needs the liquid to live, water as air, dirt as heir, eventually decomposition into the chemicals of life and the collapse of perfunctory strife. Cyclical beginning and endings and middles out of nowhere that are suddenly now here and made aware.
In other news:
I made a silly para-gaffe in my collegiate thesis by not setting this pair of graphs into a separate paragraph, in desire to correct my past transgressions of scholarly formatting I have set them out below, I do hope all my past professors have somehow managed to find this page and can henceforth rest assured that I’m not as absent-minded as they once assumed:
With that done, let’s move on to the grandeur of grander things…
Linguistic lovers unite!
February 2, 2009Save The Words Is a fantastic website which has been set up to help conserve the English language.
You can ‘adopt’ a word and pledge to, at least semi-frequently, use that word, to cultivate it and never present affictitious definitions of it, but rather to ejurate the slanderously false definitions others assert of said word(s) and to personally campaign to profess the true and unique meaning of said word(s) to as many sources as you can.
Writers, lecturers and any volgivagant logophiles unite and please help to preserve our sometimes obscure and beautiful language.
Affictitious:
Artificial, counterfeit, fake
Ejurate:
To renounce
Volgivagant:
Pertaining to the common people
New Year’s Leavings
December 31, 2008Around again, familiar faces (of my own) staring vacant and soulless.
Insulted by self inflicted insubordination, semantic irrationalities; malignant, yet spry.
Insert date and time.
a simple tribute to abuse
November 20, 2008Go grab a free ten track collection of remixes
HERE:
http://www.filesavr.com/istandalone-asimpletributetoabuse
It contains some great mixes by people like:
Five Star Reject
[ http://www.myspace.com/fivestarreject ]
Circle 6
[ http://www.circlesixmusic.com ]
[ http://www.myspace.com/circle6 ]
Rise of the Automaton
[ http://mindviz.com/riseoftheautomaton ]
[ http://www.myspace.com/riseoftheautomaton ]
Jo(h)n Bersuch
[ ]
[ http://www.myspace.com/forceyield ]
George W. Bush
And me
[ this website! ]
Numerous false tragedies
November 17, 2008Numerous false tragedies (which always manage to last longer and remain more powerful than the true ones to him) line the shelves which surround him…
(’Yes!’ I shout in tongues, spitting and heaving)
He is just as dead and stiff as the inanimate tomes he drowns himself inside, buried in a premature tomb of words and ideas which so simply devastate his own. Paper and ink, bound together with twine and some glue – spines constructed of dead trees which still cast a long, straight shadow. Armies of stiff colorful bibles emblazoned with immortal names and titles that effortlessly evoke enviable ideals, ideas, dreams and nightmares sewn out of reason. Tales which breed desperate self-flagellations; tortures manifested in the spirit of dispelling the artistic demons of eternally repeating eons. His (my) back sweats relentlessly from the physical exertion required of a rhythmic whipping, a bodily fluid running rivers of salt into each fresh wound, a sting, then a prayer.
The forced attrition for your digital sins.
But why the desire to burn? The reading conjures such colorful emotions and the pain of knowledge (or rather the pain of acknowledgment of knowledge) forces the hand. Turning the keys and opening doors which have been nailed shut by years of insubstantial substance. As if the small, deceptively corporeal actions you partake in sublimate the lack of real movement in your life. Pixels or pages, televisions or trees. Your eyes burn, your back aches, your wrists are trained into a typing position, that ‘pointer’ finger, that trigger finger on your right hand is used more for mouse clicks than anything else. It all amounts to reading, or writing or thinking or organizing, but more and more very little doing. Doing in a physical sense, as in you get winded when you climb the stairs to your apartment. Life is simply a constant and accelerated atrophy now. Tingling limbs that fall asleep far too fast from tepid circulation, ambitions lost, devalued and exchanged for relaxation and respite. You’re all used up before you even think about starting, working, sitting, rotting away. The world keeps turning and you remain static, a fuzzy, warm pile of apathy and hypocrisy. Outside of yourself but still so exclusive and shut-off.
Where did that take us?
Happy Birthday
October 20, 2008“The thousand loves which have crucified me… and still bigger worms in my heart…”
Arthur Rimbaud 1854-1891
Oh… my…
October 15, 2008The absolute oddest/scariest/funniest Palin Parody I’ve seen yet:
http://digg.com/odd_stuff/Disturbing_hilarious_video_La_Pequena_Sarah_Palin
Egress
October 6, 2008Your wars make soldiers slaves
Forcing children to fight straight to their graves…
But we’re worth more than our chains and we’re breaking away…
mutatis mutandis
September 2, 2008I’ll be traveling all week and I’m going to try and do random photographic updates via my phone while I’m on the ‘road’ to keep myself entertained…
Then when I get back I’ll be moving, packing, stressing, etc.
Saying goodbye to my current home
I’ve gotten used to my little office space, so many little rituals built up inside here, but hopefully my new location will feel comfortable soon enough.
momentarily on my mind
July 31, 2008An unlicensed doctor performs an unsanitary operation
(the abortion of a magician)
Or…
It tastes like I’m carrying around a plague of dead rats in my mouth
(Open with legs spread, tools at the ready, hovering above the mystery; gaping open and sickly inviting)
The schizophrenic Surrealists are sword swallowing alone…. A full-scale war rages within their mouths; bleeding from the corners; spitting up the copper; sucking down the petrol; defecating perfectly formed fears. A distraught and feverish phenomenon, burning oil paint as an incantation to the artists of the past, drinking down the rain as it seeps from the open blue wound above.
An operatic dismemberment of our dissonant lives, a passive acceptance of war crimes. Soaking a long-suffering soul in scotch. A senseless pickling done for sensible reasons.
A year in a day and today rings in my ears, silly sounds that bend and tear. Where would Paine’s finger rest in today’s American fever-dreams? On a pen or on a trigger? On the veins of beating hearts filled up with nothing?
You say you want to keep at it, but you’ve got to go… well, that’s another way and that’s another world. Within that world is an endless game of sickening charades: Still not enough to make me cum. Still not enough to make me care. Still not enough to make me love. Still not enough to touch this heart.
It looses its charm once it becomes real. The ravings of a saint who is rational, sane and real. Just a couple of drinks and tell me who you are, who you really, really are. Just a couple of drinks and I’m playing god.
(End with bloody operating table)
AFTERBIRTH
All the ink runs from its pen leaving empty words – hollow hunks of fool’s gold.
Did I forget or have I never known? Show me mine and I’ll show you yours.
I always have to lie to lay with you. Shadow contemporaries moving glacier slow – marriage with heart-attack – sleep where wine flows.
No time to think, what name comes to mind? Who slides through your lips? Soft, silent, bleeding whispers, sent so slowly through the throat – mise en abyme –
Things are never what they seem, decisive hearts exist only in dreams.
The fool is hurt, the fool is hurt and what’s worse, he revisits his pain.
I want to break our love, break this town – push my life 6 feet underground…
Stone among stones I say goodbye.
Time to show what you’re capable of – no more compassion for pretty talk.
It’s all just a show…
July 3, 2008
La Vita Nuova -
Due to the celebration of our ersatz independence in this lovely country of mine, there will be two, that’s right TWO first Friday openings this month in the Crossroads. Tomorrow, July 4th will mark the initial birthing of my show, however next Friday as well, July the 11th will continue the sordid nativity.
Complications will follow throughout the rest of the month.
At the red-light Gallery.
Details:
Return to Babylon
June 6, 2008A trailer I cut for Alex Monty Canawati’s newest film, Return to Babylon.
A fantastic celebration of the silent film era and a tragic-comic and beautiful catalog of its faces, talent and almost endless debaucheries.
A fantastic cast which includes Maria Conchita Alonso, Laura Harring, Tippi Hedren, Debi Mazar, Ione Skye, Jennifer Tilly and many others portray the royalty of cinema during Hollywood’s legendary golden age.
Drugs, orgies, egos, demons and murders… the stuff legends are made of.
I Stand Alone
April 28, 2008
I Stand Alone
Enharmonic Intervals -o1-
A goodbye to a few laborious chapters in my life.
An incantation to purge the (sometimes poisonously distilled) spirits of my past.
A collection of songs which span from 1997 through 2007
Newly remastered (honestly, most of these have just now been mastered for the first time!) by me in 2008; these are what I consider to be the definitive versions of these songs.
These noises have been living, almost exclusively, inside my head for a long, long time now and I’m eager to finally get rid of them for good. I’ve cleared space for new sounds, new textures and fresh ideas… however I am proud of my past and do not wish it to be purposely lost or discarded. I’m done with these songs, but now they’re out there for anyone else who wants them.
All the songs in this collection are protected under a Creative Commons license:
So that means, share and share alike. You can sample the living shit out of these songs, you can use them in your work (whatever that work may be), you can even distribute copies to anyone you want for free. The operative word here is FREE. As long as you’re not charging people or selling a product with these songs they are yours to do with as you wish. Just be ethical and give credit where credit is due, eh?
This also marks the first time I’ve ever attempted to put a price on any of my music and sell it.. it is confusing to say the least. However, if you would like to (monetarily) support my work and my art, the album is available now at the following online shops, but Amazon is recommended, as it is brings with it the cheapest price and the highest sonic fidelity.
second, let’s just say… 
iTunes U.S.
iTunes Australia/N.Z.
iTunes Canada
iTunes UK/European Union
iTunes Japan
Rhapsody
eMusic
Amazon MP3
Lala
or download a free Apple Lossless version here
Enjoy.
I knew this would make sense eventually; slightly revised…
April 7, 2008
Just the silhouette.
Grace of form, a body, a shadow thrown against light. Subtle yet violent movements that betray everything you thought you knew. A world hidden away inside of every gesture, a world continuously new and frightening. A world of illusions, composed of dust, where love and chaos form new words of fetish that few are eager ever to speak… let alone live.
Prose floating along on the streams of sunlight, beaming through the cracks perforating the wall. A place unchained from the contempt forced by the fidelity of unjust resolutions. A protest inside a skull, all marching, screaming and blood.
A revolution against accepted aesthetic form. A plague of ideals and emotions unsullied by avarice. Controlled creation still fully confused, pure and free. Naive to the dispositions of commerce, apathetic and uninterested as to their modus operandi. This grace can be tamed, broken, saddled and rode into the darkest woods of the sons of man. Opening the doors of useless protections along the way, baring the rooms and halls within as empty; facile as broken strings.
It was a parade, a farce, an imperial march in step with a funeral lamentation. One must ask; “is our worst lie simply to assume our fate is only to suffer?” We deserve to arrive at this question armed with a thousand different bibles, a million different chains (locked and anxious to perform) and one open mind. It bears repeating; just one mind, open, malleable… thirsty to force into the world the only true parameters of art: honesty, divorce, and revolt. The songs of slaves echoed through a barren and dead land, covered in the salt pouring from our wounds. The wounds of discovery, of our ancestors, of our crimes. If this is only for you (it isn’t), I’ll be candid: That salt is sweet, that salt is all life and all joy crushed together under the intense heat of pure desire, the fire of many open hearts begging to witness a sea of hands reaching absentmindedly towards a cracked and bleeding sky. Oblivion of intelligence, the death of freedom and alleviation. The merciless religion of ambivalence. Swallowing up whole lives, moment by moment, word by word… compromise by compromise.
Nonchalant suicides bred of boredom… slow pressure insanity.
We do indeed all carry the same fears, desires, obsessions, etc. We all just have different tricks to ignore, placate or destroy. Then that certainly leaves lucidity, alone on the pedestal upon which only it was created to sit. No compromise, no lies, no masks, no souls. Ignore the contrived grandiloquence of those disgusting charlatans; desperately parading their fear of death. Creating idols out of their need for explanation and definition. Upholding that arcane fraud nailed to their filthy cross of control. Let us run across the muddy backs of angels, forever dropped to their knees and begging forgiveness over something called “sin”. A hard shield and a sharp sword. A belief that there is something which is right, just and controlled. Some kind of point to all the pain. A desire to believe that right and wrong even exists. That there can be justification for the poverty of our actions and someone who can forgive them. Someone who has the answers to what they believe are the questions. Thinly veiled egotistical fantasies of eternal life. A ridiculously narcissistic delusion that I’ll live on… I’ll get to see all of my loved ones again. Mental masturbation on a fantastic scale.
It is just a show. Hollow slides throwing up a blindingly white square onto the wall. We walk into the light and what appears inside the wash of negative space, begging to be filled with something disguised as whatever one will choose to believe represents a simple truth, one which is pleasing and comfortable? Only the shapes we create. Only what we choose to let live, breathe and grow. Yourself, not another.
Not what you can claim, allege… imitate.
Only honesty.
Throw morality away as a fool’s errand, ethics are what matter. Ethics, the way you act, the why, the reason, the TRUTH. You never prostitute yourself… you never impudently plagiarize and pass yourself off as something you are not. You never steal something from a friend. These are the simple rules, the part you just do not understand. The reason you are not, and never will be, an artist.
So fare well in your bulimic mediocrity.
Blind, in the infant’s head of uncertainty; all fear and misconstrued ambitions.
Plainly: It’s not what you do… it’s how you do it.
Decisions then must be fatal… a blade of truth to slit the wrists of the globe.
Grace of form, a body, a shadow thrown against light.
Subtle yet violent truths.
Not real;
Just the silhouette.
Manufacturing Consent
March 6, 2008Degradation is the enemy of intensities, endless, delirious and pitiless pursuer of honest passions.
You must only concern yourself with your own head, writing what you hear, what you believe, what you know to be true even if it is a lie. Block out the world, block out the opinions of the people who suffer their insecurities upon you. This whole world is designed to drag you down and every rat in it just wants to be on top of the sinking ship.
Sit in front of that blank paper, that throbbing screen, sit around waiting for answers. Is this pain or is this love?
Also:
~A night when the emotional energy needed to do much of anything was too much to muster, I became maudlin:
We are all going to die. Is that supposed to be sad? Because I’m certainly having trouble seeing it that way. With so much to live for, I still find my self ambivalent, apathetic towards our inevitable, total destruction as a species. How long do we have, until our greed and our hatred reaches the point of pushing our buttons for atomic explosions? I’ve said it before and I’ll definitely say it again; we deserve it. It is no coincidence that I used the word inevitable because no matter what, we can’t stop it, we cannot stop ourselves. A runaway train; a confused giant lumbering around in a wounded frenzy, destroying everything underfoot in the interim. We want everything our own way and are unwilling to compromise with other people completely. Sure, we pretend to be tolerant and caring and respectful, but when it comes down to it, when it comes to the people who are truly in power it comes down to ridiculous inventions of their own; money, invisible lines marked out on maps, objects and books you pray with, the color of our skin. It’s all so distasteful and sordid, so pathetic… but absolutely true nonetheless. So our conflicting ideas about god, about civil liberties, about hairstyles and human rights will be the collective finger pushing the button engraved with the word annihilation.
Our human nature will undo all of humanity. ‘Destined to lose’ is a phrase that comes to mind.
Yet still, artists don’t give in to despair. We must never give ourselves up to abstract ghosts of future sufferings. We must focus and wring out every drop of life from this filthy rag before it is washed clean. Seeing beyond the apparent disgusting horror in the bleeding tumor is what makes us serious doctors. Surgeons with tools that should not be sterilized before use. So let’s operate on this dying patient, we cannot save it, but who knows, we might learn something worthwhile.
Bah— purge coming…
A short history of decay
February 12, 2008Silence for a spell;
on the other side of the country for a change, warm winds, thin drinks and calloused fingers.
“In the midst of winter, I found within me, an invincible summer”
moving images from my past
February 9, 2008Woman (2003):
[
and
Pull All the White Strings (From Your Trashy Heart) (2000):
More old shorts soon?
Chemicals and guns
February 8, 2008The news will break your heart -
Love is just a silly ego-ghost
A luxury for the insane amongst us…
Every drink I take tastes like you, the false prophets, the shallow few.
The woman of the night, that phantom shining violent-bright
She’ll suck you dumb and never let you cum .
So easy to recall how it all begins,
the knots your heart gets tied up in
See…
January 24, 2008You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you. ~Ray Bradbury
Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. ~George Orwell Read the rest of this entry »
I will not allow myself to be destroyed
January 15, 2008Today, a new act debuts.
No longer a tragedy.
Enharmonic Interval (deceptive cadence)
January 8, 2008*Author’s note ~ This is a random excerpt from a currently in progress novel.
… Don’t look for the pain in my heart, my suffering is crystal clear and worn on my face. All you need to know of hatred and grand failure can be read through my eyes. I have transgressed and I am eager to atone. I’ve lived a greedy, selfish life; always demanding more, always wanting what I didn’t have – trivializing and insulting anything real which I might have been fortunate enough to actually hold in my filthy hands. I’ve lived professing a love for beauty, yet continually killing and denying it in actual practice. I squander what I have while others starve. Realizing in private that, deep down inside, when I’m truly honest, there’s nothing honest about me at all. I can’t even be honest with myself. The fog, the confusion, the distraction of myself blinds all my attempts at understanding how I feel-what I need and what I should do. What is right, what is wrong… what do I love, what do I hate? Honestly, I cannot tell.
All I have is want; “THIS” , this very second and perhaps not at all the next. I never know if anything that happens is real. I never know if what I’m doing is true. As if I’m paralyzed, yes I move, talk, act, fuck, shit, breathe… but I’m immobile and atrophied inside. I’m a sad and contemptible excuse for a man. I’m horribly poisonous and I’ll ruin your life. A creature of vice and artifice. A sham nigger. A ridiculously antiquated joke which has run its bloody course, wearing out its welcome long, long ago.
I feel everything, acute, sharp edges which dig into my heart. Yet I feel nothing at all. I’m pathetic. A distortion, an aberration, a disease… and I’ve eagerly , gleefully infected so many innocents throughout my life.
Yet a heart may grow too hardened. A mind as sick as mine can evolve to the point of wishing for nothing more than a bullet to break through its skull and bring with it a brain whose only thoughts will be oblivion. A mind can demand that the lies truly end. My mind fights an endless, foolish war, an eternal war of internal genocide. Just senseless chaos and mania. All feigning sacrifice, all jumbled lies and affectations which taint every syllable sliding around my tongue.
And my heart refuses to pity me. Even for just a second… no, no I’m cursed to remember. I ostensibly remember everything and all attempts to destroy those memories have been in vain. My mind desperately clings to them… stirring up my fears greedily. Tenaciously demanding that I live in constant knowledge of my self-inflicted pain.
Miniature deaths
January 6, 2008Here is my small red mouth, filled with lies to spit at you.
Here is my long dead heart, filled with fears to torture you.
Libido Sciendi
January 2, 2008EDIT: there is a new updated version of this here: http://surrealistgesture.com/2008/08/08/a-peek-at-the-most-recent-draft-prologue-and-first-chapter-again/
I present to my readers the prologue and partial first chapter of the novel I’m currently wrestling with. Be aware: This is very much still a work in progress and almost certainly subject to very definite and far-reaching changes. For your consideration: Read the rest of this entry »
Where are we?
December 31, 2007The death of an actor (sad or pathetic clown?)
Prop my bones up in a cage and push it out onto the stage.
Place a top-hat atop my pile of skin and pontificate about my dreary end.
Feed my meat to the starving priests who only got one little boy last week.
Communion wafers fill the seats… watching and waiting for tongues with which to meet
My audience is ferociously deceased and not afraid to laugh in between syncopated beats.
Every final line repeatedly spoken through exquisite whines and cries.
A prison full of holocausts and criminals absolved of their crimes.
And herein lies the rub. Herein lies it all.
Stub your cigarette out on the horse’s ankle; the one that violent, red conquistador is riding in your dream.
The apes of god will eat the plump and juicy grubs dancing through our hair. The apes of god will pick our heads clean. So please, proselytize to the paralyzed amongst you. Grab every cripple by their withered limbs and dance on top of them while inventing medicines sworn to cure their life-long ailments.
One of many Beatrice’s in one of many infernos…
Ferdinand enveloped in his night, Barbusse’s nameless narrator peering through his crack.
Allusions to literary metaphor.
Silent, scarlet picking though this grand new year, an optimistic premise promised with sickening cheer. So please, pull up a chair and take a stand for all grand intentions. List your resolutions then kindly re-arrange them. Departmentalize your wicked wonton ways, tell me all about yourself but spend the most time on the things you hate. Pull out all your inefficacious and ridiculous disguises; put on a simple act but perform it with abandon. Put your heart and your soul into the fire. Burn your thoughts before you think them, burn them up and take their stink in. But also, please help to convince me that I’ve not quite dried up; started to whither and wilt away, sinking into dust, the ground, any biological unbecoming that proves I’ve built and retained nothing. The pacific coast out there glitters like a sea of bitter diamonds, you’ll gladly cut yourself to shreds attempting to swim through it… yet we limply sit along its banks as it laps at our backs and only damply disappoints them.
Oh, this tragic search for the infinite…
A new year begins. So what have we done and where exactly are we going? What have we done and where are our allegiances. Will we stop running through the night, naked and vomiting? When can we stop pretending and simply live the way we want to? If action is desired then action must be taken, led as a lamb to slaughter to purify us heathens.
Run for your life
December 22, 2007Your mind is a skeleton key which can open any cage.
So, who’s still trapped?
defunct dandies
December 19, 2007An artistic invalid leading an ascetic legion of anti-theists into the apocalypse!
Shuffling through these insulting myths… stubbing our toes on effortless, broken lives.
That familiar poverty of the heart and the mind.
Troche humaine?
Troche humaine!
I’m so tired of the endless charade. Sick and fucking tired of the curse that is memory. These goddamned nails rattling around in my head, skewering grey matter and rusting while resting on my moist lobes, remind me how inefficacious insults have been. Every drink I take tastes like everything I’ve ever thought of, or wanted to think about. I will wrap myself in semantic drivel to keep myself warm. I will begrudgingly trudge onward… but end up going nowhere. How difficult must it be to LIVE by the philosophies which you invent, subscribe to like magazines you’ll only ever leaf through while defecating. A sad circle of compromise and banality. But what of it? What of it all?
Point, counter-point.
We must cut all unnecessary activities from our daily lives like the sour tumors they are.
the minimalist’s approach to even less than very little substance
December 17, 2007coma slip (goodbye)
December 12, 2007I want to be flames and chaos.
Cities leaping out of my mouth disguised as consonants and vowels. VERBS
A religious deception of grand ideals, a limitless dilapidation of liberation.
Complete and coupled, dogs in heat, cock stuck inside; all swollen and red.
A ringing in my ears with nothing on my fingers. I stand up and wait to sit back down. I slink, I crawl, I jump and fall… children’s rhymes – rhythms of differing kinds. A jumbled fucking mess weighing down on my chest.
I have to stop. Demons drive.
ambitious, yet ultimately superfluous
December 11, 2007Surprise!
The homo-sapiens feel like rape again.
I shake my own hand and scratch out letters on the page, symbols… myth, mystery and metaphor for misanthropic malcontents. I need a way to say ‘POWER’… a way to remind people how useful and important they can be if they try. I need a way to remind people that they should be writing their own bibles, everyday. Then tear them to shreds the very next day when they pen their new collection of laws. A determination is sorely needed… a conviction and a faith for faith in the future of human evolution.
Words are weapons which may be made razor sharp, able to gut even the toughest pigs.
Post script:
The ice age is coming.
27. la vita nuova
December 6, 2007
And so this will be my decisive act. I choose and simultaneously the world will cover its ears to escape the sounds of my certainty. I’m spinning and sick all over, yet for the first time I feel whole. My only faith is in the absence of everything I thought mattered, everything I attempted to pacify myself with. Subtle, as if that sense of under-evolved pollution taints my tongue now. Before; holiness and pollution not yet differentiated, now; razor sharp lines my toes brilliantly bleed over. Once again I fumble with the grip of the gun, once again I am reminded of the ugliest language. If the problem is yes then the answer is no. From this point on, let it be clear, everything I’ve thought, written, or cared for has now been thrown away. One valiant and powerful motion that erases an entire life. Annuls an entire existence of convictions. Capture every image, fill every frame… I used to be so naïve. That’s when life will stick its knives into your back. You have been deceived.
All your little plans. Pulling everything now, in absolute desperation, out of my tired little bag of tricks. All style over substance. I demand a fresh and unfamiliar world. White and cold, and bright as snow. A rousing disguise full of hope. Falling forever with every kiss, the silence of god above our screaming fists. But inevitably everything will drop away just like it always does, exposing all of us for what we are. Our thoughts and our ethics; punctured and spilling away. I used to feel, I used to bleed… I used to be something other than what you can see. (an inability to externalize) I used to think, I used to fear… that I was nothing and would always be.
So what did I lose and what have I seen that’s changed everything? Here I am again… spinning, sick, vomit and death. Words torture me at every step, every time I fall they seem to be present. Every slight falter; semantic insanity. Words like ticks. Letters like leeches. Parasitical paragraphs…
Please, don’t talk to me about better things. I’ve exposed that lie as the lonely and afraid man’s attempt to hide. How did I get here and where will I go? Does it even matter? Does it even matter if it matters? DISTRACTIONS! Stop believing and I’ll stop too. I promise. I need a new disease to latch my fears onto, this one has run its course and I fear… I fear as I fumble with the grip of the gun. I fear the sounds of the ugliest language. I fear the smell, the taste, the temperature. The biology, the reality.
So stale, so obvious, so ridiculously authentic.
I fear… no, I won’t give you the satisfaction.
Half starts stalled midway through, works in progress… things to do. ACTION IS NEEDED. The melodies of beauty which rattle through this defective head. I need all these little deaths; use them to build up to my own. ob(li)vious… the shadows hurt, the sky compliments my rage. I ran away but I cannot escape. I need to scrape away appearances and look at things as they truly are. My soul is a crippled little pile of junk. I want my lungs to fill up with snow. Discipline: focused and razor sharp;
I want the world to bleed when
it brushes up against me.
26. medium
December 5, 2007
Do I have anything at all to say besides the scrapings I collect from this well, destructively soured with hallucinogens? Does my right hand write with a limp? Is there a defect, a retardation which won’t allow a certain word or idea to be formed through a specific set of movements? Am I too stuffy with preoccupation? Or am I just tired of beating this dead horse? I have after all, written endlessly about what I perceive to be the “important” issues in this life, I like to think that’s all I write. Have I just finally realized it does NOTHING but waste my time (and the time of whomever is unfortunate enough to spend reading it)? So why do I even bother? Why do I feel the need to continually comment, retort, speak against, argue, refuse to accept? Because… I know, I know how ugly it can be, I know what it is capable of. And if people like me stop using their voices only the false voices will find their way into all ears. Read the rest of this entry »
25. just remember
December 4, 2007Just remember; what you feel will only kill you.
I want a snake to crawl inside my belly, eat up my insides and direct the course of my flesh through the rest of this play. Lucidity and lethargy.
Lethal injections of reality.
24. realization (provided by the previous desperate act)
December 3, 2007I am an imbecile. Read the rest of this entry »
23. a desperate act
December 3, 2007There’s a hair stuck in the back of my throat. After the first few weeks I was scared to death it would never dislodge, never go away… now I just accept it. We fool ourselves into believing in the idea of purity. There’s no such thing, there’s no such thing. Read the rest of this entry »
22. today
November 30, 2007
Today was one of those days. It occupied my thoughts for every minute. It came as a surprise. When you find yourself consumed, it starts to reveal an aggrandized, veritable self. Read the rest of this entry »
Villiers-le-Bel Manifesto For Youth Revolutionaries
November 29, 2007To all my fellow Surrealists, by freely admitted title or not: labels are ineffectual and useless when staring down the barrel of a rifle. So then, to re-start with all pretensions and assumptions aside: every ear (even the stone-deaf) in Villiers-le-Bel , comrades, artists, humans, REVOLUTIONARIES… Read the rest of this entry »
21. superficial supermen, artificial souls worn thin
November 29, 2007If I were to blow my own horn it would sound like an air-raid siren warning me of my impending doom. However I shouldn’t be so foolish as to thrust my assumptions upon such a methodically faked life. I would not be so brash as to disregard your explanations, so by the same token I hope you take it upon yourselves to make no assumptions on my behalf. The title of this collection is indeed a noun and not a verb. The clear lines of language will show us this truth from now until the end of all things. Read the rest of this entry »
20. another log in the fire
November 29, 2007
Please excuse this overwhelming urge to paint personal worlds of ego and compulsion. Sick and obsessive, sticky and forever. Strung up like christmas lights around the necks of every innocent little girl. Shadows that are deeper than the real thing, and darkening all the time. Read the rest of this entry »
19. jaundiced and chilled
November 28, 2007
It’s cold in here and my stomach burns from hunger. I have a sick feeling, I think drawn from emotion, that permits me to take a weak form of poetic license. I pretend I’m working only so I can pretend you interrupt me. Ridiculous. I lie to you, I lie to myself… what’s the difference, I feel the same either way. Read the rest of this entry »
a SURREALIST questionnaire
November 27, 2007a SURREALIST questionnaire
Name: Jonathan Douglas Duran
Party Affiliation: Independent as a hog on ice! (Voltairian Surrealist) “I’d never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me as a member.”
Links to you online: voltairiansurrealist@gmail.com
1. Who are you? Not you, for sure…
2. At what age were you born? Some men are born posthumously.
3. Describe what the future sounds like, bleeding out of a speaker. Dissonance. Cars, televisions and sound waves of pure cancer – oozing as open sores. Gunshots and drumbeats… indistinguishable from one another.
4. Which month has all the days crossed off on a calendar you will never see? No one reads the papers around here, pal.
5. The virgin mary’s favorite television show is: Hookers at the point. Real Sex (all of them, the whore!)
6. If Jesus Christ (assuming the worm existed) came back today the first thing he would do would be: Vomit the compassion right out of his heart.
7. Two of the conditions surrounding the inception of god were: Giddy superstitions given ridiculously ersatz validity by scared and angry old men afraid to acknowledge their animal ancestry that dangled between their puritanical thighs.
8. The blood of others will be: Red with embarrassment.
9. The most violent shape is: North America
10. The most beautiful sound is: Wounds healing
11. To choose the right verb you must: Let it choose you.
12. What sort of hope do you place in love? The hope to momentarily displace some senseless pain.
13. How do you picture the passage from the idea of love to the reality of loving? Much as the idea of defecation to the actual reality of the smell of feces.
14. Would you, willingly or unwillingly, sacrifice your freedom for love? Have you ever done so? Yes. No. No. no. No. Yes. Well, maybe, sometimes though I…
15. Do you believe in the victory of love’s glory over the sordidness of life, or in the victory of the sordidness over love’s glory? SORDIDNESS. I envy that word.
16. Addition or subtraction? Addition can be subtraction and vice versa when utilized correctly.
17. The opposite of art is: Slavery.
18. Surrealism is: Complete freedom of the mind.
19. Rebellion is: Necessary and unavoidable. It is right under your skin, behind your eyes and throbbing through your fingertips.
20. Freedom is: Surrealism. (see above)
21. Your personal manifesto in one sentence: All power to the imagination.
22. Where can people find you? In the last place they’ll look for me.
23. The precise formula for dignity is: Two parts intelligence and four parts bleeding fists.
24. (association) Woman: nigger, menstruation face/glow.
25. Pages yellow, skin ____fever___________
26. Your hymn to the night, please: Ever present, enclosing, enveloping, unending grace and spite. Both sides of the worthless coin spread across the sky, represents the night. (but there is always a way you can light up the sky)
27. The great victim is: The human verb
28. The great evil is: Anything which diminishes, deigns to devalue or attempts to trivialize any individual’s imagination.
29. Please create your own question and provide an “answer” here:
List your top three reasons for wanting to fuck JESUS CHRIST:
1. Those wash-board-abs, mmmmm…mmmm, good!
2. Wine.
Anytime.
3. Wash-board abs!!!!!!
beaten
November 26, 2007
I definitely have some pent-up aggression issues! Read the rest of this entry »
18. i choose
November 26, 2007
Do you believe in an aesthetic sense? That everything is placed and perceived by us out of a perfect and beautiful necessity? Read the rest of this entry »
17. here I am
November 26, 2007
I had a dream that you dreamt I died. Same images all the time; burning flesh – falling sky – silhouettes of empty high rise. Nicotine stains swing triple time, everyone is everything all the time.
LOVE (Version 2.0 – open source)
November 21, 2007Dark times my friend, confusion reigns at home and abroad (a sad truth no matter where you live). Everything is a bit old and rotten, even perfect innocence one day oozes out a thick black oil of vitriol straight from its very heart. Then you have to put it down like a rabid dog. Shotgun to the brains and then the silence of release. A slow, painful trickle of complete loss. You have to be able to look this death in the eye without flinching, you have to stand tall and vibrant against this increasingly dull and soggy world. We are comrades. We must write about love. We must lead by example. proselytize our agitprop of apropos absolutes. The love of everything all at once, screaming, bleeding, fucking, passionate love of love. Life is worth love. We must stalk this elusive lion and pull the thorn from its distorted paw which has been piercing it for far too long. Substance and purity have been leaking out around the wound, causing a dilution. Love is the true liberation, without it there is no Surrealism. Without Surrealism there is no one to fight on the front lines for love. Take bullets and punches, have our guts removed by bayonets soaked in paint sold to us for far too high a price. The days are meaner and more vicious to the human verb by the minute, the skies more poisoned, our food more vulgar and plastic. We continue to slink away, afraid of recognizing our increasing dehumanization, our increasingly devalued minds, emotions and desires. We’ve been manipulated like poor, dirty puppets, all gnat infested potato sacks and old, rusted buttons. We must soak these trappings in our genocide-supporting petroleum and set the match of love to ourselves in order to purify our lost selves. Only when we truly let go of the meaningless fodder; the world they’ve invented, interpreted to us and addicted us to, will we start to use our eyes for the first time (all three of them). A flower, a woman, a man, a child, a mind, an anything, EVERYTHING even the worst of ourselves can be enriched, supported, created, fulfilled and convinced by, and with, love. Please throw away all trite, grandiose pre-conceived notions about the futility of “love” and its complete lack of conviction and/or power. Love is not a limp, static word which sits, impatiently upon the lips of teenagers who stand precariously on the brink of their awkward hormones. It is real, it is a power of unbelievable force and it is not fragile or banal. When known, it is more destructive than the atom bomb. It is the force of a million explosions, sitting ready, buzzing and coursing through every cell in your body. It is the bomb shelter of the soul and the ultimate weapon of freedom simultaneously. It is that moment, while reading a book, when you have a moment of understanding, of great learning – and suddenly a whole other part of your brain lights up and functions in a new way that you never imagined it would. It is a drug of potent addictive qualities. You taste it and it only increasing your hunger, driving you to the point of insatiable dependence upon those brilliant, bright colored flashes of peace and understanding. A silence after a hum…
(Think about this, and contribute your own paragraph in this space)
So we must stand up and shout, yes. Not only shout, but we must believe our convictions. We can only harness the limitless potential if we truly carry the faith and remain honest in our brilliant insanity. A hundred different choirs singing a thousand different songs. Dissonant, perhaps, yet deeply, richly textured with beauty, with creation, with art. Love. We have no choice but to understand, to bend and be loyal servants to the tip of our swords.
You have my support and I appreciate yours, please send people my way if you desire, I will never turn them away, I have an open door and bread under my roof which they can chew and get stuck to the roofs of their mouths.
15. not all of paradise is lost
November 21, 2007A hard, heavy pit in my stomach. Filled with cancer, with fears, with thoughts. Filled with that familiar lie of compromise. Sitting as heavy and inert as a boulder. Our bodies, meat, bone, fluid, muscle, etc. Ostensibly playing out this act of living. They lead us around, passing our gasses and filling them back up again. The science, the truth behind our bodies, how biology refuses to let loose of our hands. Leading us into our inevitable death.
To live is to feel, to die is to make good on that promise. Read the rest of this entry »
14. that won’t help
November 20, 2007Let’s pretend, just for a moment, it was a hot and balmy summer day. Right in the middle of one of those weeks when you’ve tried everything to break the hold of the persistently brutal heat. We had been swimming, seen a movie (air-conditioned), sat in the shade with the ice in front of the fan, everything… and still the clamp the heat had on us. Stifling, weighing on our porcelain shoulders like another layer of skin, thick as steel and matted down like sticky fur. We took off all of our clothes, no escape. We sat naked, wet and slimy like large newborns wallowing in their afterbirth. I got up, opened the refrigerator and stood at the foot of the door. Pathetic; barely cold enough to keep the milk from turning.
Let’s pretend together what happened next, that heat, the inescapable discomfort.
Vomitous death of temperature.
Vomitous death of memory.
13. the ambiguous shape and arrangements of the words on this page.
November 20, 2007
The family of wolves,
The family of snakes.
A large yacht, christened the “Oyster Yellow”. A brownish sky filled with viole(n)t voices from a foggy past.
Undecipherable, yet precise.
Parallel to the idea of death,
soft and wide as shadows.
Take back your book of lies, take back your poisoned skies (I never asked you for anything). A hasty formation of knowledge in rhythm with that liquor that pumps through your veins. I still have my father’s heart. A great blinding son, a question of responsibility that seems impossible to distinguish from an overhead silence broken like a child’s favorite toy. A collective fight, a will to power. The accepted construction of deplorable aspirations. A fever drenched in sweat and urine. Forever just a bolt of lightning with no preceding thunder. A sky split open, large and gray, by a burst of electricity, the splinters of science.
The ambiguous words crawl on for hours, in complete disregard of their simplicity. They hold my hand and my mind in contempt.
Meanwhile the ambiguous crab sprawls across my floor, belly laughing like a secret superimposed over an infant.
p.s., I wrote about you today.
12. the loss of dreams
November 19, 2007In my sleep I wrote a small novel, chapter by chapter with a great ferocity. The words and story were very specific, very complex, yet the work flowed effortless from my pen. Read the rest of this entry »
11. viva la muerte
November 16, 2007Don’t expect anything from anyone, ever. Don’t believe in altruism, only lust, only want, only self-preservation. The human animal: the human disease. Flights of enormous fancy that fall from your mouth like teeth, spill off your tongue like wine. Simplicity simplified. A contradiction shopping at a thrift store. Becoming a hand me down, a used piece of kitsch. Perhaps the Surrealist object. Nothing ever really defines itself in large, bold, and broad brushstrokes which illuminate the night. A colorless form, a ghost of glass and diamonds. An obscure repentance of sin. Vice controls/vice consumes. Bury all your art in the garden, plow and till, ignore and fool. But DO NOT slip into self deception, into compromise. It strips all the words right off your spine. The poetry on the page: a joke in spite of control, in favor of contempt. Read the rest of this entry »
10. The human verb
November 15, 2007Woken up too early and continuing my dreaming.
A vicious feasting – carrion impulses, a straining and collapsing, a frightening point, a sharpening of views, so strained and so forceful, a straight-laced disciple.
But nothing’s of significance, nothing is necessary, pictures are fallacies, moments of treachery, drawing on our smiles, the faking of everything, time will come when time’s undone, hide ourselves, shit of our souls, decomposing bags of bone.
And you’re so welcome, and so faithful, so perfect, and so fucking everything. Empty bottles strike out broken prose while painting on a certain majesty, notes taken underground, I play the guillotine. Poetry pulled from banality.
9. if there is something
November 15, 2007
If there is something inside you, you should be able to find a way to extract it, to remove and distort it. Separate it from its base and use it for devices previously not thought of and not designed for it. I’m speaking of course not only on the meditative qualities of personal Id, or of self-effecting intellect solely for intellect’s sake. The most formulaic and pre-determined notions can and somehow must evolve into a creature/movement of great predatory power and function. Predatory not in an exactly physically destructive sense, the material world is far too ridiculous in its excesses for something as prurient and level as (at this point) un-bridled brain synapses: our basic biology. Read the rest of this entry »
8. woman
November 13, 2007I want to run from you. I’m so tempted to use you. To subvert you. To crawl inside your head and shake the dust from the shelves. I feel a weakness in myself when we make eye-contact. I feel unsure, confused. I’ve no idea where I’m going but I want to string you along as I decipher the signs. I want to please the flesh. Confuse and obfuscate the senses. The drugs don’t work anymore. I need to throw everything off the track and pretend to focus. I love to teach as I fuck. Read the rest of this entry »
Where are my goddamned questionnaires?
November 12, 2007You know who you are!
Please put your monkey backs into it, I’m getting bored.
7. poetic relapse
November 12, 2007
To become yourself again. What can nurture this natural disaster? Do you need to tear every old, yellowed and brittle frame down to see the pictures in a new way, with new eyes? What of consequence,
what of method? Read the rest of this entry »
6. the return of ghosts
November 9, 2007
The deficiency, I want to be CLEAR with someone, have a true connection, but it is so difficult to condition yourself to be totally honest. There’s always the pretense: pride, shame, jealousy, love, hate… etc. Read the rest of this entry »
5. reshuffle\
November 8, 2007So I had to stand in line. Waiting for a check of all things. True, I took part. I was forced to. I’ve liberally bent over for the “dollar” on so many occasions throughout my life that I no longer count them as significant. I use the dirty god muscle of money only because, in this world, this façade they’ve built up, I could not survive without it. Everything is owned and rationed out for far too steep a price. It would be near impossible to live in this country without taking part in the dance. So we apply ourselves, languidly; up and upon our gods. Sodomized in our minds.
AUTHENTIC, REAL, IMPORTANT. Read the rest of this entry »
3. all power to the imagination.
November 7, 2007The seductive disease of these beautiful trees, it seems sometimes like paper, brittle and thin. Vulnerable to the point of disintegration, barely real enough to hold itself together for my benefit. Read the rest of this entry »
2. vicious as coitus
November 6, 2007I could finally hold my breath inside words… Spatial consequence, physical and obscenely tangible. The honey from a deadly nest. “Obliviously on he sails” – that’s what we call a quote. An idea, feeling or suggestion that we borrow from someone else to help validate something we personally think, feel, or suggest. Just one of the crutches we use; other people’s words, removed from the context of the whole. Supporting ourselves with our distortions. We faint and demand that the world faint with us. Read the rest of this entry »
I AM THE FIRE THAT FLARES UP AGAIN
November 5, 2007i am the fire that flares up again
selected writings by
jonathan duran
open me up and I’m re(a)d…
November 2, 2007Over the next week I will be putting the entirety (chapter by chapter) of my first book, I am the Fire That Flares Up Again, on this blog. So if you’d like to read it, please…
However, that being said, I will still be selling it here:
http://www.cafepress.com/consume.36415260
just in case anyone would like to own a physical, and extremely attractive, copy of it.
So, prepare yourselves; there will be a few pieces that you’ve seen before, some I’ve even posted on this blog already, but no worries, there is still plenty of it that will be new to all but a handful of readers.
a constant, non-broken stream of short
October 31, 2007last night
Last night, while I was just starting to converse with the dream world, I was suddenly awakened by a sharp scratching on my chest. Read the rest of this entry »
a moment, fleeting
October 31, 2007the nightmare of reason
He sat, staring into the void of the blackened television set. Read the rest of this entry »
A decent story
October 30, 2007justine with paper hands
There once was a girl named Justine and a boy named Joseph. They lived in a town named after the second day in the calendar week. They were young, impressionable and somewhat foolish. They used to joke that because of the name of their town, every day was a new week, or maybe even just the same day repeating endlessly. They had fantasies of independence from the constraints of this joke.
Often they went for walks down a certain street at a certain time, hand in hand. The street was hidden away from all the other streets, you had to follow a trail through the woods, you had to cross a stream and walk through a large field to arrive at it. Always though, the journey seemed worth it to those two. Read the rest of this entry »
An indecent story
October 30, 2007in a lonely place
I felt like it couldn’t end without a proper beginning.
Well, at the very least I can say it’s been interesting watching this inane semantic reality of ours fizzle out. Personal regrets? Many. I couldn’t look past the piss this world was printed on. The banality of days that are endlessly regurgitated by the sun and the moon, promising something new that never comes. I wanted to love (I assume), perhaps too little too late, but you’ve inspired me in the midst of this grim situation. You look so peaceful, inherently aesthetic… the crimson perfectly complimenting your eyes. I should have told you how I felt when you could still hear me, when you could still comprehend the words… attach meaning to them. Now that I’m here, at the very bottom, I realize how much time and how much effort was wasted. I will never see how much I could have done. Hindsight is 20/20. Read the rest of this entry »
Egress
October 29, 2007
The key stings the lock.
Over-stepping my bounds. Assuming too much. Lying to myself; completely out of touch. I need to fade away, I need to disappear. I’ve been reaching for years; still nowhere near.
There is reality in pain… a sadness in nature, a mystery that frightens me. I want the notes to hit themselves in perfect unison, open up a whole aural world, aesthetic and complete. I want the paint to spread and cover all the negative space on its own accord, I demand a perfect composition within the bounds of the frame it reports to.
Can the hand that strokes the keys on the calculator be the same hand that strokes the brush across the canvas? Can the hand that sends text messages over a cell-phone be the same hand that pens a novel? Do we even control our hands? Have they been hypnotized to complete an absurd and superfluous set of motions on cold, sterile and impersonal merchandise? Read the rest of this entry »
before fire, before the atom bomb, before disaster, before the days of god
October 26, 2007One quick snort and the pharmaceutical worm burrows deeper into my heart. White flashes and that sour, acidic slick slinks down my throat, coating it in a numb egress. Soon you’ll forget some of your worries, or, (and this is most preferable, most ideal) soon you’ll forget yourself for a while. You’ll drift off into an idiosyncratic and self-imposed mental limbo… all floating and wonder… all numb and beautiful in that disintegrating and self-destructive way. Nihilism and solipsism perfected, raised to the level of an art form. A disregard for better judgment and an effortlessly honed contempt for healthy and prolonged life. Good god, what fools, the ones who actually want, who actually desire to drag all this humiliation, discomfort and pain out. It deserves a mercy killing. Put it all out of its misery… cut the power and let the batteries drain… an evolution of our formerly mentioned egress in the form of biological execution. But slow motion… small amounts, it’s all so much more enjoyable for the flesh in the “meantime” that way. So much more cathartic. Voiding your bowels and nothing but grey matter pushed out in spurts. The diarrheic acuity equivalent to mad, fevered genius – a wounded frenzy.
another log in the fire
October 26, 2007Please excuse this overwhelming urge to paint personal worlds of ego and compulsion. Sick and obsessive, sticky and forever. Strung up like christmas lights around the necks of every innocent little girl. Shadows that are deeper than the real thing, and darkening all the time.
Another log in the fire, another time.
A unique and independent decision made by committee… and now, suddenly, outside the rain is really coming down. It rests on your neck and your lips, drinking you up completely, absorbing the parts of you you’ve tried to hide. Alcoholic flush, desire and want. And now, suddenly, I’m confused. Heavy and sweating; flesh keeping time. Songs will spill from my head for days… engage our organs like the bow across the string. Finish the book by the author with the phony name.
I had a dream that you dreamt I died. Same images all the time; burning flesh – falling sky – silhouettes of empty high rise. Nicotine stains swing triple time, everyone is everything all the time.
In the end you have nothing, in the end there is nothing, in the end you have nothing, in the end, in the end. In the end there is nothing to believe. You can breathe, you can fuck, you can choke, you can cum. Flesh is meat, bones are trees.
Pure death cackle, light streaming through a church window.
Two eyes above a bridge; a fierce glow, lamplight oil stains – damp mouthfuls, sewage and wine. A constant drip-feed, a perfect design.
Burnt paper, metal, string.
I’ve built a heart you’ll never see.
a Surrealist manifesto
October 25, 2007A Required Apathy?
Prologue:
This is a manifesto, make no mistake about it. A candid declaration of my own internal holocaust; intellectual, spiritual, social, and artistic. I have no delusions of grandeur (I will not allow my ego to carry me off into the vice of fanaticism) I do not wish to unjustly inflate the importance of the following document. These are simply my thoughts, some of my thoughts.
I will not apologize for the way I think, feel, or speak, because when I have to do that I have played right into the hands of those I most despise.
This country has run amok and is DEAD as we used to know it, we have ALL lost. We have allowed ourselves to be fooled and controlled while our lives and the world is bought and sold. Our ‘dollar bill’ is the only one true god, the only one true master which we must fear and believe in. Capitalism is our one true religion, our one true fate.
Disjointed, fragmented – overtly stream of consciousness. It might help if you think of every thing that’s written as a rhythm… one that reaches an extremely deep-rooted, fevered pitch… I assure you… This is not a pretension, this is not a web of lies I use to feel there’s a place where I belong. This is a simple and rational look at the facts:
