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the more we acquire. the safer we feel. the more fear of loss.

the teeth and gnashing of youth turn to the eunuch's of the future. running around holding our balls.

and trails of blood follow in unbelievable vividness.

the king of drag queen mountain.

some mashed up tea leaves in the bottom of the porcelain cup. a one hundred dollar bill.

a wish for some more profound thought. to hold hostage the enjoyable day.

stay close, you worry me.

Jun. 6th, 2014






bear the teeth, howl out to the divine.

track the blood, speak to the wolves.

nothing & no one stands in the way.
sometimes i feel that my insides are nothing but a cavity and a slowly cooling pile of turd.

sincerely yours,


May. 10th, 2012

deep in the delta.

it seems strange in retrospect that songs could transport you from being twelve and riding a bus from the shores of your northern home sobbing to being seventeen again. to another and another the complex dna-like molecules and moments of life unfold in front of my eyes.

and i can't help wonder what life will be like once there is another in the long line of us, but from half of me. what will that be like? what will they encounter, and how frightening the idea is of them being dull or extraordinary.

because as the cotton sways and the moose yawp from atop barren wasteland, i still breath.

this air still moves, but as age comes and goes it changes. and being humans we long for what we remember, and forget that it should be 50/50.

the night is as interesting and lovely as the morning that we remember fondly after too many glasses of whatever it is you choose to help you dwell.

no longer as impressive, trendy or articulate.

so much time to occupy you get tired.

t-i-m-e. time. time fucking time.

and sometimes it's not so easy to go out there all guns blazing and intense.

what a strange place this is.

did i come from it?

and what am i supposed to do with it?

once the end comes the questions increase with vigor.

until then,

goodnight and good luck.
my, it is strange how things repeat themselves, huh?

Mar. 27th, 2011

the longer it gets,

the less it makes sense.

but the more i convince myself it does.

hell, it could very well be all part of the same plan, scam what-have you.

happy birthday to me.

we are very close to ending these phrases and nostalgia records.

what would vonnegut do?

(what is that beeeping in the hall?)

Dec. 29th, 2010

"There are your enemies, the Red Coats and the Tories. They are ours, or this night Molly Stark sleeps a widow!"
"if the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite. for man has closed himself up, till he sees all things through narrow chinks of his cavern."
I’m a Time Lord – I’m not a human being. I walk in eternity.

May. 25th, 2010

maybe this place has gone crazy outside my skin.

Apr. 26th, 2010

bankrupt bitter bones
that encircle my home
witches flock through tombs
fade to blue
what to do?
what to do?

its the perfect night
this life is mine
no grave to save
tonight we dine on life
absence scratching poles
in the skin folds
the films been exposed
and the world looked terrible
as we spoke
in smoke

face the desert land
hand in hand
clouds begin to form
open black lodge doors

power controls me
bending at the knees
speaking trees in need
this life could be ours

(living, your looking at death, living is much more diffucult, living and now knowing what the nights bringing, its much more difficult.)

"wretch well"

Apr. 26th, 2010

the owls are not what they seem friends.

take heed.
as much as i miss my home i feel its not worth missing.

when everything is the same as everything else.

give me the sea and the loudest amp you can build and i will make the ears bleed with truth.
the dismembered. the insane. they all dwell within the confines of my mind. or at least my memory. so go on and live the fucking lives you convinced yourself that were truth. the world is dying. and you died along time ago. before the final yelp.

what a sick fucking existance.

i've got too much hate in my bones. bleed it out.

"Eating the trash without strings in the middle of everywhere. The world is a tomb. Stacking bodies on top of buildings and vice versa. A child floating in womb dead as Kennedy. A mother picking fragments of herself, off the black tiles of a sad and burning hospital. He was going to be a leader."

convince yourself everything is ok. you live in a bubble. fuck you.
entombed are such those memories which haunt.

bring forth those which shall be most difficult, but alas rewarding.

break ties to all those things that hold you back.

and soar triumphantly among the clouds.

this is a yawp to hear across oceans and through lead lined walls.

do you hear it?

we are fucked.


magazine. non scannable item. 3.00$

if i didnt know better i would say that my insides were rotting.

metaphorically of course.

seems like its been a long time since i've written anything coherent, or not coherent.

maybe thats the problem.

the duke hasn't called in awhile;

seems to have gone awol.

it was all an abyss. like lightning the build up wasn't worth the payoff.

those greasy money grubbing hands that bask in dirty sunlight.

"this lamp seems much to large."


a foolish grin. these unsettling time bombs of nostalgia and depression.

where will they be found when im no longer above the mason-dixon?


must remain positive. look forward. this is life. right now. in an instant.

time to cognitively start grasping for it. instead of watching from the sidelines like a fucking spectator.

this isn't soccer afterall.

with all the hope, the letdowns and the muerte.

shouldn't we have gone for the rental insurance?
it's time to stop wallowing where the branches blow.

the dark in the dreams.

and looking forward to the future.

with mrs. right next to the big river, under the sycamore trees.

-the giant.
here's a little splotch of fact.

the recession. the financial system. money.

the fact that we are in impoverished doom.

this can all be solved by one thing.


no money exists. no federal reserve exists if we all just forget what money is.

a cruel abstraction of the greed filled mind.
when you lose the ones that pick up at 3 am...

what replaces them?
Punching that clock.
Finding solace in your hidden thoughts.
Taking orders from fucking fools.
Everything about it grinds down on you.
Just do what you gotta do to get where you wanna go.
Paychecks while you scheme.
Pledge no loyalty to anything but your dreams.

Stuck in a rut.
They'll give you just enough to keep your mouth shut.
Waste of talent. Daily degradation.
You better get moving kid, case time's a wastin'.
You got the power... but only if you know you do.
The path is dim and twisted but there's nothing stopping you.

Too many love songs.
Too many unanswered prayers.
Nobody is gonna save you cause nobody cares.
The years are raining down.
You gotta find your own way out.
less than 50.

and this book will be over.

once strange birds flock to haloed horizons.

Feb. 24th, 2009

this dot dash.

what a fucking cliff?
There are blue skies in my dreams
And laughter that seems unending
There are green grass fields there
And happiness and hope for tomorrow

My cup is full and my heart
Spills awkward and embarrasing blood
Onto white golden streets
And I am unashamed of the stains my steps leave

Tears stream down my cheeks
Only to meet their redeemer and be wiped away
And there is joy

i'm scared of the night for the first time.
The worlds got some plans for me
Courthouse, jails and factories
Black and whites on the street
For me for me

I see my place in american waste
Faced with choices I cant take
American waste american waste
On my own I see my fate
sometimes i feel like im absolutely fucking insane.

myjaw really hurts.

over and out.

Jan. 10th, 2009

fight the vikings.

Jan. 10th, 2009

what strange fucking birds reside upon the sides of walls. such strange birds squabble into little wooden shapes. ego's and id's. this infinite world bound by imaginary lines and decaying brick and plank.

just close enough to hear a whisper. wretch as they wave smoke into dry eyes.

there is light. true.

but as the manuscript says we must and only can we be far away from this madness. for albatross and wanton delivery might be a total waste.

complete rubbish. absolute bullshit.

victorian mindrot.

stave off young ones. the guiltless little joke is on you.

can you hear me? this gentle whisper is the flame.

over and out. dear dear me.

look at the time.
thats all i have to say.

two-thousand smelve.

for serious.

there are still dark shadows.

nothing that cant be conquered.

nothing that black.

a slight ringing in my ears.

and dried tears on sheets.

Dec. 23rd, 2008

this is your erect neon whale.

and even china town won't make it frown.

a bridge built of spoken werewolves.

breaking. necks.

a bridge built of inertia.


inertia built a bridge.

oh, maam.

better roll the tape.
life is such a weird fucking ride.

canned up textures creating moments in minds. awe inspiring power from the earth and fog covered windows in morning.

this god fellow.

magnified asps of light and this fickle mirror viewing myself by.


with a water shaped house.

Oct. 13th, 2008

wont someone stop these shaking walls?
In a foreign land
In a foreign time
Reaping time had come.

Sep. 3rd, 2008

"singing to a mousetrap."

main street is devoid of life. a sickened cancer has descended upon the brick and mortar, and gave way to the fast and cheap. concrete skyline filled with color corrected, company issued signs. a way of life? might say hardly lived.

single handed clapping. moving down the street, but not quite far enough in the right direction. these parallel lines have neon afterbirths.

what a nice growling lamp.

suit up kids. the next ten years may prove to be interesting.


Aug. 17th, 2008

wouldnt it be nice if life were more alive?

when seeing isnt what believing is.
I've come to realize there will be 9 to 5s for the rest of our lives, and that you'd expect us to believe it doesn't get any better than this. Well, it does. Maybe not for the ones in the warehouses and the cubicles who gave up, but for the ones who can look at you and tell you're no better than a fucking pig handing out traffic violations. We'll spend that forty hours working under that clipboad, under that seasonal review that somehow decides what we eat for dinner, where we live, and how we get to these nightmare conveyor belts. Don't shake our hands. This isn't family, and I'd spit in your face if there weren't bills to pay. Keep searching. Keep fucking searching. For our appreciation, for our respect, for our never ending devotion. And sooner or later you'll realize what we've known for years. We don't owe you shit. We are not you fucking friends. Not now, not fucking ever.
"A time is coming when men will go mad, and when they see someone who is not mad, they will attack him saying: ‘You are mad, you are not like us.’"

Jun. 22nd, 2008

"what a fvcking weirdo, huh?"
upward and onward.

like a fucking flying tree.

planes are overrated.


May. 14th, 2008

im getting old ///

and silly like a duck.

just watching the mills burn down. burned out buildings and empty factories. watching proud men and women beg at the hands of the elite and the apathetic. banging my head against a fucking wall over and over again.

can i help you?

wondering if grubby hands and managers are supposed to claw at your soul.

there are gleams of light. (thank you)

all the good ones die and or drop out. go away. get old. and im tired of the fucking race we run.

every town, every city built on the broken backs and broken dreams of the same.

when you try to tell yourself that you have it all figured out.

just screaming at a wall. bouncing your head off the wall. obey. consume.

obey. consume. lose all will to fight.

i just dont have the words anymore...

so i wont use mine.

only the madman is wise in a world of cold logical minds. i seed no shelter. i emerge unscathed. as propaganda rains down even harder i become that much stronger. i walk right through.


I promised myself I wouldn't lead you on. So here it is confused and flawed. As foolish as these words may seem. As foolish as I may be. See, I'm just a factory worker's son from a railroad town. And yeah, I can feel the steel mills rust. But Iìve been doing my time and I've been thinking about getting out. I'm running fast the other way down a narrow dead end road. I know this won't be the last time I sing "These dreams will be my anchor. These dreams will be the death of me." Through all this I've been feeling like I'm slowly burning out...nothing is all bad...nothing is quite right. So I kept inking and screaming from my room...the only way I know how to...I'm calling out to you. I'm calling out to you. Nerves wrapped tight around my spine. I'm past the point of caring what the rest of them think. They've got the fear. They're holding back. And this is for the go-for-broke common-muck few. And this marks the end of an era and the start of something better. What can we do when the war is all around? The veins are constricting the pressure is coming down. What can we do when the war is all around? The veins are constricting. The pressure is coming down. Everyone knows we're living in a world we just can't trust. Left in the wind to die in the dust...so we spoke up. Crazy, Ugly, Illegitimate...never again. We are the symptom. We are the torn in the side. They scream 'til it hurts. They can't sleep. I want to be one of them. We try. We bleed. Endless. Broken. White. Lines. And we don't care anymore. I don't give a fuck. 'Cause I'm one of them. Our rebel hearts will turn restless ghosts. They can never truly kill us and we will never truly die.
my mind is a swollen sea, and the fish swim toward the end.

i keep sneezing. every time this happens my eye vibrates with the utmost violence.

i don't understand people. i don't like the feeling that invades my mind sometimes.

fuck it.

(such a profound thought)

this is one long trip into a rainbow colored shit village.

but all i want to know is whose coming with me?

fuck it.
i am a fucking downer.

release the fucking bats already.
all over the place. swirling drones of blue still life, erupting plasma spasms of pink and white. crystalline are these dreams which bring men closer to undescribed.
liquid in silver resting pools. naked to skies above.

spirits. colossus. heavy, heavier and heaviest. the weights of massive synaptic tendencies controlling the computer. the input. the result.

to whom does this opera belong?

for the little pits of agony roam desperate hillsides looking for the american dream, desperate for anything that will reassure them that everything is ok, that they mean more than there existance deems.

little dead fishes floating belly-up in a shallow stream.


we are all lazy children.

(but you & i are fucking supernovas lying in wait for the next iceage.)))))

Jul. 27th, 2007

"...hate, hate your enemies
save, save your friends
find, find your place
speak, speak the truth."

Jul. 23rd, 2007

"do you hear those birds?"