The Killer's Dead Part

“’I don’t know, Bob,’ I said, ‘there’s a couple kinds of laziness.  The don’t-want-to-do-nothin’ and the stick-in-the-rut brand.  You take a job figuring you’ll just keep it a little while, and that while keeps stretchin’ on and on and on.  You need a little more money before you can make a jump. You can’t quite make up your mind about what you want to jump to. And then maybe you make a stab at it, you send off a few letters, and the people want to know what experience you’ve had—what you’ve been doin’. And probably they don’t even want to bother with you, and if they do you’ve got to start right at the bottom, because you don’t know anything. So you stay where you are, you just about got it, and you work pretty hard because you know it. You ain’t young anymore and it’s all you’ve got.’”

Thompson, The Killer Inside Me, pg 129.

The autopsy report showed the lines of worry scrawled all about his youth, a shadow index of all kinds of perplexity…and as he aged, in a generalized sort of way, they seemed to coalesce and send rigors straight from his forehead through to his sternum, shorting out what bit of heart he had pickled because he needed to save face at the regular assembly of his peers he secretly hated.  Those men who stupidly listened to, and accepted all of his spiteful, lying diatribes on just about anything current events had to offer, to the extent that his belittling intelligence trusted no one but the unknown experts he believed weren’t just toying with their own ideas about nothing.  Those thoroughly practiced individuals from some region just East of L.A. who popularized such great notions from bunkers in TV land, complete with historical histrionics reenacting parts from grander stages when battles were fought and things that a man did were real in the eyes of hedge fund managers.  With a bit of spunk and derring-do, just about any man with good sense could glean private property from the hands of Native extraterrestrials with plenty of good, clean land for the flagging.

A Festival for the Herded

Another day, hot as spit, full of long, drawn-out complexities not to be aroused.  Talking all night about feelings gives me an example of how numb it feels to reach out towards somebody who pulls away, takes the wind out of my sails, and makes me feel disgusting.  So now, of course, I don’t want to talk to anyone about anything.  When so much attention and focus has been directed towards the topic of lying about feelings, making believe they’re all good, or at least attempting to convey a good feeling, because it takes a little bit of effort to feel good around you.  Patience, persistence, and determination slowly pulls me to pieces as I attempt to get in on a piece of the action.  We’re all attached, just not at the hip, as shadows and light interplay, alterations’ skullduggery and the scene’s emotional mosquitoes make it more and more difficult to coalesce, and makes you more and more loatheable. 

Like a skinny girl who is getting way too drunk for her cool-headed boyfriend who knows from experience that the responsibility will eventually fall undesirably on his shoulders and that her parents will inevitably blame him for eventualities that he wittingly tried to prevent, to no avail, wise words wasted on honorless she, pain to her parents, a grinning fucktard.

The pain is palpable, in the air, fifty shades of coercion.  What a reduced rush!  A noxious exchange of gases <smolt> spoken words like a shed of feathers plucked out for quills, anticipating the end of Bic®.

Bickering.

 Overhearing what you have to say about our lack of chemistry, like chiral racemates debating handedness of relative polarity cold extracted to combat systems of belief from bombshelters, crucibles, or bucketseats.

Because I want to get to know you forever by asking how you feel right now…

Tired, hungry, and pitiless.

+(/_\)+ Four Others, Connected

?

Socratic
Semi-
Circles
Break
off to a
Radical
Point,
Tangential
to origins
with space
to fill with
substitutes,
replacements,
or breaks in
the action for
a drink or a
cup of coffee
to be specific,
a beer
to be honest,
or simultaneous
with consideration to
the system as a
whole, variable for
a moment, second,
minute, hour, month
year, decade, century,
or two sideways eights
depending on how you slice it,
a flower,
a pinwheel,
or a blastula?

seven-two seven-one

Second-hand afterthoughts leave me used, in the borrowing
business, at the library, smoken for by a shmo’.

Control yourself, big man, the Devil’s at your wheel, driving
me to shame.  First you create for yourself a reputation,
and then, like a man, blow it.  Vitriol sets me off
on a tangent’s tangent, wrestling with vocabulary.

Nothing seems to quench the demon.  A bright idea?
Insanity’s gist.  Until I run the syrup through my system
a smoker’s coffers go up in flames. (An activity nobody can afford.)

The thing that gives me confidence is the thing that gets me by…
make my feet stink.  I must go for that reason alone.

--

To make matters matter, mountains must first be made of flowers.
Beauty behave, Powers overpowers the man in my likeness with
aspect and attributes all the same.  There’s no easy way to say this,
so I’ll let my representative speak on my behalf:  Discursive politics talks
me to boredom as receive a sit-me-down lecture for parental scorn.

The simplex is herpes, Vaccix is the commercial.  Vestigial
anthropomorphized appendages that do the business no good
must be cut off and cauterized to avoid a bleed-out.

Craven god ost darapture, take me to that place
overliver where mistakes are not made and health
is not important.  Vice me beanie non necesse est.

It’s a crazy kinda life, don’t lead me, leave me,
talk to me, make me do.  A warden always
captures the part of me that needs
to be locked up in the cell that holds the soul captive
in the mind, that perpetual awareness that is aware of constant
imperfection, that needs to be force feeding everywhere
in a deranged funk, transmogrified to ideal endings
of shit and piss, regular anal fixations, analyzed
for blood and sweat, a condition of dark force and
shady concentration, idealizing horrors that make me feel
weak in the knees and young again, full of spunk.

Sassy butthole, shit on me speaking in a cold voice,
that, “all that you do you are good at.”
It’s a compliment, get over it, you son-of-a-bitch
in fire-linked chains giving me a flurby.
How can I resist?  You’re making my hot dog tinkle with
excitement on the parquet floor paneling.

Breathe with me, that’s it…
synchronize with my circular-circular technique.
Sex everywhere!!  Guttural metaphors exist and
the fruits of my labor are rotting without upkeep,
waxing tomatoes for a review of hungry criticism…
the empty can’t afford to hurt, so they don’t.  
 

American legs are out awhoring;
nothing strange, just the same old, angles and curves with struts
vagging about bitches for attitude, can you believe it?
How she got into this mess, just be being near me?
Proximity possesses those who seize easily, blacking out
for confusion, distrusting for safe-keeping, because
you can never be too careful when it comes to dispelling
elements you worked hardly for and I’m describing the way
you do it, blockhead.  At ease, soldier, permission to speak fluently?
I do it because I can tangle.

Untangle, poor slinky, do me away from these steppes
high-beaming, blinding me with your brights, take care,
there, in the dark with the light of the world by your side.
It’s not so suspicious after all.  An empire of deserved getting
compensation for severe dearth or lack thereof, for
when the super-rich get together with the ultra-poor for prayer
and thanksgiving shall be the day I choose to die for
happiness, just can’t take it anymore, it’s too good...
for emphasis on rhetorical free-speech, not free bull-
shit because you have to pay for manure to grow on.

I’d rather not be here when the hit shits the fan,
“o my god, o my god, o my Christ, would you listen to this?!”
A whistle or a xylophone, blissed out, simply.

Stubbish

Ecstacy reduced lexicon: that part of the brain for
cheesing like a Swiss high on Alps yodeling.  Death to the
white light!  …And towards the chalk on the boards of a
school (iGand).  Glasses aye me, starved for approval, my elders
enable me to nerd.  Off. And on to the break of dawn
wetting the house soaking in light: swimming substance
of seeing that can’t be seen.  Gilt by association, nobles
have faith in each other, the guild that peaks and crests
symbols on to shields that protect me from the onslaught
against me that seeks to rip my soul from my body, high on
pretend ego that associates scenes I see for myself in a
dream, vision, and selfish aspersion.  As I self-efface
contradictorily to seem a certain way, I age myself
for a smiling austerity, giving tax for favor.

Robber barons soldier for fortune in the same soul-sucking
city for years full of idiots about, that is, until they get
wise or I slip up.  Society daughters give themselves up
for a fatherly dicking or talking-to.

“Lecture me daddy, oh! Tell me all about your failed rehearsals
of applied hindsight and how it wrinkled your brow and
made you lose faith and gain weight!  Do me righteous!
Oh! Lip me prudent like the whore that I am not!  Thwart
my dirty little urges, yearnings, and compulsions to feel good and
get knocked up, and be bopped around!  Make me a smiling
professional in a suit who writes letters and makes demands
that may or may not be rational nor has be, but needs
to be taken as seriously as I didn’t take my education.”

“Give credit where credit’s due? Give credit where credit has always been.
To our founding white fathers, to God! Because God is a bearded
figure of a man, as depicted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel
that I have a vague notion of what it’s actually like, and it’s
of vague interest, but not interesting enough to give up what
it is I’m doing now in my careering life, rushing headlong
for the rush I’ve achieved over-and-over again and yet…
I’m still in search of…something…missing…the arrangement…
(the wedding).”

Stub

Mental vomit, crazy amounts of black bile acid spewed forth from
pen-tip, metaphor for it, the Fly, Belial, and all his specks.

A hertz donut of raw ground beef festering in the Sun
with maggots of military dictum.

A lock with no key hairs me.

Compulsion to engage in obsessive behavior stresses my time,
makes me write on a wobbly table.

Mental hygiene, crazy amounts of cleanliness? Reduction to nothing?
Purity, tomb of the ascended, better off dead…an idea, a conviction
with a close friend, quick to anger and even faster to forgiveness.

Irresistible urges are impossible to resist, by definition…
Hold your breath! Even after you pass-out, the medulla modulates.

A friendly stabbing: panged in the back by allies who really
have their own best interests in mind, to be your friend, the advantaged.

Objectives upon floating isles, a mile up on inverted clouds,
Native aboriginal smoke-signals puff Morse striated.

Day-to-Night at Noon undercover…not a spy.  For lack
of concentration or ability to direct focus on a single subject
or topic, to force the issue that should perhaps remain unresolved
for the time-being.  The 4^th Dimensional Hero is here! Have you seen the Times?

Attached to the mantle in the forecastle, the weatherman predicts a
random sequence of unpredictable events and patterns yet to be
mathematically equated with respect to any barometric you can feel
in your bones like migraines.  Migrating daily to work?

Not today! Or you will be killed by rabid riot police armed
with immunity to their own highly contagious aerosol transmissions.
Smoke, gas, and pepper everywhere outside of masks…
Skull suckers suck faces melting everywhere through straws,
the last of a subspecies of suspicious suspects who
should have been locked up and executed long before tolerant
proposals that do nothing to remedy the actual health consequences
that ravage the epidemiological subsection, high on well, being
unselfless.

The path along the race to enlightenment is strewn with darkness, death, and every kind of failure.

Full

of

Self,

like

an

-itis

that

needs

to

be

drained

of

rotten,

stinking,

pus-filled

fluid.

A Brief History of Material Reality

We can’t all be soft if we wish to enjoy the luxuries
we have grown accustomed to rely upon tomorrow.  Soft sciences unfortunately
do little to progress technology as we know it today.  There are of course
two schools of thought concerning technological communication today.
One, that it brings us close together, two, that it drives us further apart.
Ever since man mastered fire, dark rites and rituals were known
to exist, gathered around an open flame in the night, people congregated
and gave glory to the mystery as it misrepresents itself underneath a flickering
cloak of constant change, erosion, and finally death as the leftover ashes
slowly extinguish themselves, starved of interest.  Ever since man learned
to control fire, fire worshippers set out in the dark, even bringing it underground
so as to more fully understand how to wield its power and put it to use like
the gods they envisaged might.  Shards of disillusionment shed from the sun
brought into a cave allowed men to splash walls with light from the inside-out, to
give birth to strange, undiscovered worlds that would
come forth, and present themselves (the creatures manifest therein)
if not upon the earth or in the seas and skies, then in the ironworks and forges of smelting
craft that developed into even more rigid geometric shapes transposed from what once flowed,
now fixed, like a fish hooked from a stream or a butterfly impaled upon
a pin.  Alas!  Men paid dearly for this fixed knowledge that could not only
be explained, but be seen in the night, shadows upon walls that cast
unfamiliar, yet recognizable floating figures of contrast at a tangent
to radiance.  Puppeteers, story-tellers, and men behind masks emerged and gathered
assemblies of the curious and convincingly told lies under the influence
of incense, first to themselves, and then to the community at large.
“Dissenters be damned!  The gods grow angry as you blaspheme!
A poor harvest is the only proof you should need, and you should fear
my authority for my closeness, if not oneness with those terrible eternal
powers who cause one to tremble, another to weep, and a third to
faint to the floor without any physical prodding by me!”
*Q-Drums* Boogie-Boogie
Dancers (if you can call them that) suffer fits of paroxysm and ululate.

... 

While laughter is known to be the best medicine, it should be noted that

there are those who have ingested so many inferior medicines that they
have forgotten how to use laughter’s truly cathartic nature to their utmost
benefit!  This fact I find truly disconcerting.  Sure, there are those
who get their yuks, chuckles, and scoffs in, but a hearty recognition
of honest excellence is oft missed by those pantheistic polyscientists
who rely on anachronistic thought patterns to sustain their Ego while
not keeping up-to-date or remaining stuck-in-the-gutter when the moment arrives.
How many among us will deny our feelings for fear of being seen?
(As if anyone is looking or even cares)? Who are we really denying?
And how will that denial be accomplished?  How many among us call our
shame-pride and our pride-shame?  Relegated to the bedroom, the bathroom,
and other appropriate places for inappropriateness where we fuck, shit,
and gorge ourselves to sleep by easing ourselves there with easily exhaustibles,
like limited quantities of drugs for which we rush out in the morning for, darkly,
moodily, or grudgingly, yet with a sense of urgency that pushes others aside.
Our daily successes nullified by our daily failures that come out flat
and judicial.  If anything in our lives were ever done lovingly, how would
that action look, sound, taste, or feel?  (Perhaps like ambrosia, a thoughtful gift, or
a present full of presence).  I was there the moment I was conceived and
I wanted it, I wanted more, the pain, the pleasure, and the spiritual fulfillment.
What are we thinking nowadays?  Who is in our thoughts/minds? How and why
has that pattern changed over time?  Aesthetic appeal I’m guessing.  Is this
not what you wanted?  Make me an ass.  SOH-CAH-TOA@Epoxy-Kaboom!

Make me what I am today!