Monday, April 13, 2015

Start Here:

At the crest of a sobriety worth cataloging quietly, I silently contemplate -  oh so violently:

Fantastic time of year to sharpen your tools. The big shows in town but who's paying for the fools. 

I'd write it all down but I think I half like this town, I mean I don't mind the music but god damn I hate the sound 
of all the enthusiastic, overly-considerate inconsistencies of people. Mainly myself. 

I had dream about Molotov cocktails. 

Just making them though. Maybe to throw. Or maybe just carry around like a clown that deserves to be at the very middle of a rather spectacular explosion. Sweet volatility I'm starving for something bigger than me. Oh my don't we all get a little delusional when we're hungry. Could you really eat a horse? 

If I had the choice, I'd make it so there didn't have to be so many choices. 


The old man once said:

"You're gonna get old before you grow up" and every day since then I pray he's right. 

It's gotta be the reason; 

When you're down, and you're hitting a wall, you just fucking do something about it anyway. And you breakthrough. You get up, and you try again. And then something real happens. 

Sometimes something really good happens. Sometimes something really great happens. Sometimes, Life is fucking amazing. 

And then you get that feeling in your stomach. 

When you remember why it is you try. 
When you remember why it is you're dedicated and committed. When you remember why it is you wake up and do what you do. 

And that feels the best. 
Like butterflies and brunch.
So exciting, so damn satisfying. 

And on and on the story goes. The peaks and the valleys... Sometimes you slip - if you slip don't fall. And for your everyday malady's there's alcohol. 

And so concludes this substance absent, substandard account, of an abstinence not worth writing home about. 

And in closing I think I'll have breakfast again, thank god its 420 AM, Amen. 

Friday, October 03, 2014

Folies à Deux

Folies à Deux - a delusion or mental illness shared by two people in close association.

You can't often go backwards. cars, video tapes, web browsers, this list meanders on in mundane perpetuity.

My point is simply the fact that a few months ago I turned a pair of pants I own into shorts, shortly thereafter realizing that I couldn't turn them back into pants. I was left with the product of my own, ever so predictably casual haste.

Life never stops changing for me and I constantly find myself at the mercy of the irreversible - and maybe more often now that I've grown aware of this otherwise rudimentary law of physics. The only case more detrimental than the last would be the irreversible changes we don't notice. The moments and situations that effect us irreversibly 
- without us even noticing. 

The moment she makes me laugh when I didn't want to. The second I lash out with my typical and characteristic impulse. 

Hearing goodbye from someone for the very last time. Learning how you've hurt someone. Falling in love without even noticing you're crashing fantastically. 

My life is a science experiment and my heart is chemical reaction. 

But the rules here insist that every action and reaction inclusively compound. Things happen that you can't reverse. And shit adds up. 

We only truly lose what we can never get back. 

A lust here, a loss there, chemical reaction everywhere. I can't get the image of a Jenga block tower out of my head now. Here in its final stages of elevation - on the brink of collapse. Every limit and possibility extended to its utmost edge. Each irrevocable decision adding to the complexity of its current and ultimate circumstance. 

No compounding calamity like a tower not terrified of gravity. 

The teetering complexity of your very last step will only truly be suffered by those you leave behind.

This is how you grow. By the fruits of what you know. By the implications in the truth that is our very own sense of self awareness. Watch yourself closely. Try to get closer every day. 

I am no longer terrified of being alone because I am no longer terrified of myself. 

A reconciliation of my own lurid and often insufferable ways has been the secret to loving myself. That and the help of a love you never see coming. 

We can go anywhere now and we can paint like madmen on canvas of risk and ruin.
We can bury our love deep in the ocean and only choose to come up for air when suffocating's no longer stylish.
Burn so bright. And burn through the last of our cash on the very first night. 
Waver only together and free fall as a tangled mass of fists and spit and tears and sweat and the ferocity of a star falling out of the sky on purpose. 
To an indefinable end, an end coloured by madness no less. 
A delusion so grand and fearless we could never go backwards if we tried.
Love irreversibly true. 
I'm so irreversibly into you. 

Saturday, April 12, 2014

watchu know bout it

i hate that i can't say your name
and that's never gonna change

its always going to feel like the sun on a hot day
never gonna be where you want it

hasn't stopped me
hasn't held me down
hasn't kept me back
hasn't changed my resolve

when you go to far you find out after,
when you push too hard, its the hindsight that burns

just to push it aside and say leave it behind you
pay the toll in one hand and set the bridge on fire with the other
the comically cursed, the tragically tried

if you knew you were no good for anybody would you admit it
if you thought you've reached levels of mistrust and incident transcending relatable connection
would you tell somebody

or would that defeat the purpose

every single day i wake up and the sun is out i smile. nothing has stopped me in this regard. it could be growing up in a rainy town and taking advantage of every single ray of light as it appears. an application of social convention worth following through with at any rate.

maybe i only look forward cause looking back doesn't hit me the same. maybe it never has. not that we care now. not that we should worry as we barrel headlong into whatever the hell may grasp us at our core and rip new and blissfuly large holes into whats left of our hearts.

the last thing you should do when you're stranded in the woods is panic. the first thing you do when you panic in the woods is run. some how in life, that's all i ever want to do. if  you can't keep up, you can't stop me. if you can't stop me, don't try.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Pages on Cages


walking nimbly wishing quietly hoping secretly secretly hopeful
she walked like the wind might act if it had as much confidence
she dreamed as if the universe lay around in her in a complete lack of definition
"ask me what i think of you" she dared the planets
"dare me to do as i may" she coaxed the stars
rivers of strength like blood in her veins courses the purity of her indignation
unstoppable, unquestionable, fallible only by her own desire
limitless, uninhibited passion like infinity
stemming from the depths of a heart like an ocean
she only looks at you when she sees through you
translucent souls we surround her like planets in a universe
an ornately decorated garden of lust and love and need
the long lists of poor souls devoured by her amorous residual glow
casualties of a nameless beauty we only wish we could know
a desert sky of a smile
a life flashing before your eyes of a kiss
what anybody would give to not miss
summertime sunset highway hearts never forget
a bird in a cage is still a wild animal
fingertips find what they look for
with the determination of a runaway
with the destination of some other day
with aspiration of some other way
she'll write your name in the sand where it all began
and forget you as simply as a wave washes it away
no telling no say no begging don't pray
goddess wrote the bible on finding a better way
then she smiled a gangster smile the kind that lasts for ages
then she rolled up and smoked every single one of those pages

*hey pretty lady nice hand bag, why the pursed lips?

Saturday, March 15, 2014

Fictitiously Vicious


i could write a book, an autobiography of a crook, cabin by a brook, one too many a good look. make the characters brave and the antagonist better, wrap it all up with an equation to forget her.

we give ourselves a narrative a fictitiously vicious comparative, relentless at heart and snotty by nature. sand over the roughest spots and hide every blemish if every element of expression embodied the creative would there be such a distance between ourselves and our ideals that no make believe bridge could breach it?

its a filthy world to begin with, not a favourite of settings, most definitely conducive to the habit of forgetting. leaving behind the worst parts and hoping for the best, drawing up conclusions and refuting the rest.

but i'd write about the peaceful moments, asleep on her chest, by the water or mountains, lets leave in the best. sculpt it like castles in fantasy novels and summarize the bible holy christ girl you'd make jesus grovel.
would you write about the characters that ran across a desert for you? would the desert be the living room and the coffee table a mountain? embellish everything, sweet tea cup you fountain.

sunsets so brite turn midnights to mornings, turn every second of my life into a morning, and every inch of my visual field into blankets. and every feeling in my heart into room service and every tear in my eye into bacon bits.
every day the same again, more soft light eyes more summer skin, more countless hours inside someone else, more infinite moments in a complete lack of self. expectations abound in leu of sound, like silent needs, fictitiously vicious silent needs

Friday, March 07, 2014


your heart is a time bomb my love's an american express card. this world is a pool hall my head is a que ball. fact is mythology dreams are misogyny. looking each other up and down with sheer terror is a college degree. music is noise, sound is clatter, interests don't peak, mountains get flatter. darkness is peaceful and comfort is void, inspiration is ruin and commitment - paranoid. happiness is shallow and nothing runs deep like the river of regrets now swallowing your feet, so hurry and pray to a god that never existed, for a chance to go back to that moment resisted, that second you should have just done without thinking, before you found out this pirate ship's sinking, but down to the bottom with crooks and the liars where nothing could drown out the sound of the fires - chocolate impostors, shallow marshmallows, graham cracker thin shells just som'whores in the hallows.

Saturday, November 23, 2013

High Hopes

maybe i'm just too high, or still so sadly stoned off a substance called hope. the very idea that you could substitute action with intention is disheartening.

hope is the action killer. spend all you got and just hope for more. hold your broken heart in your hands and hope it gets better.


get off your ass and do something about it

every second we spend commiserating with our sorry selves is a moment lost to intention devoid of action. with the very same spirit of loss we experience, we possess the potential to transform our negativity into positivity. i've had my heart ripped out too.

everybody knows nobody knows how low low goes when your eyes stay closed. its gotta be important for us to feel like we're the most hurt. that me, in my moment of darkness, is experiencing a pain deeper than anyone else has before. otherwise it wouldn't be special. and your problems wouldn't be unique, rendering them not exceptional.

god knows we can't latch onto stereotypical sadness as well as we can own our own brand of distinct detriment.

if your pain isn't special, then it's not substantial. and if it isn't substantial, then your experience isn't worth much. and if your experience is worthless then your life has no value. but by these rules we justify our worth by the severity of our sadness. this is cyclical viciousness.

most times when we really feel it we really mean it. in our context, in our reality, from our perspective. perception is reality. which is why most realities blow.

the constructivist argues that the possibility of improvement lies not within hope but in action.

hope is the bed mate of complacency.

action is the enemy of wallowing in our self conceived grief

what could possibly hurt more than the idea that you give up on yourself every time you profess you've got it the worst.

the new constructivist can't be bothered with the pain because it hurts more to admit defeat than it does to get back on your feet.

nobody can take away from you how hard you've fallen, nobody can discredit the work you've put into something only to have it stolen from you. these are the true consequences of the unpredictable life. but to believe your life, in this respect, is unique, is downright close minded selfishness. each and every single one of us sharing the same sun and breathing the same air surrender ourselves to the same exact chaotic forum of unpredictability. we all live the same life in the context of the fact that not one of us unique enough to control its outcome or special enough to contain the uncertainty. out of a dark and deep desire to set ourselves apart as individuals in world so bent on the cult of self - (the most selfish of all mentalities) we tend to take solace in our deficiency and shortcomings - in an effort to stand out. how you supposed to stand out if you can hardly get on your feet?

let your determination define your individuality. hope for nothing. act on everything.

the worst form of regret is knowing you could have done what you didn't.