Sunday 18 October 2009

Possum traction- acai, like cold climb it.

In saturday's wax, a passive book, a pamphlet, and

Blank mania sustains an anger, a cancerous philanthropist.

Moses Roaknoke has it bejewelled in tunics of cellophane
and lettuce.

Framer's tantric pantomime and Blakes's Face is chosen.

Worth reading is about your sister,
an orca whale in sustenance.

Mordant concord grape doesn't believe in itself.

Continuity and recurrence,the fixed pattern,
the persistence and the vision-
it kisses.

Immortality simply avoids
what it doesn't know.

Saturday 17 October 2009

HOBO ZOMBIE (the new bitterness)

In toady's immediate surroundings,the report to the self-the distance required is unavoidable. It attaches attachments and sends them..a oneness, an the hobo,or an incognito-ed clown..a zombie, reduced to facial features. Desire on a base level-animated and elevated to a state of deliciousness for want.
A shrine or pedestal of positioning uses immediacy. The personal and all before it- to suck us full of life. To react to, to react to. It's useful,the symbols. These letters
(this is a drawing of course.)
Words scrawled in motion. A letter to send off, a pre-routed message in a bottle to the self. A scribble on a dollar. Currency. Disease that is society. Carrying a bit of information, like those- these days- that graft historical facts to germs, or self-generate "art" from itself. Through science.
Graffiti that sells. Pre-designed abandoned cheap buildings called lofts.
The idea of a zombie. There it is again. The idea of the zombie- to the plumber,to the philosopher. to the Internet. To philosophical zombies. These lofts in Atlanta are zombies. This graffiti on Edgewood. Zombies.
To fast and slow movements. To feeling like yesterday was the "in my day",the world we grew up in...isn't different so much as now it simply exists in a state of Different. From itself.

Travel in a disguise of curiosity. A smile for desire and exploration and freedom from anything other than basic wants...made complicated by the low grumbling of confusion. In the stomach of a dog,or the rules of communication. The low noise persists,like the pushing of a large boulder on an annoying child's head. silence the (conch shell)truth -the fact that nothing has any meaning. There is no fair only fun house mirrors.
and talent.
beauty reigns because it has to somehow still be appealing.
all these perspectives.
They don't see themselves anymore and that is the new view. That awareness posts comments about itself.
That unity. It is a common denominator with rules..and the new rule is to turn on that rule. Like it has always been The immediacy of the uncooked or planned negates itself
unless it is beautiful
then i can be sold.

Saturday 3 October 2009


hey there candy pants.

do you think he deserves pets? do you want me to make more coffee?

did you watch...uuuum...

his noticible indifference was off-putting.

sandler hudson was a golf minister. last nights proceedings surpassed infatuations.

" Melancholy and Bitter" (complacency is not compassion)

spin doctor ju ju familiar with 20 sided boo boo's. using a gps by centennial olympic park is scrambled by the man.

ellis island wasn't.

dna braided with it,like kudzu and slave's chains,memories for tee vee

bling bling red clay

new antique lofts and commissioned graffiti. = art. is stick.

throw money against the wall

and so who the what the

stck em up in broad daylight. of a life. a mimic of a style

of itself.

of itself.

It's Your Lie. You tell it like you want to.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

It's Your Lie. You tell it how you want to.

"She said it just like that."
The albino boy twisted his fingers and made shadows on the wall. Making them speak diseased daytime things. Sleepless when the rest sleep,for the most part,but defining his own version of feeling alone and rejected. An extra layer to the act.
His fingers on the wall with the candle flame behind them, braiding truths and telling stories. Bruises and scars layering thick white and pink topographical ranges of high fragile wrinkles told a gnarled old story on young skin. Forever as far as he was concerned.
"It's your lie. You tell it like you want to." She had said.
He acted out his play to himself at 3 in the morning.
Waiting constantly for the door to be kicked in again,his fragile skin ripped open under passive cold moonlight. waning. judged. without.
Bones breaking,phalanges,tentacles,extentions (hyperlinks)
clean cuts severed and pure. Wild excitement in the blood. Alive again through routine. What was boring made into a word. Ritual.
Playing pretend with each other and the need to pacify beliefs.
To validate or value
a creative way. of sharing.


If you think you think you should heed the warning of your mother and sister and not risk uncertain sorcery,turn to page 25


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