Sometimes, the fantasy becomes a nightmare, and I am the one taken again and again, not by Him but by a stranger with a beaked nose and fleshy, pale earlobes and a slight underbite.
And the vulture asks of me, his darling carcass, at the end of the night: "What are choices?"
Choices are snapshots of uncertain things, of What Should Be and What Will Be and What We Will Soon Come to Regret.
Choices are my mother, creeping slowly toward senility on all fours atop the linoleum kitchen floor of time,
Trying to clean the stains and rust out of her conscience.
Choices are the jolts of static electricity we call love, forcing us against one another unfashionably in ways science will never be able to explain. For when love is dissected, cut into pieces, and placed in cabinets with bone china plates, it is no longer love. It is immune to experimentation and helpless against logic, no matter how tempestuous.
I tell the vulture that love is our last stronghold, and the only choice we make in life is whether or not we give ourselves up to love.
The vulture spits in my face and walks out of my house, leaving the doors open, leaving me shivering in my dirty bed, wondering if I will give myself up to my fantasies or my nightmares.
- Current Mood: restless
- Current Music:Svefn-G-Englar - Sigur Ros
did aci(dic fumes ruin your life), as they did mine?
discovered mus(es numbering nine)
was told secre(tions, most bile)
humble rodent, auricular adolescents
settling in to what i will become (soft white room)
I'm allowed to love
again, as a child would.
His skin, the skin around his liquid eyes is rough
wild, untamed, and innocent.
Innocent. Innocent - Echo
for me, over and over and over and over again.
He's not even a
cat. But he could be my
cat. I would let him play with yarn
and I'd feed him dutifully,
keep his water bowl full to the brim.
An unusual ginger cat;
my parents would demand of me
where did you get this
is it a stray?
I would laugh and laugh
and fall into the cellulite flesh of
What does it feel like,
To lust so hard for something you know
you'll never clasp
This unmatched desire, never before
(SEEN. FELT. REVEALED TO THE PUBLIC)
and useless. You are told that
from now on
you could fly.
But the second you left the earth
the birds would scorn you and peck
out your eyes.
The ravens caw; they cannot stand our pretensions and wait
to pick apart the parts of our souls left
after l'amour has taken its toll.
The swan trumpets; it knows the deepest of your heartwishes
and falls silent
never to trumpet again.
The peacock smiles.
Its vanity pales next to the ego geysers
"You only write poetry because you're in love."
I'm only in love because I write poetry.
- Current Location:Cloud (fuckin') Nine
- Current Mood: morose
- Current Music:Clem Snide - Let's Explode
On his way to heaven, Jeremiah bumped into Barack Obama.
"Why... Mr. Future President, what are you doing on the long elevator ride to heaven?" Jeremiah was more confused than he'd been at his Greek step-sister's buffet.
"Oh, some obese sniper decided it would serve the welfare of the country to turn my brains into crepes with a well-placed bullet. It seems fatsos playing Halo are more well trained than my elite FBI," grumbled Obama.
Jeremiah hated whiners. "That... explains the facial deformity," the young white man observed, pointing at the three-inch hole in Obama's left cheek. "But onto sunnier topics. Have you seen the Lord and his abode yet? I sure can't wait for Heaven."
Obama grimaced, revealing his trademark white teeth. It wasn't the whitest part about him, Jeremiah observed; his ego showed classic hints of that Harvard whitebread upbringing. "I'm afraid, my dear friend, we're going straight to hell."
"...Hell? Now what the fuck did I ever do to get in there? I've been the perfect Catholic my entire life. The Pope's word was my wine. I never touched any prepubs, unlike Mikey; never scammed any banks, unlike David. Who the fuck does God think he is, some teenage delinquent who can send any old asshole to Hell on a whim?" Furious didn't begin to describe Jeremiah.
Obama said nothing, but merely transformed into Jeremiah's ex-wife. "Welcome to Hell, you blasphemous bitch."
Babies only cry ‘cause the world’s a depressing place
Heroin, Government, Blood on your face
Only miracle you’ve seen was to be a clever scam,
Married you off to a man who didn’t give half a damn
About whether you lived, died, or your fertile luck
He wanted a good Christian wife to beat and fuck
Belt-whipping, Bible-toting son-of-a-preacher,
Lessons of shame found no better teacher
Never noticing a swell around her belly,
Busy watching the brimstone shit on the telly
What is a relationship to prove your dignity?
Broken, ashamed, Nickelback’s credibility
Trapped, alone; you’re no porcelain doll
But instead a scale-model Berlin Wall
He made sure you’d not a single friend,
Church-goers around you ignorant to no end
Impenetrable, immobile, defeated,
Tired woman-stereotype too often repeated
After the tearing-down of your behemoth,
Came the wearied soul. Skull, cracked; fist
Against the only man you’ve ever loved
Thrown face-first onto the sink, shoved
Against Bronze Statues of the Christ,
Oh Lord, the irony, God must play dice!
My darling, my young one, killed in cruelty
Whilst Christ of Heavens chuckles. Irony…
Inside of you, death internalized
Misery and regret, perpetual, eternalized…
Eighty-six, at your only son’s gravestone
You’ve but a Bible, a dirty frock and a wishbone
Your arms and hope outstretched to God
Your legs and piss against his counterpart Sod
The Devil, you weep, had overseen your life,
And what did god do to end the strife?
You shit, now, but this finds a holier target,
Hoped for past faith, as though you ever had it
The Holy Book buried in shit as you run,
Realized God and Satan are together, as One.
- Current Mood: uncomfortable
- Current Music:Maybe Partying Will Help - The Minutemen
to rip me apart and destroy my dignity."
He looked down. The miniature porcelain face gazing at him was little more than nonexistent. He was certain of the junky
shit she used; it radiated reams of incorporeal flesh from her body. Four fucking beers yeah he wanted to piss, needed, even, but more
he wanted to throw up onto this strange abused abuser of coprophiliac slant. It was clear love hadn't existed in her eyes for years,
only the hunger to feel another's urine and shit everywhere in her body. He couldn't contain it.
"Oh you fucking bitch, I never knew you went to second base first date! Give me more, more, enough simply isn't!" With a flourish, she
reinforced her words with a shove of her index down his throat.
He didn't know why he'd come today. Yeah he wanted to have fun and don't we all? but he didn't realize the numerous physical boundaries which resist snarlingly at being pushed. And how did he explain his love (born of disgust) for this seal-fetus girl, no older than eighteen, bathing in their dinner at his feet? Her eyes like milk saucers, her breasts almost a cave in her chest, it was as though heroin took physical form in a young malformed debutante...
Who feels more pain - the six-year junky going cold turkey for three days in his bedroom alone, the mother who watches her only child die right before her eyes, or the fundamentalist Christian father whose sons all die of AIDS contracted from homosexual intercourse?
NOTE: I will never fucking mention homework in this blog, ever. If I do, comment - and make that comment the equivalent of a slap in the groin.
Today I immersed myself in the unique, visceral mewsick of A Silver Mt. Zion at Lee's Palace. Here's what I learned:
-Their music is hugely complex, startlingly layered, and overall fantastically composed.
-Violinists on stage are esophagus-stranglingly beautiful.
-Shit, Lee's Palace is sketchy and uncomfortable (with zero air conditioning and not an inch of wall left un-graffiti'd), but it has its own charm.
-I'm thin-skinned. I can't take an insult or a bashing, even when it's not me - it's a band I love.
-Efrim Menuck is awesome, amazing, and a bit of an asshole.
When Mr. Menuck asked for questions, I blurted "Do you like Sigur Ros?!" It turned out to be an interesting mistake. He went on for a few minutes on how much he hated Sigur Ros after touring with them a couple days in the 90's with Godspeed You. Wow. Their music, to Efrim, was "trite and musically dull", and their members were "pompous and above everyone else".
To hear a respected musician blam! one of the bands I love the most did something to me it really shouldn't have - it made me reconsider the value of Sigur Ros' music. Why? Fuck, why? Doesn't it matter enough I love them, and Jonsi especially? I have to learn to differentiate a critical view with a personal view; currently, the two are almost the same. I'm as big a critics' whore as you can get, which is pitiable about myself. Time for a makeover! Will Fan be able to formulate and sustain his own opinions and take chunks of others' and put them to good use, or will he forever have the roof fall upon him the second some fucker down the street (fucker in an unbelievable band, in this case) says a single snide comment contradicting Fan's own?
Stay tuned to find out! Meanwhile, Silver Mt. Zion has also gone down just very slightly on my respect list, yet has gone up largely. "I Built a Metal Bird, and Fed It the Wings of Other Metal Birds" (non-exact title) is wordlessly fantastic, and they were worth $30, not the $15 they charged.
Lookin' forward to my new CD, "Song For the Silent Land"!
- Current Mood: content
- Current Music:A Silver Mt. Zion - The Triumph of Our Tired Eyes
1. I don't have any noteworthy problems.
Fuck our society's pressures to be "weird" and "tortured". I don't need to be one of those people, I only want to be SURROUNDED by a handful of those people. I am a Protoss Observer, beep-o-weep. I want nothing more in life than to live a maybe $100,000 salary man's lifestyle and see my friends, old and new, once in a while. Even once again in a lifetime suffices.
2. I'm... gay, I think. And I eat a lot.
Yes, the two go hand-in-hand -- the illusion of homosexuality and hedonism. Pray you never contract one, lest the other follow. Am I G-A-Y? I don't know. Maybe sexually, but not emotionally. Maybe in my crushes, but not in where my respect often falls.
3. I forget things. A lot.
More than the number of times Hilton's had anonymous black cock in her mouth, even. And it pisses the fuck out of me. I guess it's one of those things that will resolve over time or have to wait until I can get to it. What's worse, though, is spending the entirety of a day regretting forgetting, then having the Realization Brick hit you with such a minor trifle you want to kill yourself via Nudist Colonycide.
4. As passive and neutral as I wish I were, psychological horror always gets to me.
Whatever -- movies, books, Television shows, Gifted students -- I'm paranoid as fuck. After any movie, twenty pages of a book (House of Leaves, I'm looking at you) or five seconds of Jeffery talking, I get intense sensations of fear, none of it rational. But it's always momentary; it's a fleeting sense of unrest, chaos; quickly replaced by a complacent bliss. Minor problem. I won't get to enjoy the merits of Stephen King or the Ring or Fifty Erics, but I'm sure I'll find other fulfillments in life.
5. I'm Pre-Teentious.
Not old enough yet to sprout chest hair and here I am, waving my cock (read: taste) around as though some holy, unmatchable object. Ohmigawd, you, like, listen to Linkin Park? Don't even like breathe in my direction. Hooooly fuck girlfriend, you believe in Real-Eh-Jung? Stand still for a bit while I rip your guts out through your anus. My pretension is the Number One cause of my overly judgmental self. But I mean no harm. Never forget that, a bitchy a nadir as I may hit.
6. I Self-Criticize too much for my own good.
This... I don't know. It's either a bad thing or a normal thing. I can't honestly say.
Cecilia- Bright, Young, Talkative. Defining Characteristics: Love and Honor. Her perspective revolves around the two things, but when they conflict, Cecilia needs to face flaws and weaknesses. Even after the world "ends", she values her values above her survival, which proves ultimately fatal.
Borisakoff- Sarcastic, Apathetic, Fun-Loving. Defining Characteristics: Flexible and Resourceful. His life, before the final storm, is abundant in casual happiness. He uses his groundedness to assist, but his inability to make any important decision scars the only part of him he cannot see- his soul.
Jazzmine- Cynical, Bipolar, Contemplative. Defining Characteristics: Satirical and Introspective. She lives a happy, fulfilled life, but feels there is something about her day-to-day routines (however they may change) that isn't...quite...right. The Ragnarok allows her cynicism to come into full use, but her pessimistic views lead to unrest.
De-Votch-Ka- Minor character; tries one last time to gather the shards of trust. Her failure to do so results in heavy arguments.
Swanesu- Critical, Analytical, Logical. Defining Characteristics- Reason and Perspective. Perfectionistic views give her a good eye for spotting the loose screws on anyone or of anything. However, this leads to the necessity of sacrifice, and pressure cannot be so easily dealt with using straightforward analysis.
Laurd Xas and Fyreye- Two dudes transformed by radiation. How their characters have changed is inexplicable...
Synkael- Defining Characteristics: Creativity and Extrovertedness. Ubiquitous character, able to connect the raggedy bunch. How or whom he chooses to manipulate, though, proves vital.
Jewie Schnozz- Defining Characteristics: Carefree and Grounded. Well-rooted in reality; useful in many situations. His almost blind steadfastness gets his blonde ass into trouble.
Stranger- Defining Characteristics: Enigmatic. Who knows who she is, what she wants, and what she had last dinner?
Dawn Valkong- Defining Characteristics: Feminine and Soothing. Plays a key role in reproduction and procreation. Needs masculine assistance to survive.
MORE TO COME.