Archive for the ‘trivial banality’ Category

Why?
The eternal why….
it plagues us as it nourishes us…
makes us dogs slaves to poison.

Why give birth to undying narratives?
Populating characters like pariah colonies-
is there some end to the badly drawn worlds?
the FAT and UGLY truth is that-
(you, me, the-long-dead-gods)
do not write for some beautiful exquisite meal
of words to be set out to the diner guests
in all their finery- NO!
we (one, anonymous test-subject)
create as a by-product
of living in a glitch-program-simulation

it is simply the claw marks
left on the cave walls
as we are dragged by life
insatiably hungry into the blackhole
of banality and TIME.

Advertisements

suddenly
I wanna re-wire all the honey bees
snuggle unfit heroes
and cross sword arms
with my own ghost again

the cockroaches ate your supper
so now you eat the cockroaches
like lovers
with spoons held between your teeth
and breach the skin contact

I don’t know what else to do
write cause a loose got the screw
and a goose got the glue
telling all the horses the jig is up

“Just write.”
Two words with which to battle writers block. L’empéchement d’imaginer. Where did it go? The energy, the will, the drive, the incessant need to write.

Obviously not incessant.
“Just write anything.”
I’ve become too wordy. Over-educated, over-read, where my goal was to be well-read. The spirit drowned in semantics. Used to flow easily, avec aisement, now confused doubly by two tongues, the translation versus les lacunes… and useless ellipses…

(Reading my old work, graphic representations of my thoughts, poems, lyrics, stories, cartoon strips, abstract chickens scratches, the blood of bic pens, the black marrow of papermate pencils… and the carbonite fading… so sad…)

What would it all look like scanned up online? Printed out and laid out on the carpet, page next to page, on top of page, under page, grey scribble twister board, the development of my developmental years.

Or what if I lost it all? Would I replace it? Am I replacing myself now? I am, am I? I’m, I’m I, I am I. How does the future look from the past look from the present… triple paned windows with dead flies and live flies buzzing for freedom, to be le mouche libre, ignoring the carcasses of their comrades, buzzing on, le bruit d’existence… and the air dries up, runs out, gaspillage.

Heavy memories churn me this slow October night. Christmas lights in a love room. What else can Christmas lights indoors convey? The cat sniffed my litter-box of spiral-bound accumulants. And what did the cat think?

“This is not food, water or worth pissing on.”
But the feline face still held the respect… that makes no sense, sorry. (Oh god, the condition is getting worse, caring less, it’s caring more that breeds true artistic indifference).

“Write something everyday.”
I’m lucky to have a constructive thought everyday. And as for critical thinking (or self-critical voices) that’s the garbage buzz, the foul milk of human greatness. Brain electrons, waves, cresting on the refuse shores, the garbage tankers, the strip mines. Pregnant thoughts birthing still calfs, wipe the placenta clear and call it art, hide the scars of the bic scalpel Cesarian… ink pumped emergencies…

(To think I used to worry about characters [characters?] and now it’s words, even single letters that haunt me. What is the french double ‘u’? the english ‘q’? and ‘v’ always freaks me out.)

And setting. I settle for dark rooms, nothing, detail pits for the deaf, the image deaf, soudre comme un pot. Blindly led of course, I lead my blind future self, l’avenir d’aveugle.

I see the flakes of stupidity, dead thoughts, on my pillow in the morning, brush them off, pick at dried semantics and wonder where all the energy went. Too many plugs and just wait for the fire. I’ll lose it all, swallow ashes and drink blackened liquid adrenaline. Doctors find the vacancy, my kidney stolen from me by my own students, scalpels and goggles and gas masks, avoiding my disease.

Strange shape the spiral. Holds it all together yet so easily distracts me, draws me aside. D’étruire. Luire qui d’étruire. French accents like different knives (lack modifier sharpens a sentence to new levels of dull) l’accent a grave, l’accent degue, l’accent circonflexe, the circonflexing accent. Oxymoron, style not consistent and to always split infinitives, and to wallow in deconstruction.

La dérive. The non-shore. No destination and you just keep going, filler, for future boredom. Dull days. Five years from now, alone, bad weather, sick of computer and television screens dry-burning your retinas and trying in myopia to decipher fade graphite.

The graphic graveyard.
Scribbled lines of embarrassed vestiges of time. Waiting for sleep and the next day in vain. The next game, the next point, the next breath. Till waiting is the constant buzz of everything. Le bruit d’existance.

And a sore back from half-hearted positions and getting up too fast and slowly sinking in blatant comfort.

“Write nothing.”

 

More and More

Posted: May 6, 2014 in trivial banality

Such a funny pride
Cannonballs
Death in winter and all else fails.
the parkde
the ice slides into the IKEA.
Metro
Newspaper and black boots.
Where
Where do I get those shoes.
Trumpet
Heart wind of the Jazz Age.

Cars-
Are the plexiglass CANCER CELLS
That infect my city with a MOOD disorder
That everybody thinks it’s normal to look at me
And yell at me to stop juggling
And “GET OUTTA THE FUCKIN WAY!”

I have the RIGHT of way! I am JUGGLING!!!
I am making the world a slightly sillier, more FUN place-
I make children and panhandlers smile
YOU have no right, Mr. Ford F150 slave!
All you do is pollute the air, endanger yourself
Give yourself road rage and blast HORRIBLE
DEHUMANIZING oppressive rap music.

I don’t like to pull the:
“Do you know who my father is?” card
But yeah, he works upstairs
And what makes me SICK inside
Is that this honking ignoramus
Knows exactly who our mother is
She’s the one you dared pave a road over
She’s the one you choke every morning
She’s the one you bleed for your luxury

And I’m just assuming that
If you’re this ANGRY at a man juggling
And slowing you down by a few seconds
I doubt you found the time to even THANK
Our mother today for the suffering
You have imposed on her

Well one day she will RECLAIM her skin
Her rushing tears
Will wash your demon-cab F150 away
With all the other vehicles of the LUCIFER PROJECT
And during the deluge
I will smile and juggle on a rooftop
While you CRY and PRAY for a helicopter