custodial methanol's Journal|
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|Friday, July 4th, 2003|
i wrote something on the way home tonight, in my car, in my head, but i forgot how it went. something about a car full of soldiers in the back of a station wagon. i decided to get a haircut and grow a beard, gain 30 pounds and have a sun. the grass seems yellow considering....
i hooked up with a job weening 14 year old kids off herion and it's amazingly hard. i teach art that i taught myself. and teach young fake artists to explain their addictions through 2 dimensional pictures. i teach them to love themselves and i feel good doing it. they think i'm cool and hip cause i know about rap artists and their newest joints. sometimes i wear a tie to work, sometimes i wear a t-shirt.
baby talk sylables
|Wednesday, March 12th, 2003|
|who am I ?
carbon dating old photos of yourself can be a kick in the balls.
I remember being five, twelve, fifteen, and thinking that the memories that I lodged in my head were that of the way things happened. But really I found that they only exist the way that I remember them, and that my peception can be right or as wrong as anyone else's. I just found a picture of myself when I was little with a dead chipmunk in my hand and I was happy. I don't remember killing it or finding it or that entire time all together, but this snapshot of me holding it, giving it a peice of my childhood, if only for a brief moment, made me realize that I only remember what I want to of myself and that my perception of you is only as clean as my picture of me.
I see that (until up to a couple of hundred years ago) that's the way history was. It was never documented, never stored in some megged out computer, it was just recorded from word of mouth, getting what the next story teller wanted to give it, and losing what that same story telller didn't agree with. Christ, how long till the new testament was finally written? thirty some odd years after the fact?
coke canals and wedding vows
seem so conflicting that something must be missing
old loves are pounding at the rate of a heart
and love is as simple as a car that won't start
and maybe I'm so blind that I can't even see it
and maybe I'm fucked like an eneamic beleamic
and maybe the time is an hour off
and maybe I should join the pigs in their trof
and maybe the and's are just running on
living like a king and stepping like a pawn
spitting like your living on street with no name
eating like you got another course on the way
pretending to repent but just passing it on
like your words being shouved like a lyrical baton
a gun in a hand is worth two when it looks Current Mood: write
|Sunday, January 26th, 2003|
lap top flat pads remind me
that money is not an option
old ties are hard to keep up with
standing still is only a thought
brushing your hair is for sissies
cafeteria food is not free
I wrote down evrything and said nothing to the point of exhaustion, and any parable can sound good if the right person reads it. coccaine stripes are walking and talking all the way to the desert. I am height.
I am with it.
reading is only a exercise and I am going bald.
i can't seem to do it.
i invented that too.
two princesses told me that saltines just take getting used to and to have patience with that kind of shit. I told them I was hungry and left, smeling something I remembered as a child.
can I beat this thing and love it at the same time?
i hope not
the desert plays funny jokes on you Current Mood: this ain't no diss
|Tuesday, November 12th, 2002|
gravitational padlocks echoes my dad talks
from a certain dimension I can't begin to mention
oh 23 years and I'm still here
ranting and raving and self indulging complaining
on how am I supposed to die when everything living
is burning out singing
so the screen door slams like a stake in each hand
skeeming and believing in something worth redeeming
I trudge up 3 flights and I understand what is right....
alone in a bed a naked sleeping girls head
bound with yahweh and fetal staged baby spored and unborn
I say upright with a hand clenched tight
so this is where light hangs out at night
breathing a seven course breath for two.
|Wednesday, September 18th, 2002|
|from the inside of a forest fire in Oregon.........
a biologist conquest
to a surface sound
over breakfast tables
tasting something that tastes like nothing
words ring out like symbols appear
breakdancing acknowledgement at the club last year
spitting cool spring water from my hot ass mouth
"oh these are the things that I dream about"
sticks float in the water
and the rocks grow green
the most ejaculating waterfall I ever did seen
from that chick in the east
pb&jelly without any yeast
and little bubbles float
aimless redemption on a mental note
sunlight beams on my face
so crisp I can taste
naked men finding zen
a personal giving tree
and amist of it all ashes falling on me
and amist of it all ashes falling on me. Current Mood: pregnant
|Tuesday, June 25th, 2002|
because I usually spit shit about
and robin feathers
because this is all so simple to me
a patty-cake giving tree
on it's highest degree
that thing called humanity
and all it's components
it's just a collection of moments
old man potions
and indian oceans
all this beauty surrounding me
but I'm terrified to feel
cause I've been stripped and ripped
like a florida orange peel
all in the name of something called grace
how I compromise so much for just a little grace
you know that feeling
your face to the ceiling
faking everything you've dreamt of
with a push and a cosmic shove
all in the name of something called love
this purifying grace
thats spores out of everyone's pores
I still don't know it
but I can't help to grow it
cause now that I feel something strong
I'm gonna split with it like a baton
till I know that it's wrong
cause it could only be right
it's too light to fight
my little muchacha
you hit me back like a maraca
forcing me to open this throat chakra
and maybe I shouldn't give out
when I should watch shit sprout
but I'm hungry for this
like a neighborhood kiss
like a neighborhood tree
that means so much to me
the only seed that grew
from the energy I push from me to you Current Mood: chipper
|Friday, June 21st, 2002|
|saturn's sex organs
because every single one of you mother fuckers are symbols. thats right everyone is just a symbol. I try. I try everyday to get past the exterior of you all. your projections of what you want to be, how you decide to come across, what cereal defines your taste buds, what kicks grace your clumsy feet, what side you part your hair, ect. ect.
I try to take all of this and acknowledge that it's just a front. that there's a core somewhere in that half hairy, half bald, mammmal vessel you've been placed in. I know you're all there but I can't tap into it. and I never will and it drives me crazy. It's like trying to find your car keys on a much bigger scale. I know what I'm looking for but I don't know where to start, the rooms too big, too cluttered.
but thats the beauty of humanity right?
thats whats so interesting about life.
trying to see what makes people tick.
but I'm so sick of it.
I want a soul.
oh god do I just want a soul.
even for a brief moment I just want to cut it all out. all the bullshit, all the second hand assumptions, all the drama of this realm, and just be real, truly real with someone, something, for a half a fucking moment.
tonight I'm sleeping with the solar system, no high profile masterbating senerios for me, the universe is my sweetheart.
holy shit am I nuts.
p.s. biccus just joined lj....... everyone say "hi biccus!" Current Mood: anything but human
|Sunday, June 9th, 2002|
before I was a candy store whore
before I smelt flowers based on their peddels
before I dreamt of Marilyn Monroe centerfolds
and the occasional field of marigolds
way back when before I began to begin
I was fresh
I was salty
I was true
undaunted from worldly issues
and telepathic "I miss yous"
I was beautiful in every aspect of beauty
I was you.
|Tuesday, June 4th, 2002|
|a poem a night
when I look at you I see molecules
I see dead sea scrolls
I see impending and relenting
all suspending on a branchville fire escape
I see you burning
I see you burning
I see people following you
copying your every movement
even when you are sleeping
I am keeping all of this inside
because I don't trust fingerprint smidges
or saliva-based kisses
or fortune cookie wishes
cause I leave burning bridges
yeah momma I leave burning bridges
and the taste in my mouth isn't fresh
it isn't pure
it isn't how you would describe it as the temperature of all humanity
it's too human for that
let the 16 year old girls take pictures of me
and laugh at them loving me
something so trite
as a fuck from the west
I am burning this bridge
so you cannot get to me
I care that much
to not care at all.........
|Thursday, May 30th, 2002|
I killed two birds today.
|Friday, April 12th, 2002|
|Tuesday, April 9th, 2002|
|I want to be rain.
I just got in and I am soaked. I went outside on my front stoop and watched the rain fall. I watched droplets of rain fall and land in puddles that other droplets of rain helped make. It was fun to watch the rain at work. making things, helping things to grow and live and be healthy. I got up from the stoop and walked out in to the rain and sat for a while. I listened to the river across the street become a little more alive. I started to get soaked so I took off my shirt and felt the rain fall on me and trickle down. I licked it off my skin and it tasted salty. every person that walked in or out of my building asked me what the fuck I was doing and probably thought I was even weirder than ever, I kinda liked that idea. after a while I got up, kissed the puddle that was much bigger now, wiped my forehead and headed up to the 3rd floor......
why can't I find a person that hits me like the rain does?
|Friday, April 5th, 2002|
|it hurts, it hurts
no it really does hurt. I was just scrolling through some of my interests, trying to locate some kool kids and I realized that montgomery cliff was not highlighted (obviously meaning no one else is interested in him). okay thats fine if you know him, has seen his work, or even despise him, I respect that totally. but if you are not aware of him or what an insane boy he was, then please, please, before you go and rent any new cheezy blockbuster please go out and rent one of his films or read up on him........... its what I can give back to society so there.
I'm off to the dog races.
|Wednesday, April 3rd, 2002|
|please everyone read this out loud, please!
"Once I thought that to be human was the highest aim a man could have, but now I see that it was meant to destroy me. Today I am proud to say that I am INHUMAN, that I belong not to men and governments, that I have nothing to do with creeds and principals. I have nothing to do with the creaking machinery of humanity-I belong to the earth! I say that lying on my pillow and I can feel the horns sprouting from my temples. I can see about me all those cracked forbears of mine dancing around the bed, consoling me, egging me on, lashing me with their serpent tongues, grinning and leering at me with their skulking skulls. I AM INHUMAN! I say it with a mad, hallucinated grin,and I will keep on saying it though it rains crocodiles. Behind my words are all those grinning, leering, skulking skulls, some dead and grinning a long time, some grinning as if they had lock-jaw, some grinning with the grimace of a grin, the foretaste and aftermath of what is always going on. Clearer than all, I see my own grinning skull, see the skeleton dancing in the wind, serpents issuing from the rotted tongue and the bloated pages of ecstasy slimed with excrement. And I join my slime, my excrement, my madness, my ecstasy to the great circuit which flows through the subterranean vaults of the flesh. All this unbidden, unwanted, drunken vomit will flow on endlessly through the minds of those who come in the inexhaustible vessel that contains the history of the race. Side by side with the human race there runs another race of beings, the inhuman ones, the race of artists who, goaded by known impulses, take the lifless mass of humanity and by the fever and ferment with which they embue it turn this soggy dough into bread and the bread into wine and the wine into song. Out of the dead compost and inert slag they breed a song that contaminates. I see this other race of individuals ransacking the universe, turning everything upside down, their feet always moving in blood and tears, their hands always empty, always clutching and grasping for the beyond, for the god out of reach: slaying everything in reach in order to quiet the monster that gnaws at their vitals. I see that when they tear their hair in order to comprehend, to seize this forever unattainable, I see that when they bellow like crazed beasts and rip and gore, I see that this is right, that there is no other path to pursue. A man who belongs to this race must stand up on the high place with gibberish in his mouth and rip out his entrails. It is right and just because he must! And anything that falls short of this frightening spectacle, anything less shuddering, less terrifying, less mad, less intoxicating, less contaminating, is not art. The rest is counterfeit. The rest is human. The rest belongs to life and lifelessness."
henry miller 1939.
|I need to taste again
"when I was young and golden, I thought all I needed was experience and I could create new colours, a new god"
this hits me hard. hard because I felt the same way, being it childhood or just drive I have given up on certain things. I remember back when I was sixteen and I thought the world was a much different place, I thought I was kinda chosen. I thought I was supposed to be this boy who was going to change everything. I wanted to teach people to speak in tongues, produce rain from their wrists and levitate when they were excited (ohhhhh levitating was a big one). I thought there was this huge reason that I was put on this planet. like I was some kind of prophet. I thought I was so close to becoming divine and the message was so close to the edge of my tongue all I needed was to see a little more and then I would be ready. while living in Ireland I met people who told me "YOU NEED to go to egypt, india, new zealand, the congo, prague" so many other places I couldn't even list. and when I found myself on an american street one day I found that all of was gone. My hunger was filled with sex and toaster ovens and college loans and underwear receipts. I found myself a person who needed a person like the person I was. I found myself like everyone else and my knuckles are scarred from the bite marks I enflict while trying not to get sick from all of it. right now california is too close, too near. all this shit lost its flavor a while ago so I'm just going to redirect my apetite and force feed myself the good stuff. I am hungry again, and the new colours will be beaming off my finger tips, and the new god is me.
|Saturday, March 30th, 2002|
|people make me sad sometimes
their christianing angels in the boiler room
their hanging their socks out to dry
and when the children start to laugh
they quickly teach them how to cry
all the dumpsters and the businessmen
they need to get refilled
so they go back to their mother's house
and find their goldfish killed
and all the minorities shout "there's more to me!"
and the women shout the same
while the preyingmantis from atlantis
opens a bag of cocaine
yeah I've seen them all before it's true
there's nothing to surprise
even the sex offender screams
"I can see through your disguise"
so I kiss my hand and wipe my feet
and handle my first clue
while writing on the interstate
that "nothings ever new"
and people stop
and people go
they do this all their life
they eat and shit
and work and cry
and fuck their buddy's wife
yeah it's nothing really new to me
I've watched it everday
I've watched their life just pass them by
like the Macy's Day Parade
so now I'm scared to be a father
and I'm just not quite a son
I don't quite know where I fall
I guess under "everyone"
It's not that bad to tell you the truth
I've been called more than worse
I've been outside at christmas time
asking for pennydimes from your purse
so now the quarters flip
and shale rocks skip
and boredom becomes a word
that people use when their lonely
but thats just something that I heard............. Current Mood: ho hum hum
|Monday, March 25th, 2002|
|the blue angel
and I woke up, hard, very hard I woke up and things started coming to me like a flip book. was it the gay scottish fireater who left the hicky on my neck or was that a scratch from the itchy morphine........... hard, hard memories of tearing off my suit back stage, downing the rest of my watered down gin and tonic, and waltzing out on that stage like it was the only truth I knew. I spoke. and. I spoke. I think I tripped and almost fell, but I did it father, I did it. and for the first time in my entire life I truly knew what it was like to be beautiful. and by the time I put my wrinkled clothes back on and stumbled out onto 25th st. at a quarter to 4 in the morning, I new I could cross off one more on my list and I was one step closer, to forgetting you.
|Thursday, March 21st, 2002|
TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE! ALL, ALL YOU MOTHERFUCKERS STAND BACK............................. this boy poet is alive...........
|Tuesday, March 19th, 2002|
|stream of conciousness trial #1
dusty and crippled I begin, I begin to peel an orange closkwise letting it all fall down to my thighs and it reminds me of her.....
shaddered luck, unable to tuck when she stops, drops, and fucks. yeah I've seen her most definately before. untainted from contest whores and nickel stores she beats them and secretes from them the body fluid as sacreligious as a celtic druid. ahhh yeah I was fooled, fucked up my agility cause she could down more burbon than me, I laced a glass with pills, hoping to get some ass and thrills by spending the least amount of dollar bills. It worked and I perked, up in the morning to see her flooring on the fold out, asking while begining to shout to defend my titlebout. so it ended up being drinking and thinking that her and I had in common, we spoke about how far we've fallen over coffee and ramen. It was quaint. huffing kitchen paint and declaring myself a saint, we pretended to be god's first son and daughter, loving and fucking up his whole order. We loved the thought of it, you know, fucking up HIS shit. ha ha yeah, thats what I said before bed on the 5th night, bragging and dragging my cock out to her delight. "it's us who fucked him, its us who fucked him", I said, I said to her and HIM with a hypnotic grin. I was it all, under six foot tall and making all the calls. until. until well, I found I had just been in my head the whole time and created this crime to ease my mind from some other shit. I got hit, hard. I bent over and cried over a bowl of cereal. Current Mood: listless
|Tuesday, March 12th, 2002|
|I hope I'm right
human admiration and love are two totally different things, believe it or not my entire life I had the hardest time differencating between the two........so, have come up with two truths to replace the old faults.
1) no matter what I have said, done, or felt, I have never been in love.
2) love does not exist.
look at me, pondering about this shit at my age when Arthur Rimbaud figured it out when he was sixteen years old. I gotta get my shit together. Current Mood: resurrected