enjoy the things you want.

.
an object to keeps you entertained.
occupied and engaged.
what a good twist of fate... that we know our selves... and we recognize the things we do.

just keep me busy slut. and let's enjoy it.
let's be useless together. happily.
i wonder what's in it for you... ha!

you wouldn't be honest even if you wanted to be.

absent pleasures.
-vixens-

Find something else to do.

you absolutely should not sit around here all day thinking about ejaculating.

but...
if you found the right seventeen year old girl, with the perfect face, i imagine you would lounge in her parents' house all day... alternating between reading her diary and fucking her on camera. ...which seems fine.

"you think I'm a fuck up don't ya."

your friends know...

and if there were a revolution you wouldn't be in the streets. you would be in a cave masturbating to transsexuals getting fucked by dogs.

so have a look at yourself.

you will kill you.

a time-slice captured can more accurately represent the impression that is made upon an individual than a precise recollection of the reality (the temporal sequence of events as brute physical fact) of what occurred in a given instance. Or in the case of a human being represented and not an event... the captured moment may mislead or accentuate in ways that reality would not... but there are certain angles and certain lights that make way for the perfect explanation of why it is that I recall an individual, why I remember them, as a whole, in the way that I do.

A painting fell off my wall.
I put it up with tape.
no nail.
Only adhesive…
so the fall came as no surprise.
It was a beautiful print.
So not truly a painting at all.
But a print of a painting.
My copy that I was free to hang with tape.

The tape was good tape.
It held for months.
But now.
With time.
The print is lying face down.
The artist's idea... face down on the ground.

I have not chosen to make amends.
I am passively enjoying the wall.
The absence of color.
The absence of everything..

I try to remember the print.
But my memory fails.

Without true choice.
That print fell.
The print of a painting.
The print that was mine.
The print that gave me pleasure taped to my wall.

I wish it hadn’t fallen like that.
I wish I had chosen to take it down.
So I leave it on the floor.
As things made it be.

where's your girl?

you might have to suffer tonight...
go to sleep unfulfilled, a little something unresolved, it makes you fight the drive for closure.

and you will lose... so your pithy bullshit leads you to the phone. leads you to the internet.
lord, you're a voracious consumer... trampling the planet on a crusade... with no focus, no array of belief, no backdrops, and no god damn passion.

Just a flash, the figures move from one position to another, and then the flash again...

moment to moment a scene unfolds, like a flip book.

from experience to recollection. seamless and elusive... you don't have a choice... it's the immediate and the actual... so you can count on losing everything... try whatever you want; control your behavior, outline your goals, look ahead. but the future's a bag of trash.

the pressure of the present crushed your plans.
..

you and all your friends.

in short: you're outta control.

just observe the elegance of figure. the shape is enough. and the rest... you fill it in.

closed doors

welcome to the land of hallelujah. hello. amen. i need no more. you don't have to say... anything.

there is a nice little place in my mind. a nice little something. something like right now.

the transcendental ideality of balls

this kid sits in his room. rocks out.

lights out. music on. loud.

when it feels right. he moves his hand over to the light switch/

he chooses a portion of the beat... and flicks the light on and off with every second pulse of the selected portion of the beat.

he does that for the equivalent of four bars or so.

the song ends. and he turns the lights back on.

the other kids in the room get up from their chairs.

as they file out one of the skeletons says:

"That was sick man."

ganj

you did it right

body art
straight up and down
a woo and a swoon.

the crown ain't for you.
you think too much.

used to hover in rooms.
now?
i'm just laughing.

stop, it is too late

Haven't slept in 7 years. And? What's good about living?

ass.

sleeves out

There were some sounds. I remember that. Some crashing sounds, but not very loud... it was like something small and skinny, something metal-like, falling a short distance into some other metal. But the crashes were constant. Just enough noise and I didn't get tired. All that fucking noise. I think a TV was on too. The crashes weren't from the TV. The crashes were real. I wasn't in the kind of state where I could investigate what was going on. I was stuck looking at the top right hand corner of a computer screen. Watching the little clock. I never thought about the temperature in the room. I never thought about my friends. There really isn't any way to explain... how I knew what was going on at all. There was a girl in my room. I guess that made sense. I knew who she was. Her face was familiar. Her body was pleasant. We weren't talking, but it was fine. It wasn't strange between us. I wasn't questioning anything with her. I think she was from Switzerland, or at least she was a citizen there. And the crashing kept on. Maybe it was outside my window. I could have lived in an industrial area, maybe an industrial district on the outskirts of an area. Somewhere in some gentrified bullshit. I 'm sure i could have put myself in a situation like that. Catching a wave to a desirable area, a cultural area. Maybe I'd like making music. I think writing music gets you pussy in areas like that. And it's like that. With a range of dots and lines written across lines and bars ink and graphite funnel through a brain and eventually come out as something for everyone's privates... what a bunch of fucking bullshit. Fuck. Why was I being like that with a nice Swiss girl in my room? Sitting next to me... sitting across the room on my bed, getting bored, not caring. I wanted to kiss her the whole time. And I did, but later. Right then I was staring and listening. Curious about all sorts of things... so I took the time to pay attention..

I let the world pulverize me. Sounds and expectations. The girl was there. The sounds were there... and I was locked up in an inner dialogue that I can't remember. Doesn't matter anyway. I've got new things... sounds and girls. Maybe a chest pain or the appearance of an object that disturbs me.


The Swiss girl told me something after I ate her out. She said "throw away your bullshit... you'll enjoy everything so obvious."

heavy eyes

Black History Month

National Nutrition Month

Arbor day.

9

“You see these girls?”

“I see lots of girls.”

“I mean these swanky bitches, these girls that are done up; fashion slaves.”

“Fashion slaves?”

“Yeah, they're slaves to their ‘looks’, they're always hyper about physical presentation.”

“I don’t know if I would say that they are slaves just because they care about the way they look, but I am pretty sure I know what you mean.”

“There was a real looker on the train the other day. She had those big sunglasses… toned skinny arms... nice looking collar bones. Real tight pants tucked into some Eskimo-job boots. She looked real hip. I looked at her for a while. I wanted to kill her.”

“You wanted to kill her? Why didn’t you?”

“Nice, you douche. I decided that I wouldn't kill her because I was afraid I would get caught by the police and that they'd put me in jail. Come on... killing some ignorant bitch isn’t going to cleanse the world of all stupid bitches and all the bullshit that made them the way they are..”

“Well certainly you were afraid... or you didn’t really want to kill her. And your just being a dramatic cock-sucker”

“Nah, I wanted to kill her, I wanted to take her into a subway tunnel and stomp her face on a rail. I wanted to break her down and fucking grind the pride out of her.”

“But you'll never do anything like that in your life. And neither will I. First off I don't want to... and second I wouldn't have the balls even if I found the thought appealing.”

“Nah, one day I'll just slay one of those bitches. I’ll stalk her until I see an opportunity and murder her; brutal kill, make her pay for being careless, i'll make her pay for her little fashion choices. Do my part to put these socialite sluts on their toes.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“What?”

“Keeping socialite sluts on their toes?”

“If I kill one of these socialite sluts then there will be a news story, her friends and family will be affected, it’ll be something.”

“I'm pretty sure it would be viewed as an arbitrary murder/rape”

“Yeah, I would probably rape her if I was gonna go as far as murder.”

“I don’t see the point. Well, I don’t see the point if it is actually about hating young socialite bitches. On the other hand... If you’re creating this scenario in order to mask your basic desire; to have sex with hot fashionable underage girls, then I follow your scumbag reasoning completely. It would flow something like this: You will justify the murder-rape of some innocent girl by claiming that her ignorance is a detriment to the free people of the world. Her poor understanding of poverty and power struggles makes her an awful person and you are going to be the one to snuff her out. In your world of self-aggrandizement and insecurity you can feign a hero status instead of recognizing yourself as a deplorable murdering rapist.”

“I’m not actually going to kill a chick.”

“Yeah it's all hypothetical, except for your obsession with hot fashion girls. Because if it was actually about hating a certain sort of predictable girl bullshit, and you really wanted to bring change, then why would you choose a solitary murder. If you really wanted to make an impact you would have to go into a serial killer mode. Or take some other equally extreme angle. It doesn't seem like your motivation would hold up. As a matter of fact I am curious what it is that you hate about these girls."

“Seriously? Get off my dick. And for real... those girls rub me the wrong way. Just the way they come across. With the sunglasses, the boots, the fucking elitist posture, the way they walk, they come off cold and disconnected, but then sometimes they see someone that they feel like they should impress and they start some really chatty bullshit, some smiley valley girl shit that's worse than anything else they could do. I guess I just don’t understand where their coming from. You Know? What the fuck are these bitches trying to do? Are they trying to land some rich dude with a big dick? Are they looking to get into some fucking opium party with celebrities? When I see these hip bitches they make me think that we aren’t the same species; like we’re so different that we couldn’t even mate right, like we would have some fucked up degenerate offspring.”

“I still don’t understand what you're getting at. How do you want these girls to change? What would make them better for you? Would they be better if they vividly realized all the elements of their surroundings? Would they be better if they paid more attention to people like you? Would you like them more if they were willing to blow ugly dudes? I would be willing to bet you my next paycheck that you would talk shit on a girl if she was with a dude that you thought was uglier than you. You would wonder what she was doing with that guy and have a subjective moment where you told yourself that you could definitely fuck her better, and show her a better time. I am guessing that you don’t have anything profound behind this and that you're just socially disgruntled and sexually frustrated. And you're talking all this shit about murder because it's the next most passionate thing. Really you just want to pound out some girl that has the look of the moment.”

“Man, you can go fuck yourself, all I want from these bitches is some awareness. I wanna shake em up. I want the bubble to burst for a few seconds. I want them to think that it’s all coming down, just for a minute. I’m not actually gonna do any weird shit. I don’t have the heart for that. I’m not cold enough. But I do hate the way those bitches are. The only way that I would stop hating them is if they became completely different bitches. If they got grittier, if they got so I could talk to them without feeling like I was being looked down at.”

“You are a disaster. Is this what you think about on the subway? These murder schemes, these counter culture moves? You are going to have to accept your little jerk off fantasies and scum it out like the rest of us. Unless you get up the balls to go out and crush some girls face, which would be relatively hardcore. If you became that serial killer you would get an underground kind of respect, to a small degree, along with the warranted societal fear. Actually, if you were to make that leap, you would be outcast, rightfully so, but I would respect your ability to transcend the norm. That being said; I would probably turn you in to the cops myself.”

“Would you turn me in to the cops?”

“Probably not... but I would be tweaked the fuck out by the whole thing. I would have trouble being around you. Actually, I think I would stand for one final meeting and I would ask you for the details of the kill and the fuck, I would try to bless you with some words, give you some cash, and formally part ways with you forever.”

“I can’t tell if the thought of going through that final meeting makes me want to kill a bitch more, or less. That would be a fucked up day. Imagine if we met up like that. I would probably just sit there and smoke a cigarette. Not saying shit to you like a hardcore bastard.”

“I don’t consider the taking of life to be funny but I would probably laugh if I saw your mug shot on TV. 'Maniac rapes and murders another sixteen year-old girl." Knowing that you went ahead and crushed like that, knowing that you went through with your hatred bullshit, knowing that you didn’t even have a good reason and seeing it all manifest might fuck me up. But you know what? ... that's what all this nonsense is about, the events in our existences don't need to be logical or rational... not in our subjective bullshit. We're just left to face whatever the brilliant inadequacy of cognition leads us into. If you witness your grandfather spit in a prostitute’s mouth, then you've seen it and its done. Its in your catalogue, if you find your cat dead in your driveway then you're left with that image. None of it really serves any purpose, none of it makes any objective sense, you just have to put up with it. Instinct has been abstracted and all the lines are tangled. Existence is fucked up... our survival tools have made us weird creatures. So you can choose to keep working on whatever's in front of you or you can get caught up in the frivolous battles of analysis. Some people choose to create long-term goals, some people use their brain power to focus on one immediate thing; love, string theory, whatever, and some people try to soak the entirety. Every potential use of brain power should be accepted on one level or another. Because when in doubt you can ask; "well what the fuck else should they be doing with it?" And that's the nature of the nonsense; A flexible abstracted bullshit. Logic and truth don’t have to have much of anything to do with it. If you choose to rape-kill some innocent socialite girl you are entitled to that choice. Most of society will hate you. Most of society will claim that you are in the wrong and they will claim that you do not have a right to your freedom. They may even decide to take your life.I maintain that if it is within the realm of possible action then you are within your rights as a free being to do it. You will face the consequences imposed by the social paradigm… and that is a reality, but the people that you reach with your action will be forced to handle it in whatever way they can. There is no other option, events cannot be erased, the species will move forward... the ecosystem, the universe, and so on. It's illogical... and it may even seem completely haphazard from a distance. But the illogical nature of decision-making changes nothing about the range of choices that are made. So we see a lot in actuality... a wide range of things in spite of norms... in spite of ethical structures... but what do we gain from ethics anyway? The ideal world is comical and the actual world is phenomenaly impressive as one compares it to the ideal world. So… do whatever you want. I think I would probably undergo some personal growth if you went through with your plan to kill girsl. I wouldn't even decline to watch the video tapes if you were to make them. I want to see how far you are willing to go. How far beyond the boundaries of fear you can go.”

“Get the fuck outta here. I caught that bullshit about freedom of choice as a free being. That was fuckin retarded.”

8

i like to think of the artist as extreme procrastinator, with three days left until a major gallery opening, he stumbles into his agent's office, stoned and drunk... and timidly pulls something from behind his back... "I shit in the hat... And that's all I've got."

6

My mother's had a cough for 14 months. Her face contorts and she hacks her throat out. Her body tenses to a point, she arches her neck forward, and her lips curl under body pressure. Her shoulders rise and sharp bursts of tainted air erupt from her mouth like dragon fire. My life has no direction. My most engaging endeavor is watching my mother fall apart, emotionally and physically. I am a soulless vagabond. I am still lusting after my ex-girlfriend. She is currently a drunk, in and out of rehab, and more generally... she is a hopeless sensation fiend. She has many negative qualities tucked away... but her most prominent characteristics happen to be very desirable charms; she is playful and she is classically beautiful. She is the type of female that has been grabbing sexual attention since she was 12. Not that she looks like a harlot, she rarely ever dresses like a slut, nothing like that, it is just that she has a slender toned body and an amazing face. She looked great in every situation. I have some wonderful frozen frame memories of sexual moments with her. A few in particular come to mind: spreading her ass cheeks to look at her asshole. Pinning her legs up, looking back and forth from the sweat beading on her tits to my dick penetrating her pussy. I remember looking at her neck while she would nibble my ear. The extreme close quarters of intimacy. The smell on her neck, sort of like her hair... also like her hands. It cheapens those moments... thinking of it like this... but its already gone. What's the difference... a reflection on my character perhaps. I haven’t moved on. She's still in my thoughts.

I have only spoken to two people, in person, in the last three weeks; my mother and her brooding male friend. Her brooding friend is an interesting study. He is a man that cannot control his anger, and he is miserable beyond reconciliation. He is abusive to every person that he is familiar with... and the notion he holds of himself far surpasses his talents. He is talented… he is a good singer and a generally intelligent person… but he has bolstered his internal image quite a bit. If you are familiar with terms that stem from existentialism then you will be helped by my description of this man as an absurd hero… or the absurd hero. He constantly harps on the fact that life is weighed down by the burden of maintenance. He delivers speeches condemning lawn mowing, condemning the laundering of clothes, praising David Mamet, praising Astor Piazolla, condemning people that lack culture, praising the last woman he had an affair with… these speeches vary somewhat but whenever he speaks passionately he comes back to the same basic points and the same key words.

i should clarify by saying that this man is not the absurd hero in the classical existential sense but he fills an almost identical role within the current cultural framework. he shares some traits with the classical existential figure because he recognizing the futility and presses on with his baseline functioning in spite of his recognition.

classless. degenerate. he and I.

is and am

5

Every little dance move that you’re doing means sex. I don’t know what you think it is when you start moving around like that, but all the gyrations, the circular motions, the changes in tempo... all of that speaks directly to my penis, feel free to continue. I'll be eye fucking you over here in my boner pose.

4

She blinked again and I read it. I study her face with passion. I like the material. I like the shape, the content, and I even like the aroma that emanates from her body as she passes. Tight zip-up hooded sweatshirt, wife-beater underneath, and velour pants over a nice looking causal sneaker. I love that look, the light shine of the material, the strings that hang down, both at the bottom of the hood and at the crotch of her pants, helping to accentuate and extend the line from her chin down between her breasts to her vagina. The aroma hits as she passes, it’s a fresh scent, sometimes lightly vanilla, sometimes lightly fruit, not a specific fruit, a synthetically acceptable fruit that gains its acceptance through emanation from such a tight bodied exemplar. There is a sliver of exposed skin between the bottom of her shirt and the waistline of her pants. There is a tease of stomach and hips and a cloth barricade above her trimmed patch of pubic hair. I steadily imagine it.(The desire to know that she wants you to slip your hand beyond that barricade can be overwhelming; overwhelming if you are infatuated enough.) The skin is there to intrigue, the creep shows and the normal people alike. There are no mistakes in this atmosphere. I smile from one hip bone to another, in control… but fancifully dazed. I wouldn’t be in danger of walking into a table, but my formulations are single track.

I don’t give a shit about hygiene, love, or consistency; I just want to cuddle up to some tenderness.