October 2011
when you love a black haired girl, the ravens find themselves a parliament and convene, and in raven-speak discuss how tyrannical the movements of your sex are. the unkempt dictators of your sex ravished in fluids and smiling, unruly dances give the storykeeping parliament of all much to discuss. while you fuck your raven haired beauty, the black winged ambassadors conspire, and conversate, and...
in your dirty misery, forgive those who brought you low like them, and save your savage kisses and long tongued lickings for cat-like evenings despairing the white bone landscape you live on top of trying to capture the moon
your black and white movie is over and outside the apocalypse has been raging forever. the sidewalk is full of scars and the girl you kissed goodbye turns into a demon, a succubus, and rides off in a cab with tiny bat wings flapping gently, tornadoes rising from the cut wind. someone walks past you and nods their head, another tipping their hat, everyone’s grin a grisly exclamation of faces....
it’s that time of the season when my friends start talking to me about politics and I’m like I don’t even want to hear about it unless it involves amazing tits, kthanx.
a stern father sitting in a minivan taps out baseball scores in morse code on the window. cool moments before rain dazzle the sky color, casting every cloud in some misshapen play. outside, kids play, americana, wonderful youth throwing shouts and laughs and innocent name calling in rebounding, ricocheting ignorant delight. inside, tired housewives think of banging strange handsome visitors while...
friction taped the nose cone of a rocket, like an erection seeking somewhere to collide and explode, it spins away in the dense night. above and below, detonations. awkward silences fill unheard gaps and apologetic conversations from outside shuddering doorframes. vice stings the air like uncoiling cigarette smoke. fractal televisions dissolve newscasts into black and white grisly pornography,...
September 2011
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how to troll forever
me: Radiohead sucks.
token friend: WHAT HOW DARE YOU THEY ARE GENIUSES WHO HAVE INNOVATED GOOD THINGS FOREVER
me: You know, it's really they're just too simplistic. And you know me, I love AC/DC and ZZ Top, but Radiohead? Yawnsville.
token friend: [becomes lost in inconsolable seizure of rage and shouting in demonic tongues]
"yeah seriously! when we saw them I legit liked...
to be dead honest most of my friends who are musicians are all “one guy, one acoustic guitar, lyrics about the pussy I don’t get so girls will talk to me” sort of bullshit, but they ROCK OUT. they’ve been getting a bit more rock into their prog, which makes them sound a bit more Wolfmother-y.
AND WHO DOESN’T LOVE WHITE UNICORN
The foot of the statue towered over Childe. At the bottom was a wide, round door. Surrounding the door were patterns and glyphs and paintings, etched in, worn away. Childe walked up to the door and knocked.
A smaller, grey door, laid in the surface, slid backwards and opened up.
Come in! A voice from inside beckoned.
Childe walked into a room that was a white, incredible expanse. A man in a...
Childe got off at the dock, in the shadow of the first statue. It towered above him, seeming to stretch on for miles and miles. A giant foot, etched below a robe, with a big toe the size of a small hill, rose in front of him. The Dock Man bowed, and made his way back to the boat, his hand clutched around a gold memory.
Walking towards the statue, Childe happened upon a truck, full of coffins....
The statues loomed in the distance, spreading shadow everywhere, and Childe looked at his feet. He was wearing simple black sandals. He smiled. They must look funny with his understated grey jacket and black shirt and black pants. Childe looked like he had been dressed in a monochrome era.
As he came over a hill, a wide pool of glistening, velvet water stretched out in front of him. A lake,...
Childe tried to stroke the air in front of him, find resistance, a surface. Nothing. Finally, stumbling in all directions, he settled for one and walked. Beneath him the ground was cool and the grass shifted and murmured. The valley he was in dipped, and above the edge, in the distance, he could see giant statues. They must be miles tall, Childe thought.
I wonder what they’re of.
Under a...
He remembered leaning against a tree when it surprisingly exploded. Everything flew around him in a nightmarish green hurricane, the grass, the ferns, the trees, the streets of blue above as he spun around, landing on a hill. The breath exploded out of him uncomfortably and he slid downwards, waving his arms like a crippled bird, until a strong hand wrapped in bandages grabbed him.
Wait, said a...
how I operate
her: why is everyone trying to get me to sleep with terrible people tonight slash why do terrible people think I'd willingly sleep with them tonight
me: because you've demonstrated terrible taste in everything?
observing friend: "because you've demonstrated terrible taste in everything?" I was going to try and ease that in but go ahead and just jam it in there with no lube
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“I increasingly think fucking is like robbery: get in, get the goods, and get out...”
– Eric
twoonish asked: hey I have the same outfit
“I assume the Midwest is where people are from — no one wanted to live there, in some bleary-eyed nowhere, with the high school football team and sassy out of town ladies coming into the local dive the only bright spots — but as soon as they reach an age where any transportation is available, you crawl out with bloody fingernails as fast as you can. You never want to live where...
all the songs you enjoyed when you were a kid were probably about sex. then you fall in love, a little older than that, and you spend your time hoping your life follows a slightly higher paid, more fulfilling track than most of the people you meet. no one has enough money and satisfaction, and everyone wants to be a rock star. sometimes you meet people who will kick the door down, but quite often...
let me put my postmodernism into you, babe
and it was a confusing time, trying to reconcile my bleakly frenetic taste in albums and accelerated corporate wardrobe with California girls — no longer the Beach Boys tasteful extravaganza but rather the swarming invasion of middle California, some preposterous northern inland empire — the dyed, the tattooed, the disgraced whoredom-as-comedy shoe-obsessed husband seekers, crawling...
punch-up
Zach: I don't like fighting Dan.
Hoffer: No, see, I'd fight a guy Dan's size, but I do not like fighting Dan.
Me: I'm strong.
Phil: Crazy retard monkey strength.
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I'm at that stage where now anybody with an accent...
sweet jesus
as odd as it sounds, one thing I miss is having a girl lie on my chest talking weird shit. because that’s what girls do when they lie on your chest — they either talk weird shit, massive insecurities, or they make awkward fun of things wrong with your face you didn’t know about. it’s like a universal law or something. “oh, all the hairs under your nose are grey and...
VACERRELLI
underreigns:
I can’t get on ask boxes. If you need to stay awake you can entertain me. I have to stay awake too.
WHOO NOW IT’S A PARTY
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I'm at the stage of "so tired" where I have to...
it’s insanely difficult too
what with the soothing forties jazz and absolutely no one in the lobby
I suppose the only way to survive this IS to overthink so hard I can’t stop thinking
SELF DESTRUCTIVE SUPER BRAIN POWER GO!
PHI YOU'VE GONE MAD!
MAD WITH WILD WEST ABSOLUTION STYLE PREACHIN’ PHILOSOPHY!
san jose
was alright. as always. every time I get off the Caltrain and walk towards downtown I can’t help but notice how much stupid people in San Jose look, though. I feel like the more south you go in California the more doomed people are.
but, hung out with the old guard
arguments, name calling, cake, chicken fried steak, devil coffee, rye whiskey, christians, dinosaurs, giants, calling Peter...
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munchies for pretend-thought
on one of the myriad sites where I attack people with writing, I came under fire from a delightful activism-obsessed manic-depressive wee squidge of a lad (Ras for those of you in the know) who decided that I was everything he despised in the white male power complex blah blah blah blah.
the interesting part was, re-reading his comments (and attempting to discern the meat rather than the...
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possibly my favorite youtube comment ever, on a...
“Doctor Who David…why is your head glowing all orange an shiit….what’s going on?….oh shit that looks bad…seriously dude you should see someone about that….no wait…wait….wwww……oh my god….who is this mother fucker?”
huh
The Book Thieves, Chapter III?
“There’s twenty seven bookstores in this part of the city,” I say to the therapist, who nods. “That may sound like a lot, but it isn’t. Most people don’t notice speciality bookstores because they look too Christian, too new age, too nerdy, too boring. There’s tons of those everywhere. People notice big chains, Mom and Pops, and used bookstores.”
...
last night
drank with Phil (as usual) and Hoffer (who bitched about women and talked about going into the army) and Zach (who rambled and drank too much) and Emma (who laughed a lot) and Chad (who had stories about Phoenix and conspiracies) and Jeff (who was grumbly and amusing as ever) and Jeremy (who drank too much and totally lost his shit) and David (who told the same corny jokes as ever). good night,...
it’s one of those drunk nights that ended with everyone arguing and shouting and puking and throwing things and I nearly got killed by a beer can and stole someone’s hat and someone explained how shit was shit. I guess that’s right. shit is shit.
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okay I love you Doctor Who but why all the fucking...
Lou Reed said it. wait, no, Rutger Hauer.
Sometimes it’s hard to write, when you have a lot of ideas. How can you bring them together? How can you flesh out a skeleton with just organs wrapping themselves incongruently around some misshapen thing you could never make out of clay and breath life into? You write a story, you write a poem, you write a song or a novella — you want it as a child, something to make you proud. Or you...
