(this whole post is all the worthwhile writings i have found in an old notebook of mine. the first entry was from 4/8/07 and the last being somewhere around my high school graduation)
2007
is that the sun? margaret's eyes caught the very last frames of the film, blind boy stuttering about bicycles and bookshelves. they'll preach to you on every corner, handing out pamphlets and prophecies, a history of random behavior. i'll push you to participate though i know it's your choice. wild animals choking on needles in the streets, holy patrons swearing off each others genitals. your anatomy is disgusting, your pride profound
. . .
fish dream of trees
children wish for less opportunity
happy to be liberated
let hospital beds float
surrounded himself with old magazines, never left the house
. . .
gas station cuisine
jamaican ginger smells like antique store
guitar butts.
under the stairs, dreaming of an artist.
hurry quick! my hair's falling out and my tongues a shade of green
ibuprofen, i've been proven wrong.
i've been proven wrong more than you'd like.
& jesus drives a school bus.
always looking like you just woke up.
and the sunset makes your face hurt
face burns like hell
sunrise hungover, over windowsill shining
behind gas-stations we'll whisper "revenge"
that's the sun? is that the sun?
. . .
a bluntwrap from mcbluntburgers
pickel mai weenie
snap my jerky bone
tacocancer
"my toaster sneezed out a tommy santise ego."
. . .
this old guy bill gave me some advice today
"you know what you do when you want a cigarette? go in the woods somewhere and jerk off."
. . .
birds and teeth
teeth and birds
garbagethought.
tomorrow's night's forever striking our heads
yesterday morning's groping forward, forward towards morning crisis
gaping mouth, yawn to me later
nurse of this mansion, wire them shut
. . .the siamese laughtracks frame the intuitive . . .
2008
ezekiel where's my scribe?
accelerated yeti salesman.
a rabie tag or a razorblade?
create-a-balm.
what's a balm?
keep hoping and praying there you discarded recyclables. a memorial service at the bottom of the ocean, rats on the transparent walls, putting on a reverse circus sideshow to the sound of lawn tractors getting stuck in the snow. eyelash freestyle apparatus . . .
pregnant roadsigns, mutilated typewriters, keep it all to that offbeat tuba that has a taste for amateur porn. a terrorist turning point, an abrasive lap-dance, coffee table hemorrhage. the plans to escape always witness dead house-pets with false teeth, mountainous terrain littered with commercial airtime, domino serpents salivating a politician's dry cleaning onto even more dilated personnel and amphetamine fingers.
watch the television, smoke that cigarette
the skeletal remains of a manhole conception.
acidchurch.
the holy contraceptive.
don't feel violated, god's touch is sometimes misguided
that's all.
your child has no lips and you exploit that.
you're quite welcome for the invitation to this inverted lawnchair burning ceremony.
throw him some change. throw him some love.
. . .
i'd eat more tin cherries.
put some meat on those bones. the camel and the spider drank their night away. take this from my evaporating palm.
fishermen look down at their feet.
the sky is the color of mindlessly mixed play-doh
white fence surrounded by dirty snow
the glare of misplaced churches
squint at the police station and smile
a house with no windows on fire
a chopstick orgasm
expensive larrytads on marblefront.
lost traveler without a face.
prolonged marijuana use and it's effects on tim cahill
pondering the absurd becomes an unbreakable habit.
the solutions to problems, even of the everyday sort, are solved by themselves and in a very out-of-the-box manner.
instinctual and priorly learned patterns of thought and behavior fall apart. the absences of a mistaken reality are filled with a psychoactive spiritualism of sorts that has a stronger ease of understanding than what has been provided before the state of
thechurgofsonichris
. . .
broken marbles in the attic?
a large man in only trousers reciting the alphabet backwards at the top of the attic stairs.
the attic stairs.
the attic stares?
a pair of broken glasses at the gates of heaven.
saxophone solos preserved.
. . .
when tom lane missed the ground.
you and your handjobs.
straight out of the hobo's mouth.
if only i knew what that dollar bill was.
why are her legs coming out of her tits?
scott bach brownie crucifix.
ms. ng pop-out that gives you a cigarette.
& make me giggle a whole bunch.
you get a doughnut.
the hesitated bite.
a mixed drink from martell's.
get the kush off the . . .
get the kief off the kush!
awww bags of bones.
you ever think about anal sex paul?
sometimes on the weekends.
why the weekends?
because that's when i watch america's funniest home videos.
i got married at joe karpp's funeral.
. . .
miscreant bond
take away the hands of a clock
cold cups of soup, careful around the cops
sharpened axes
goliath
has violent reactions to cartoons
lucas price and rainbows
when's the last time you ate macaroni and cheese?
well i don't give a shit!
windows 95 star screensaver
=
mr. heinz does bowflex jerking off but his dick is a newspaper.
martell has six fingers.
the more the merrier
if sobriety came in handfuls
martell's home-made potassium skittles.
eating face.
nick volpe in the bathtub rolling cigarettes.
the cow don't go moo there.
. . .
the deaf opera man, tears see-saw down your tongue, there's only so much we can do with mobs of swollen x-rays/dental caricatures. lay hands down to the pavement, make love to the manholes that won't retard to a state of stale fingernail collage. rejoice, stare at the sun with inverted shine, hide in the dry-cleaning and recite the names of past loved ones through aquarium landing pads and discarded ashtray. written on settled steam, next to gas-station surveillance playing through the motions of technicolor laughter.
sadistic vagrant.
kevin watson's chili flavored jerky.
meat me at the corner.
i think of us as a common house fire.
wurtsboro kids turn everything into 9/11.
we're not throwing rocks at mr. wysochansky's windows.
martell's yuckpants.
solidly wasted.
. . .
toaster bandit seven! this is a message from the depths of the portal that is chris van loan's screaming eye socket. owen goodman eats soda cans under your blankets with technicolor overalls on. dead horses fall on mr. maranzana's convertible in the disney world parking lot. fossilized bad animation of mr. cook making non-linear movements with substituted backgrounds frantically changing from bright forests to television static to monster-truck driving to famous speeches presented by dead relatives. his teeth are so white, so bright, they stick out to the point where my brain pulsates to the beat of a brian ruperti neanderthal bongo bangmaster 97'. is that the sound of a million dogs crying from the upstairs? oh, nevermind that. it's just a mike richardson ronald mcdonald breakdancing on the steps of the white house. brandon finnegan chugs some tartar sauce out of ms. nutter's sloppy tarantula. tom lane threatens to blow up a dead nantackerhaglen if you don't show him your randysack.
typewriters eat tongues, magnifying glasses fuck up all that's been banned by the unruly fagtard swing, his tantrums slide across the rainbow terrain with dent-in-head, purple casket dancing in the horizon. who will take the inverted swordfish mechanism to a banal grand piano motel panty-raid with high rivers of backwash biscuits eating away at your brain, at your mind, at your ego, at your head as you can't feel your spine melting into the banana shaped mold at the top of this heap of garbage.
pick through the tangled mess of transsexual cranknoose terrifying blood sculptures bouncing down the agricultural avalanche through a time of distress, a time of standard rake and shovel valley scars tweaking the gravity belongings of past woolface grin freaks breaking trashcan memorials looping backwards pas unicorn carcass repeated. bastard freezing hallucinations from a less than furrowed brow.
large bullets
red blastcone detonation, saturated quicktime whistle sting through stained glass at the bottom of the business man's tap dance teddy blasphemy. cherish the moon-beam rascal rape scene behind a curtain of polaroid clouds, herds and herds of them, lift your knees high and chatter to the cranky slatwatch. barren waterski lounge acts slice their terrorist citrus at a slinky apparatus angle. a field of exotic grasses mocking lethal automobile accidents and old recycled footage of law firms swinging sledgehammers, left and right and to the shimmy shake black man laughter resonating throughout the cobra candy cartwheel.
. . .
pack up. don't talk.
candle-light breakfasts through sarcastic elevation drops.
dreams of stone cold steve austin calling you on the telephone asking a big favor.
surgery on snails or towels over serpents faces.
scalpel dance locomotion.
modern catch lantern station.
your heads in the clouds, hands in the coffee
echo with doorbells
head in for sound
caught in a smoking adding machine
echo with bass-drums
pattern be wrinkled and covered in shapes
wear it to the diner
order pleasantly
that needs to be 8,000 times louder.
there's a lot of wizard of oz going on around here
the pipe takes everything and throws it up on stage
the good and the bad
either way
satisfying as absurd entertainment
keeping me content
& always absorbing all that's irrelevant and unclean
. . .
rubber raindrops come slicing through that heavy antique windowsill that's been sittin there for ages. the little ones play games around it at night. uncle sleaze sets up the tents and they all re-enact world war II to techno banshee cans lancing the sunlight from underneath an overcoat.
chuckling moose carcass slur. tombstone butter spread all over the walls makes lil johnny v a nuisance. don't bite the walls you lingering miscreant, you smell like burnt hair and there's no escape from the wrath of your texas toast grin. a jubilant pig's cry leaks out from the foreign cellar, bouncing off the lashes of a crucifix made of jello.
why are those windows doors now?
they boarded em' up. too many law-abiding citizens complaining about lock-jawed asians staring out the peepholes, their eyes floating in old preserve jars resting in the laps of hermaphrodite tigers.
riding up to the old rand for the first time i knew it was nothing but funny business. the aroma of off-color pornography filled my inviting nostrils, showing off the dead canaries stuff in the rain gutters crooning over an invisible soldier.
a doorknob so soft, a soft so close to coffee and bile, alligator missiles protruding sideways down the crackpipe glare. the doormat conveniently placed upside down, a moving picture with steady views of clapping hands and backyard vasectomies.
chandelier welcomes, all hostility exits.
a butler by the name of "boy jervis" helps you with your coat, performs fellatio on leftover sear's catalogs, taunting the other health-nuts hanging in cages. lazer serpent, bubble to my heartbeat for we are all one in this race of scissor anxiety and inbred electric heating. show your teeth to dairy sores, cough up sharp candy into the paper bag of gasoline and fun. an abundance of deer in the alleyway all staring at the same point of an eclipse cremated. in pouncing position, bebop basslines sprayed from a nearby convulsing cartoon, incapacitating my naval dreams, sitting me in this armchair which is giving me the upright incentive to come alive, to come around and see the family all joyous with
thechurgofsonichris.
xanax burger.
noise pollution.
the more the merrier.
. . .
a broad political light reflection, challenging waterlogged pulp novels and tracings of sylvester the cat, all spattered with coffee and spermicide on the glass table you swear an asthmatic dentist collapsed through last year. militant hobos scratch through the grainy projection. an automatic teller machine in the refrigerator gargles up storm clouds and a nice fellow they call "sharpknife eddie".
eddie like to carry around a crucifix in his stomach.
neon yellow planters on the windowsill, not sure of my actual position in the room, the ceiling in view making crass remarks through intestinal straw.
out of the closest window, potatoes roll off a shed's roof in a constant stream, flies barely stir in the dead grass, marketing their patriotic literature oven an underwater satellite system.
front me the human burger.
that's the color old.
punch a girl and get high.
the cigarette that won't go out.
. . .
let me see your hands nigger.
masturbate chaps on bubblegum release.
bandstand shooting range, bloodbath masquerade at the brim of the plastic man's coffee mug.
lost in the stripes, lost in the love that walked halfway up the cigarette littered shingles
sent stale smoke signals from virgin nostrils.
stare across a cafeteria with nothing but the idea that all children love violence.
narcrucifix.
cavity nesting species.
small town vacancy destroyer
last of them high school heroes
walk through doorways with full bottles
crawl out with dignity shrapnel lodged deep down the advertisement gullet machine's grimace technique.
. . .
don't let me see those tantrums of sex and rage
play the musical saw and grimace at your attitude
a pelican laced into the pillow. barbaric pliers tearing down the thin reverse-acoustic walls.
a man named tony gave me a lift from the service station i just held up with nothing but the magic carpet behind my eyes.
don't even consider the searing piece of sharp plastic pink to be an act of aggression
it was a textbook case of spontaneous imagination brought on by lame/intricate cannabis logic and the contents of a cough syrup bottle in the woods some 15 miles back
probably now rolling in
thechurgofsonichris
. . .
spiritual pedophile
everything changes into the sun
off color seating in patterns memorized by the tired catwalk authorities
by the surveillance cameras reaching for stimulation and rest
a last minute landscape of tacky plastics and recycled vending machines
who tell tales of crass drunken shoppers flexing their fingers at the sun
a beautiful green washes over cheap brick finish
a dark car channeling it's history through rough clouds dancing out freshly cracked windows
