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[24 Jan 2003|04:35pm] |
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a bead of sweat that rolls straight down the spine and rings a bell, and ticks the clock off beat is missing time and watches when the heart stops blue then fades slow back to a violet hue, can't dampen with the drug-laced eyes, lucid lids fall for gallant pride, a river bed, upper hand of them, an army posed at the crescent moon, as a burning bush extinguishes soon, and links that break over broken dreams, a nested voice and open beaks, a feather scream sheds out silver blades and something decays in back of brain. the natural instinct rotted over, and grew, and oxidized skin to protect inner organs pulsating out, and scattered veins. healed by swollen things and cells and jewels and heat fed sinks, the passion drive the overtime makes jawbones crack and sawblades rise. who can stand to summerize a world that's fading, dies and dies, for life that lives and deaths that die, exonerated without a formal why? choose the choosen, free the forgotten dreams by gun shot levity. clicking conductor makes for solid state animated fine red lines, scratching through from underneath the skin come up and wants to breed, the lust and desire of sickening men a place to put the waste of them. patience and greed come sinfully but back to one square temptation seeth, in and out the tongue protrudes scaling along in hues of blue, and finite wonders of a pin-prick hand, waving out and stealing sand, an hour-glass shatters and crystal surface shaved, spider leg cracks are deeper than graves. push the pull but want more from that a proper use of a proper hat. a sophisticated conumdrum, with a white feather boa, wandering about in semen soaked deserts, the sand of which lines the pocket of thieves ignorant of their own kleptomaniac nature. forlorn and for sure a guise rended same, then peels the frame, layer by layer down until it reaches the skin, but doesn't stop going, it just digs right in. replacing red organs with broken doll parts, and becomes instantly cliched and feels somewhat gothic. tears drawn on black representing the cause of protrayl of misery, for pity and woe, and sadness infinitely.
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| footprints |
[22 Sep 2002|11:59am] |
where we watch our footprints wash away in
the sand as the water comes up to flood our
hearts too. lock hands and pretend to be brave.
white window panes. dusty book shelf spider
leg cracks, a dream leant to me from a friend.
walked this way, an edge in the distance
play by play of the heart ache, as bad as
the record scratches, and cut-out stars she
pins to her dress. se we pretend to dream,
still touching her body, a mime sleeping, and
singing her unconscious movements. i drink and
drown, and wash away with our footprints.
this (of course) is none of anybody's business.
what's the meaning of this? kissing dirt.
reduced, let out and carved. filled with ginger and garlic.
follow us...
i make no promises
kill me here.
now.
don't wait for a resurrection.
(i start to wonder if
you'd even care. and
i sort of think
you wouldn't. so
i sort of think
i will.)
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| throat vinyard |
[20 Sep 2002|01:27pm] |
predisposition to deteste the satisfaction
grinding minds burn to friction fused stopping
and the charred flesh makes for shelter for
red coloured mammals, pulsing through this place
in his honour they erect a statue not of his
likeness but of the man who killed him
and the irony is lost for most everyone
focussing and losing track of the unravelled
this and that it burns in flatted voices
zeroing at the edges as they sleep their
lives into harmonies and tamborinnes
the dusty chalk children stomp through
field of tall grass, clouds of white trailing
at their feet as the cut a pure scar through the
green. as the pour over the edge of the world
and spill into a translucent ocean,
a thin saline solution with the mildest of
pink hues taking up glitter from the orbiting
sun and spitting it back into their faces,
they cup the water in both hands and
watch as it solidifies, being seperated from the whole,
and they take enormous bites from their jelly
smile lecherously as they mature and pervert
themselves into disgusting oil-based creatures
they open wide their mouths as they
trek from the ocean, and way down,
past their teeth, in the back of their throat
sits a quaint vinyard and the wine just flows
into their esophagus causing them to be
perpetually drunk.
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| effervescence |
[14 Sep 2002|11:30am] |
the deranged and acid bathed babies let their
bleeding gum seeth out and taint the bath water
it was just what we needed to see at the particular
moment, one of those sanity restoring spectacles
that lets you know that everything is on track
gives purpose, perspective, and glues everything to
the floor, people might as why, but the answers
are still their staring up at the uncomfortably, and
they can't pick it off for the life of them.
at this point it is perfectly acceptable to throw your
head back and cackle a while.
one part incision, the next part... well, i don't know.
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| honeysylid |
[25 Jul 2002|03:41pm] |
mouth the worms in money, so much dirt to fill my head with
i'm a tomb to be the disconnected, don't touch me!
already dead enough of this was the training
all melts down a true examination long looks
distant longing a desperate heart wound, bleeding being
along, held together with star pins and needle wire
don't touch me, still filling the worms with mouth money
rich in the filth sinking into a world that covers
no remorse for the weaker once upon a time she fell
between the cracks, i feel between her cracks, and bare
my teeth, still sucking hair through the gun hole in
my head, the time piece touches a beating wing so much for
gold lever secrets intuitive devils walktz in and out of the
conscious mind, a dream like experiment to define a self defined
we're made of red edged buzz saw metal girls for the
hunks of plastic flesh that fly off her bones.
the dogs devour her soul through the slipping and falling
meat pours between the fingers and is sucked up in
syringes then injected into machines until they take
on human characteristics, and stare mumbling tv star voices behind
clost doors, the chains rivets through a lead pipe,
still waiting for the light on the other side
sand covered and pain glass wedding dress made out of
opiates the doll-bride faces a bleach-out sun
dipped in vats of acid, down to her bones, the truth
is skinny and decaying, so its rolled up and pushed
up against the gums and falls out of wide open eyeball
swallowing the insistant everything. pipeline through
the heart a highway of tortured flesh, dancing on fishhooks
still the patience deteriorates for the flavour of
absolution and a delayed response the rom the arms leaking
felsh, strand of blood tied to her hair, flowing red
ribbons tainted with the flavor of her clean disease.
the mixture of antigravitational prophecies
permeating sponge like flesh and rotting off the
desperate and the lonley. still screaming: don't touch me.
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| underneath the birth tissue |
[25 Jul 2002|11:08am] |
stop that mind from traditional convulsions
the pulsing of its heart felt direct source the imagery was burned like alogo
on the backs of children the naseuous sentiment a doctor climbs
on top of his patient, a primal vacant man
clearly dressed for a life in suicide
we mix our tongues in complacent conflict
pushes dull needles through burrow skin
cut the paper doll contender her spine dropped off(sick worm it is)
still filling each day with a haunted witness
the ripped of generalizations kill the sore men rubbing
powder against their teeth and laughing in a moon turning
translucent with all the pornography
we've had enough, stop chattering.
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| diagram of the collapsable self |
[19 Jul 2002|04:42pm] |
play back. pay back. the screen sting. the memory strings.
a mind fades. heart beats. losing sleep. between the sheets.
i am watching my body from far away
i am watching my body float far away
i am watching everythign fade away
i am losing touch everyday
straight back. side track. lines form. decision incision.
cut through. opening new. pieces of me. i'm coming apart
i am watching my body from far away
i am watching my body float far away
i am watching everythign fade away
i am losing touch everyday
knife nice. scaple plays. more of the same. the everyday
operation me. building back. metal plates. spine screws.
i'm into you. i'm into me. i'm into this. i'm in too deep.
help cut me open, and take me out. fix me up, put me back.
help cut me up. and cut me out. switch me off, put me out.
(sample from HIAWG: "i need a fix, cuz' i'm....")
video surgery. replace physically. automate my recovery. inhumananity.
i want to be. rebuilt for the 21st century. can you see? is it me?
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| lemonade |
[11 Jul 2002|04:53pm] |
open lips and lemon juice they kiss sour
saw blades in me cutting through you
the sweetest sucking on the skin thats torn up
the same connection as the tongue licks
all the forgetting dreams
curled you into my arms
you feel this much deeper
you feel this much closer
it burns and blurs through in sticky circles
swirls through the mouth with a knife drawn out
and puts its two cents in for a glass
and its only just a little upper class
the naked drink pours
inside mouth covered in sores
you drink this much deeper
you drink this much darker
blood comes from the head, blood comes from the neck
wretched licking in places that crystalized
remembers the flavour of the decay and the day old
throws up pennies from the second growth head
standing up on a lawn
summer days die/yawn
you suck this much deeper
you suck this much harder
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| human fixing human (pt. 2) |
[05 Jul 2002|01:24pm] |
we live and work in our cells
not alone we're by ourselves
choose to exist in this hell
the product is the soul we sell.
-|.-|.-|.||||.
connected to the forever ghost
ubiquitious she speaks so slow
unplug the juice a dried out mind
electronically i'll stay alive.
purely, cure me
i think i see?
i live, i breathe
human disease
our passion is the glass towers
machination of the higher powers
tripped up stairs for scentless flowers
take one minute to kill the dog.
-|.-|.-|.||||.
chain the walls to the beast
the silent dream that does not sleep
coma train to the a nine to five
busy bees that work the hive.
-|.-|.-|.||||.
from outer space the world is cold
analog mind within the fold
robotic bosses the lies i'm told
packaged plastic my soul is sold.
-|.-|.-|.||||.
a paritial wave of revelation
until the next brain wash station
i can't concieve of anything else
please i want to bleed, wanna bleed.
open vein, still remain
i bleed, i seethe
i breed, i need
human, who me?
i remember when the dust poured out
it looked and felt so very real
who am i, but this pixel corpse
if i have fear its for the horse.
-|.-|.-|.||||.
jump into the mainstream path
terrorists with designer class
everyday corporations shall reign
nothing evolves we rot the same.
program, my mind
i work, i die
i break, i tried
humans by design
elevator of the spinal column
static moves through the nerves
still working for a living
still working bleeding out dust
-|.-|.-|.||||.
a routine keep oil in machine
the system works the over worked
put to death the hopes and dreams
this is the nightmare on the tv screen
-|.-|.-|.||||.
all automatic for the days we wake
all emotionless for emotions faked
behind the masks of flesh we make
our metal bodies shudder and shake
-|.-|.-|.||||.
got to get out of this sterile cage
burn down this life no longer a stage
fight back style are all the rage
revolution kids for the new age
human fixing human
human fixing human
human fixing human
human fixing human fixing human fixing...(repeat)
purely, cure me
i think i see?
i live, i breathe
human disease
program, my mind
i work, i die
i break, i tried
humans by design
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| The Fate is To Burn |
[03 Jul 2002|02:00pm] |
They were laying their hands upon the stone table
and dreaming of drinking in a paradise.
Left their insomnia miles above them as they dug
deeper into the earth below.
Breaking through in grey rooms, and opening the
doors to a furnace with a musty aroma.
To breath in the stale dead air of a million wax
white winters that decay in lullabys.
Set teeth afixed in flesh too subtle to the song
of sometime haunted with gracefulness.
A barrier of stone between her heart and the
dagger that grows in open palms of mourn.
To a nature recoiled and suffering upon its slab
each wandering child drives through the blade.
Once the flesh grows cold enough and the soul
burns brightly in the pits of hell.
Dance upon the serpent sword to cast the
blackest spell to break chains over rotting backs.
Take the mourn for what it is
And push the veil from her eyes
Take the crush out of her spine
And put the red back inside
A tyrannical feast that forces it guests to
consume against will until sickness o'er pours.
To the rest of the days a million regrets until
the forgetting begins and insanity is no sanctuary.
All losing their minds to the grinding tune
of a black axe sharpened upon a tomb.
One day some one will come back to punish those
in a position of careless destruction.
And rip through the layers of buried flesh
and bone out of the arms of eternity.
Until the gates are opened and the armies pour
through as if to teach a lesson to ignorance.
Take what is in nature to take
And give back nothing to replace
Take life to drink and live more
When is an eye for an eye too much
(if a hundred lives to sustain one is accepted?)
If the dead rise up from the burning to realize
that repenting was a waste of their sins.
And good conscience lies not in evolution or
strength, but in the knowing that the world is safe.
What was never meant to be was the thing which
find it so much more deserving that anything.
Time to bring to an end the ending that brings all
things to what they've been intending, ignorantly.
The Fate of Our Souls
To Burn in Greater Ways
The Fate of Our World
To Burn without Sympathy
The Fate of Our Burning
To Burn and Burn and Burn
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| theories of something menacingly familiar |
[24 Jun 2002|04:15pm] |
red, white, and blue, and i'm prouder than you
guns loaded in a hundered million flag waving hands
hotter by the bullets they fire and the death they conspire
wait in clouds of smoke for the desperate demands
after all shots rang out before examination raised doubt
better not to think the paradoxes and ockham's razor cut deep
remembering marching men with blinders painted on them
dramatic messages of foreign evils haunts in sleep
it seems so true if one hunts monsters as you do
the monsters you hunt are quite possibly you.
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| ize eyes |
[19 Jun 2002|04:57pm] |
you take my blood and i build your hands
from what i can, looking into my eyes, looking into my head
breathing just the same, living lying shame
we hold hands on the grass, we breath gun smoke
and kiss our bodies good-bye
live eternally as the dancers that we dreamed we were
the kneeling upon a place where existance came apart
the dried old glue of what should and should not be
we realized that this is the stillness of our lives
that we cannot escape, and kiss, and wish, until it
all disapears.
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| her heart is a ice frosted glass |
[18 Jun 2002|04:14pm] |
sit on the edge of a rose pink bed
listening to the world fall down
sounds of glass and children's laughs
from inside the womb we hide our tears
from inside the tomb we live our fears
...
filthy little whore
filthy little whore
filthy little whore
i want more.
i, i need to be someone one else, i've enough time to myself
you, you didn't try, you didn't stop this from happening.
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| culturally numb to the self |
[17 Jun 2002|02:02pm] |
besisde the physical warmth, they forget the path they have chosen
swimming in iodized tulip beds, charmed their way through monogamy
ice starting to form on their hands as they deny frostbitten and black
under the carriage of birds the prey has begun to rot
we saw all the stars go out
and laid our hand on the table
stale as the night that dry decays in our throats
we whispered to the radio
the hope of days that have passed. the yesterdays we want to visit
a place where we can truly find the warmth
missing is the antiquated patterns of laminate dinner tables
with 50's chrome siding, and flower petals stained in pink-brown
the made a day for us to celebrate the way that we
should be proud
i have a gun to my head, and i think i'm holding its aim, but the finger
on the trigger won't listen to a word i say
all the pieces that come apart will come together one day
there was some kind of promise here
our shadows did not touch
still pain stakingly staking pain and joining
limbs in a lattice work, cage, to keep us all in safe
where you can jsut cut the nerves and forget what emotion was.
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| cachexia gardens |
[28 May 2002|07:25am] |
most of the time we hate the way you make us sick with those
words contained in the glass jars, the sun shining through
the translucent sap, in so many hues of green and yellow.
kept the illness bottled up and put it on display
why not just shove it in their face, put it up under a glass
case in a museum and charge and arm and a leg to get
yourself contaminated. feeling like you could be back
home on the farm dying a little in the rotting fields of
unharvested vegtables long since ripe and now splitting their
bellies with sore thumbs and burgeoning vines spill out
tangling on the posts and growing sweet in the ferment moon.
planted in a garden that smells like a tomb, a visceral stalk
lifting to the clouds, sucking out whatever moisture it can,
but only swallows the mouthfuls of static.
how is anything supposed to grow like this?
how can anything grow in a world like this?
all down these stomach walls the acid burns and a scorched earth
is all that's left, her pretty face a mask of the taught skin
over plastic bones. strung out through the rows and finally
distended through the empty sucking, puncturing the surface
of atrophied flesh, piercing the the way it used to be a novelty,
to be just like that replicant pile of waste over flowing
in gluttonous containers.
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| musing using |
[27 May 2002|03:56pm] |
we play on sexual sweet, and being making some kind
of inference towards something and i begin putting my
head between my knees and taking these really big breaths
and pretend i'm not here, because in away it felt like
i was raping myself, and i wanted to stop, its too bad
i'm never ever going to be here. i'll put a gun to my
head a million times, and a thousand times threaten to pull
the trigger, all the other times i will. i will.
one day you and i will be stain glass windows in a ballet
somewhere far far away deep in the pacific breathing like
we were meant to, together, i can't pretend not to want
to not want to not want wanting not what i want at all.
i just can't figure out how to make it stop.
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| it was an event if not eventful |
[22 May 2002|11:59am] |
i lost my spine over time in wakes over
rolling through the cellular structure of garden
weeds that bed to excise their grief in the tears
of manic garden ditch digging humid just hitched
neck springs dragging the skull across the
linolium pavement into the fast lane of single,
double, triple, quad... thin clicks making
it over the barrier, and beyond, not enough breathing
room, putting in more iron braces.
the game play was something of a frustrated banter
and it was over with before the word go stop the
floors were made of wood. a tangled mess of cords and
tests. when finally it fixated and finished.
there was this croaky kid making punk rock with a scarf
and some sort of attempt to be avant garde. we ripped
our muscles to pieces, and drunk staggering about
a bouncing stage made it through and proved my
vertabrae a rubber string,a nd my knees of stone.
some girl,thing,being made compliments and asked for
a phone number. my back is sore still. i want to sleep.
we made small talk and i broke many a stare.
this is a problem i have, eye contact is not my favorite
thing really. tabby noted this, and i would have to agree.
perhaps it is insulting. hm.
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| manifest in |
[14 May 2002|01:42pm] |
dorsal lateral manifest in
contortionist ideology of taking up the right path
and following a stairway of spinal columns into
the doors of perception, a backwards journey in time
to take a part the pieces of a clock never made by
hands, the twists on its axis and accurately explains
time as not a numerical value ever changing but as
a fluid movement of all things in a realm not
bound by sperations of any kind, this is why reality
can never truly be animated, because no matter how
close it comes to it, no matter how fast the frames
per second go, there's the glue inbetween that will
always be missing. their spines were broken by a
soft finger running through them, and pushing and
rubbing across the joints, the glue inbetween.
the proper integration of man into the world has yet
to be seen a successful endeavor. some prefer to look
at infinity by saying that on this very planet life
has cycled in and out, human civilizations risen and
fallen millions of times, millions of dawns of man,
and millions of ice age extinctions, and this is yet
another attept. well, not this time sorry, better
luck next time around. take a look at a map of
earth from space, we see the infected ninety degree
angles of man plagued areas, and the natural healthy
spots of earth as erractic and chaotic splotches
of water, mountains and forests, unconforming to
rigid square shapes... older cities however, some,
are free of the perpendicular lines, perhaps this
time around we were moving along alright for a while,
some how a developed evolution and desire to organize
and box everything in prevaded, adn killed our chances...
may as well pull the plug now, and let her start over
again, before we take it too far, and there's no
starting over...
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| i will break your spine |
[10 May 2002|02:49pm] |
i will continue to say "i will break your
spine" until i think of something better
to say... i will break your spine. i will
break your spine. i will break your spine
. i will break your spine. i will break y
our spine. i will break your spine. i wil
l break your spine. i will break your spi
ne. this shouldn't take long at all. i wi
ll break your spine. i will break your sp
ine. i will break your spine. now, i reme
mber making noises into a microphone and
feeling quit impressed by the sounds emit
ting from the headphones. i feel alone an
d distorted. this shall be a journey of t
ime and when we have arrived it will look
like the place that was left, with one se
cond following the next. i need a blue he
ad to mount atop this one, to pretend i a
m not me and am this much taller, and it
looks just like a neck anyway, or maybe n
ot, i just want to hide behind the skin o
n my neck, so i'll cut along the dotted l
ine on my collar bone, and tear up on the
flesh and pull it over my face like a war
m blanket, and put meat hooks through the
edge and dangle myself from the ceiling w
ith my meat hooks a plently, how lovely t
hey think as they toast their drinks, and
i cut threw them with rapid fire somethin
g warm and smells like lead. put the babi
es to rest mother, you and i have a night
on the town. a head of them a head light
they thought they saw him around the corn
er and he thought he was going to be ther
e so much for expectations. how cute and
carefree i build a ceiling from the floor
up and you just call it a cube, but i thi
nk its the lonliest room that you can nev
er walk into and she will not be coming o
ut of it, so we send it to the bottom of
the sea, so the fish can play with it and
make of it what the wish. i'm just dreams
but if you could see i'm sure you'd assum
e i'm all nightmares, sewn together with
some fishing string. that's right i remem
bered the fear that jumped up the junkies
veins, and the mad things they'd proclaim
like "the mark" o-oh-oh "the mark inside"
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semicolon's journal