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Friday, May 28, 2010

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

I feel like I should have a twitter account.

An account to document my haphazard dreams found written in-between an ashy white zig zagged papyrus. A pitter patter of my moments lost within ten seconds to some futuristic typewriter.

A good first step would probably entail visiting the site. This seems necessary to any global scheme that involves global blogging and public forecasting. So wait for me twitter, while I type that address into the bar...

Tweet. Tweet. TWAT.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Fallen Angels

Saturday, May 22, 2010

I want to learn the drawl of an apricot.

I want to waddle in its commas and sit quiet in the pool of its surging glory. I want to see the chunks of an incessant tidal wave puddle round my feet while the remnants of her sticky chewed gum sit quiet on my tongue. I want to hear her slow flavors peel off into a liquid syrup.

I can feel her bumps meld into me like an electrifying tangent of roots waiting to be throbbed. It is here I wait, camped in the silky juices, head covered, sound throbbing deep within an empty hole.

I want to learn the drawl of an apricot.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Every stress in these sheets are morbid.

These crease marks line down my body as my frail legs begin their weighted escape into the world below. A sensation of frosted fangs begin to nibble on my toes as my weary patience waits for the remnants, of visions too dark to bear, to whisk way. A moons waiting fog settles in the distance.

Death, I saw again.

I touch my face and caress my eyes only to realize the too many dark corners that puddle underneath.

I am tired.
Very, very tired.

My mouth has begun to move and soon falls into its old practiced patterns of cadenced whispers.

"Not again...please...not again".

And while these haphazard gasps of silent screams take notice, I look to the presence of the beast found still. Its arcs, blacked in an undefinable, cascade down within my heaves of multiple breathtaking. Here I have found a beauty so content in torture, that god himself could not have helped but to stare in wonder.

Her rotting perfume was already beginning to dissect its pattern into my skin and while I waited for the slow decay to seep into my pores I could not help notice but:

I stink.
A rake of flesh has sent rancid sweat down my nostrils. A whiff turns something in my stomach. My mouth begins to taste like metal.

It is here, caught within the confines of the empty space of nothing that a conduit opens within my brain. A tremor sparked within the fault of its own word.

I don’t.

Its quiet patience is what has scared me the most, an unwelcome divinity lost within my caress. And so, while these currents continue to surge up my spine, I ask for an answer to a question that no one knows but it.



Several seconds pass by as I wait patiently for a resignation that I know I will not receive. A commerced transaction left unsatisfied.

My feet have finally touched the carpeted floor beside my bed and my sigh has grown audible.

Morning, comes again.

Sentenced Fingers.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

I hate Old Spice. Here are the reasons why.

1. You do not smell like spice (False advertising, I am going to sue you).

2. You do however, smell old.
  • Thats nasty.
  • I now smell like death.
  • The old guy sitting in the lobby now thinks I am his long dead best friend. Thanks. Assholes.
3. The plastic casing is red and the deoderant itself is blue.
  • My fashion sense is sensative, and your contrast of colors is an impediment of good looking things everywhere. Someone should sue you for this.
4.  I do not own a sailboat, and your logo with said sailboat hurts my feelings.
  • Fuck you.
5. Your deoderant gave me rash under my armpit once.
  • Thank your gods that I did not use this on my pubes.
  • Also, I am going to sue you for this, again. I also took pictures. I have evidence. 
So it seems Old Spice, my once dear friend, that we are at an impass. My need to sue you and your continued need to suck have reached a boiling point. Arm your pens and draw your contracts because today, you messed with the wrong body odor.

I call a jihad on you Old Spice, on one dirty perspired drip at a time.

*Note to the US/Canadian/EU governments: I am not a terrorist. And I apologize for the jihad comment. No more I promise.

PS: Please take me off your list. Paweese?

My gr. 8 best friend found my blog and read the post about him.

I felt really awkward when you told me because I wasn't sure weather to thank you for reading it or subtly deject the conversation into other realms of thought. But, I think we navigated out of dangerous seconds of unsure silence relatively skillfully.

Well done.

Truthfully, I am not entirely sure why I chose to tell you about that moment this way, but safe to say my tools of communication are often twisted and haphazard. Im just plain weird really.

Anyways to make a short story long, its good to have you once again back in my life as a real person and no longer a figment of memories long past. Always my brother. Much love Jesse, and we'll talk soon.

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Unnecessary Divine.

It is often I wonder about god and ask, why do we care so much? It is here that I ask about our obsession with "creator" and conclude, does it really matter? Why do we feel the need to be involved with something, that is supposedly everything? Are we so obsessed with an attempt to comprehend an "All" that in the end we lose focus of an actual truth, namely our very own humanity? So I ask you again, does god in the end really make any sense at all?

Even if such entity existed and life was illusion, do you not think our own cognicity would be enough to superseed?. In the end we are nothing more but matter manifested. Thus we remain quarks, strings and thoughts amalgamating themselves into something VERY real. A talking, breathing, loving human. A life lived through the observation of control. A quantum gasp found in a breath.

Conclusively, I don't really mind if universe and time itself were pre-determined simply because I KNOW (be it under false illusion), that I converse under the action of free will. I KNOW my every action impacts a soul and I KNOW what reciprocal effect that may levy unto my body. There will be no saving grace to come and rescue me, nor will there be any otherworldly to come scoop me up when I fall.

I have only me to count on. My life, my body, MY one.

Lets say a symbiotic universe existed. Let us for a moment imagine a working wonder stored in the chaos. What then? Do we try and pick up few skeleton pieces found in long dead stars, or do we start to listen to the hopes and wishes of our very own living throbbing brain?

Perhaps it is just heaven we are obsessed about. A supposed "perfect" only achieved in death. It is here that I sit and converse once again. Why it is necessary to subscribe to something that in the end cares about nothing but killing you?

A vicious god she is.

We live in world so jaded with love that our eyes have ceased fathom the Eden in which we walk. What, I then ask, are we searching for that cannot be found on this planet? What are we so sad about, that cannot be achieved within this human breath?

Love? Peace? All that remains. We experience this in our everyday lives. Your mother. Your father. Your lover. Your friend. Why do we need a god to make that valid?

Fuck omniscience I say. The bitch didn't know love until we showed it.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

Little Girl

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Today it was clarrified to me, that pants hanging halfway down your ass is drawn up as indecent exposure.

Now seeing as bums laced in white "Sportman" boxer briefs are quartered into the same category as say a, flasher giving an old lady the old one eyed snake, I figured a strong rebuttal against archaic procedure is in order.

As any loyal follower would remember, I once wrote a piece concerning my flat ass and the unbridled prejudice I encountered due to such an unfortunate genetic mishap. There prejudices were/are namely centered in the account of verbal obscenities drawn within correlative remarks about flat walls and rectal cavities. Not cool.

Look, low hanging jeans just make me feel comfortable ok? I don't enjoy the bunching I receive in the frontal pelvic cavity, nor do I sympathize with inseam that magically transposes itself into cracks better left unamed. A 4 inch spacer between the waist and belt is all I ever needed.

Also, did you ever even think that I might actually ENJOY waddling around like a self-righteous penguin? No. No you didn't. Its called empathy you sociopathic nutjob. Get some.

Anyways, I should probably let these institutions know that as of today I am declaring my low hanging jeans, as sanctioned by fresh UN law, a relief effort garnered upon flat bums everywhere. Viva La Levis.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Hello Mr. Robotoman.

How are we today? Are we looking for more lube Mr. Robotoman? Have your buckets gone rusted?

Do not worry Mr. Robotoman, for do I have some hope for you yet! I have here, a 2L bottle of baby oil made with nothing but the best blood sweat and tears of a hungry Somalian child! Do not fear Mr. Robotoman, no-one will catch you! No-one will hear of your squeaky joints as you approach in feint steps. Quiet Quiet Mr. Robotoman, this is what we sell. Only $5.99.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

I started to watch and read alot of news on my day off today.

Not a good idea.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Saturday, May 1, 2010

Granted, life is funny.

Whats even funnier however, is when people dwell in the preconcieved notions of your own life.

And then act so assuming they have you figured out.

LOL. Keep dreaming boys and girls, cause you don't know shit...ok?



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