letting the body recharge but the mind never rests, going off on tangents through the night and into morning, about bugs burrowing into (burroughs-ing) into the skin underneath layers of tendons and severing arteries crawling and eating their way into the heart where internal bleeding and heart-death cause body death and the mind floats up into the atmosphere, further polluting it with a confused and the unanswerable question 'why?' I think I was afraid of returning to the silence, the hole in the wall that rats climb through, the passive listener and all of the people laugh as I sweat beneath the comforter with no reason aside from a desire to keep the waking nightmare visions out of my immediate acknowledgement. As they happen in dreams, no matter how twisted, I generally stay in them and keep living and breathing because nothing can hurt me, though I wish it to be true that I can roll over and hold someone in case of my mind becoming engulfed in flames higher than skyscrapers and hotter than melting skin. There are rules of formalities in between the easy success and the profound failures. Follow some of the rules otherwise no one will sleep with you again. It is not just a feeling of hopelessness, but it is combined with a fear of sleep. There are many paranoid people with these cycles of love and hate filtering through their finger tips. "That's the weirdest thing I've ever heard." Well, fuck you. Weird is good. Weird is great. I hate you if you do not accept weird. You are what is wrong with the world, judging so quickly and so harshly and so much below the belt. 'My friends will never fuck you because I am telling them off because you want to be a writer.' It is not about that. I want to spread my social butterfly wings and fill in the blank spaces in my life with something beautiful. Maybe a new hobby, becoming a craftsman. But all of these concerns destroy me prior to sleep. Prior to my day? I can't complain. This serves as a catalyst of positive change. I take note of situations where my actions were not as grand as I'd hoped. Not as well-executed, meaning the idea was there (for a response, a question, an action or activity) but the timing was off or the circumstances did not yet allow for it. Always keep timing in mind or else everything will always fall apart.
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'this is the pursuit of perfection' on the screen of the tv at a random glance at the gym near the target a converted warehouse always parking far away for the warm up walk through the sun because all parking spots closer have no shade, shade being incredibly desirable after a rigorous work out for a safe drive home. today, rambling through the day, worrying the boss and tearing apart relations with the store, I realize I probably can never show my face there again to avoid embarrassment, once the word got out, I am a cowardly quitter before the benefits paid off, but whatever. I have no shame. They will have to cut their losses and move forward. ($1,000). Given the chance to work in a studio as an intern. Was that a lie? Or is it the fact that this job is killing me, diluting the reason for which I came down here. The pursuit of perfection. The pursuit of art and music. Of colors and sonic notes that bring tears to the soul and we open up weeping at the tragedy of a finished composition. The flame was incredible in the making but now only smoldering ashes and we feel drained of essential life fluid and ready to sleep forever. 'There you have it world' we want to say, then sink into oblivion or the television and the couch set up.
I am proud I cut tobacco and television out of my diet.
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then I contradict again. but we are all full of those. contradictions. say one thing and do another. it is what we are founded upon. lies and unruly madness. walking back down that same picturesque street for another night of great food and productive conversation about the future history of our status. we are entirely combined out hearts beating at the same tempo despite obsequious vomiting and an attitude of forgetfulness, we are the same person under the veil. all of us entirely conjoined at the hip. to the bullets shot at the moon we are rockets taking off under closed stars. seeing and witnessing constellations. star-deaths and other attack cues asunder. there are no rules to this and there never were. we are simply trying to visually become much more appealing than a standard sweating man-band. the type that rocks harder and more honestly than we ever can. they feel ever note to their very core. we are not a pop band. pop band with a twist a solid twist which sets us beautifully apart and we need to act beautifully apart. rather than conform to the same standards. put us in the correct clothing. (sounds of flushing toilets) we are the spirit of the radio and nothing can ever stop our forward movement. don't look down at the horrific underbelly of the beast. because we are on top of it. the image becoming necessary everywhere we ever play. a white t-shirt could never suffice at this level. underplay the image and underplay the skill. the metronome inside of me. we are forever questioning truthful intent when we close out hearts and call each other names. call me beautiful and you will zapped from yonder, a thunderclap. nothing ever is as easy as intended. but we will dress to impress the screaming girls until all else fails. but the music is the same and the grand intentions of every word we use will remain true to blood. blood coursing through the veins and spilling out into the questionable antics, but nothing ever regresses to that level of dumb beast until a certain threshold is crossed. but that threshold is never crossed until adequate, more than adequate, work is discovered, explored, then extinguished. the rules of the game becoming guidelines to the esoteric. become a part of the sexually enforced world, shoving coconuts and other vegetables into clothes and claiming the blanks to be filled are our own. calling the shots on a 15 shot called night. we lined them up and filled inconsiderable nights with our screams of joy (rather than fear).
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incite a random 40 minute phone call detail the plot of existence in the late hours of the night and the early hours of the morning, calling the shots from a couple of thousand miles away, considering the sources and the inevitable end to all of this considerable damage... 'i'm a writer and I write every day" a true collaborative effort but I imagine myself as the jester the unincredible advantage, and listen to someone crawl to the bathroom again, yelling into the telephone, descriptions of tv when I watch whatever scenes unfold of snakes being beheaded in a masculine duel of creature, they still exist in the jungle feeling threatened as all should, of human presence. venom dripping from the severed head's fangs and the headless coiled body still strikes aimlessly and pointlessly in a final death reflex, allowing us a reminder that all things enjoy living and wish to continue living despite all odds. if you step on my turf and I feel like you might threaten my life or the life of those I love around me, I will coil up and strike as well with full intentions of irrevocable damage... hurting those who wish to hurt me in a natural defense mechanism but I mustn't recoil at the simple invasions of space and immediacy, the world is not meant, currently, for vacant and solo lives, entirely alone built inside the forest of elms, there is hardly any room for this type of nomad anymore. where would thoreau live now given the opportunity to play music in a band in hollywood? Play shows and invest in hair cut tactics.... Those lone rangers are dead with the invention of the rail road. The beatnik culture that media destroyed has lost its charm and its whimsy. because so many bums get murdered for nothing other than cruel reasons every day. every life there lost is a quarter of an hour turn clockwise in kerouac's grave. jimi would understand my reasoning behind music existing in such an organic state. some natural and feeling and with full heart involvement. the type of rhythms that coincide with circadian. feeling lost in the amusement park, no longer feeling amused. waiting in line to wait in line and call yourself an incredible genetic creature. we are sometimes forced below our potential and placed into categories and lines, the things that higher-up suits decide to further cage us. we are trapped in this skin alone. with the capabilities of each of our brains, entirely incidental, and indifferent to the other. Let's find the height of our existence together. let's change the world and let everyone realize the beauty of our hearts before our skin. we are stuck, also, with our hearts. The content of which is filled with all of the days before an identity is decided. at that point do we consider which parts of the past to communicate and from there we contrive truthfully a current identity. something that combines the past tastefully with all desires of the present. something amorphous and dependent on events surrounding present action. we are creatures of fate but we also decide this fate at a young age based on decisions on how to create and recreate a pleasant personality. personally I struggle to find a version of myself that I can consider correct and entirely accurate. I always feel as though I've made myself out to be much worse than I can potentially be. but there are words that hurt everyone in the heart but no minds can pick these up at any other moment. this is to say that the window is open for such hurt when, in front of mirrors, alone, the words, the negative self-talk, can be dismissed... the others cut like knives.... I struggle with myself. They say this is what it is to have a job and I say I can never work that job like you can. I can make myself invisible but I can also be very present and helpful although I lie through my teeth. There are worlds of regret I wish to disassemble and fraction off as excess architecture for my simple and sustainable abode. I don't need the extra fortification. I'd rather outside information to enter straight through the front gate as opposed to have to pass through rigorous mental inspection, only allowing the right information to be passed guaranteed no funny business, but much like underpaid bouncers, frustrated and kicking out people who would, unbeknownst to the bouncer, be the greatest company, creating a wonderfully vivid atmosphere for all others in attendance... soften these tough guys, and allow the walls to fall a little bit, those dark figures, the shades of evil imagination should never be allowed in but all of the lunatic ideas that would not physically hurt another should be placed into current action, regardless of temporal thought regarding physicality. the view of the body from the morgue. we are not dead we are just sleeping and preparing for life.
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at 12:25 realizing an amount of words written, seventy or so more to cross a threshold I haven't crossed in awhile, the amount of writing that can only happen in dim lighting and after a number, high, of drinks and lessons given and received. pause to recite my rights and fold my hands over to the police. you caught me officer I am helpless but I have caused ultimate destruction of you and your police force while playing the first few, violent, versions of GTA. I will not deny my involvement in the popular culture of my time although I wish I truthfully could, deny this huge facade of puppets writing puppet songs and dying in the limelight....
