fisher king's wasteland

a heart stopped silence, dead slow, agonizing pressure building up and holds an eon passes... and then an explosion, fiery warmth flooding in a tidal wave rolling, slamming against the chamber wall and the heart beats once again [ original post ]

i woke up this morning held in jung's strong arms with a worn-out hamilton contorted in mine after a night with hillman who forced himself on me it's a socially painful awakening after so long, so fraudulently isolated in a room full of distorted mirrors and cheap tricks to keep me lost i can only blame myself for entering the labyrinth my cocksure curiosity and relentless self-goading but i am glad to have gleaned the insight: to always turn right [ original post ]

deep underground in a tunnel of humanity the crowd awaits the loud sound of their train to come around in the near-sighted haze stand these figures of inanity seekers of some body-warmth each dreams that they'll be found i see you, and i blush i'm relieved of all my vanity i find no path that's to you i must make one or stand still i squeeze past strangers meet their eyes with my apology so brief, it makes their eyes bright for mere contact brings a thrill i hurry towards you in my race against the train catching glimpses of your face through the smoky waiting air and i think to myself how i'll touch you through the pain how i'll smile through scars to say that i like your different stare if you smile back and your eyes remain so fair perhaps i'll stay with you because this love is just so rare

it's early yet as my shoes crunch through crackling leaves the morning air crisply fills my lungs with its whiffs of freshly-baked goods while the sun plays hide-and-seek peeking out from behind a confusion of cloud the sun shining gently and everything sparkling in response

a chill breeze blows to confuse the sun's light shining brightly on the leaves as they flutter softly down clouds darken the scene and then... nothing. eventually. a row of elegantly potted bansai trees each one ideal determined by its framing just like us

we're in the air and my stomache is only slightly behind me the roar of the engines washes over me my ears have not yet popped i stare out of the window at the world falling away and i think of how little people are and how big they are each one containing a universe a god, fully-fledged and all-powerful and here i am, transporting mine all the way to the new world through the clouds and beyond the horizon we are now thirty thousand feet away from the human condition although not far enough to escape entirely a tension oozes out so i push my seat back the screams of infants and the farts and sneezes and snores are all muffled in the lowered pressure bad smells are softened and it doesn't matter what the food tastes like we are all equal here, prisoners of fate the next port is inconceivably far away and i wonder what i will do when i get there who i will be, and how i will convince myself and others that i'm still me my cultural backpack weighs

the leaves fall but it's not autumn just another heavenly spin into the abyss

as we hide inside our tidy pens we cover our ears to shut out noise the scratches drive us round the bends we think we're outside of the trends only others waste time with foolish joys as we hide inside our tidy pens the wolves slink out from their dark dens with claws on paving draw their ploys the scratches drive us round the bends seeing the sights through a strange friend's lens we keep our distance through our toys as we hide inside our tidy pens the dirty world outside we cleanse with window pane that grime destroys the scratches drive us round the bends that none but Time its own death spends as we spin the circles Fate employs as we hide inside our tidy pens the scratches drive us round the bends

i close my eyes as i kiss your lips time slows right down to my fingertips my entire being's tingling through i will come apart to come to you my sight is gone, now my hearing too i've left safe ground for something new my hands and feet and all the rest contract and pour into my chest my thoughts are dragged down to that nest so i can't ask if this is some test that perhaps i'd pass if i could fight this bewitching creature made of light the world is now as dark as night though i feel your lips that hold me tight as you mix me up, turn me to smoke that now whispers softly through my throat everything i've done, and ever wrote you pull from me in a sighing note; do you hear me as you suck me in? giving up my ghost as i let you win? my body's now no more than tin, and i feel absolved of all my sin as you steal my soul with fateful kiss that trades my life for total bliss.

the universe will end not with a bang, but with a buffering animation because your god is an impatient god, and sometimes, even god needs an excuse to go and play outside.

it's the daisy chain of legend, that becomes myth, becomes history, becomes fact the gears of the robotic pen keep grinding, tracing lines in cursive over the parchment that has been pulped and liquified and electrified into the buzz of nothing: we etch worlds into radio waves that echo silently in dead space, simultaneously existing and not existing, changing everything and nothing. we are everything. we are nothing. we buzz and beep and whirr and click, stretching and snapping to grasp meaning with unclosable hands. we swat each other like flies, hit-and-miss, and inexplicably, we take joy in deep connections while rejecting our biology.

the song rushes forth from the swollen lips of large helga, its piercing and booming borne from the depths of her plump bosom and stretching out to the very peaks and troughs of the range, the sound bridging and collapsing the intervening space into a single, ice-crystallized moment. a thought is all it would take for her, lungs and all, to snap herself across this bridge to any point she chooses, with only a slightly nauseating sensation of being twisted inside out in the process. she holds the moment steady, the deeply resonating "oooooh" seeming to shiver through the cold morning air before crackling to a halt, unused.

i sit in a chair in front of the mirror as i'm shorn of the last strands grown out of my mind signifiers of words tumbling down to the floor: uniform, mess hall, discipline, obedience, responsibility, ambassador, pride, power, authority, hierarchy, bureaucracy, weapons, ballistics, strategy, efficiency, the contradiction of the value of life, allies, enemies, medical, negligence, spite, cowardice, malice, appreciation, rations, squads, lines, flags, reports, briefing, debriefing, pins, stripes, tags, bags, toys, and the seconds, minutes, hours and weeks of a life on pause while looking out the turret's window. all empty certificates shaken down and out, itching and scratching, but the shower afterwards blasts my scalp with the cool sense of the weight of history... unburdened.

everything begins, and ends, with an orgy. everything is better with lesbians. the funny thing about birds and trees is that if the birds aren't getting it on then the trees don't get to reproduce. even piloting a giant disguised in fur through virtual bowels is not enough to dampen sexual urges. when an author loves a subject very much, he pulls out his pen and begins to tentatively stroke the pages with it until he believes that he is performing satisfactorily. he then dives in, eventually, sometimes fairly quickly, sometimes after only a few words if he's a poet, covering the pages with his ink in what he hopes is an experience as enjoyable and climactic for the reader as it is for him. sometimes there is no climax, which can be a frustrating experience for everyone - although there are always some people who appear to enjoy it anyway. sometimes, if lots of people are enjoying an author who is taking his time, he will die before finishing and that will leave a bitter t

the eye haunts me not by itself but by what it represents watching you watching me watched by me and flickering, whites showing staring sideways and i can only see nothing but you seeing nothing surrounded by the inky blackness of blind celluloid of the past worlds of universes ago when we made order out of chaos at show and tell [ inspiration ]

the four grim men in dark suits and ties step smartly into the tiny back room, sliding into place around the green felt table with a deck of cards in its center, circled by the light of the lamp hanging low above it. a petit, dark haired lady gracefully walks in after them carrying a tray holding four neat colour-coded stacks, and sets one before each of the men before leaving the room, the door closing and only the grinding of a worn deadbolt piercing the silence. the first man picks up the cards, and time slows to a crawl as he shuffles, the cards slowly arcing through the air, gliding into place as the deck is slowly rolled, gleaming in the dim light, and cut slowly before the process is repeated. each card is flicked to one of the men, the room and the faces of the men spinning around it as it floats through the stale air until it lands with a gentle, fatal thump. then time turns back to full pace, then faster, then faster as the game begins, the four figures stationary even

the sugar melts around my tongue washing the underside with oblivion before accumulating enough wave to glide smoothly down my throat and then i'm back for more.

they give me a gun then they take it away things that go click in its place they give me a broom i'm a gutter tycoon i'm old and i'm young, i've no face to do me a kindness they make my life hard then they smile and they say "it's alright" but i sit here outside without any light through a restless, and lonely, cold night they tease me with girls while they cancel my thrills and they throw food at me i can't eat they tell me i'm fine that i haven't crossed a line but they know now that they've got me beat time's ticking slowly but at least it's not stopped and it's not like it's not any fun but the first chance i get and as soon as i can i'm making a break and i'll run [ original post ]

the baboon's cage is solid gold the zookeeper guards the gate you can't get in if you're not on the list now empty your pockets right onto this plate if we've taken it all, well, then come right on in just don't take off your jacket, that's a cardinal sin please do have a seat sir, we'll begin really soon as the minutes tick by, you can hum to the tune of the whistling and winking as the baboons troop in as they each take a seat round the tables of tin ooh, ooh, ooh, said the silverback, thumping the table oh, oh, oh, clapped his neighbour, his hair glossy and sable the silverback, sated, jumped up, glared about thumped his chest, before dragging his knuckles on out as he left through the exit, a murmur began but the sable son razzed them to silence and then he crumpled some paper, scratched his back with his pen took a dump on his table just to show that he can now there was much applause, as the next speaker farted and then waved a bana

poppies are red, now that roses are blue: you can call them "applause", but i'll call them "more true" for drugs are now love now that love's been sold out; lately candy and flowers are mere causes to doubt [ applause is the new red ]

i haven't been here that long, but long enough to call it tradition. or habitual. it's like a carton of cigarettes, by the time you've gotten into it enough to be addicted it's too late to realize that you don't earn enough to pay for it and food. so they finally get to me, after round after round of outpourings of the most intimate sort, and even the most undesirable of undesirables scores a warm "hey, man..." the room focuses on me. and they say "hey, man". then they tie me to my chair, duct-tape my mouth shut, and begin to beat me into submission.

your brown, greasy locks, make me think of a moose your pants are too tight and your shirt is too loose your lips are too glossy, your cheeks the wrong shade your eyeliner's smeared and your breath reeks of raid your bare, winter legs shout "i wanna get laid" your implants show us you've been curved on a grade the only thing not 'round your neck is a noose your sweater's too fluffy, you look like a goose you flutter your eyelids and expect to be paid with your nose in the sky, through the city you wade ignoring the world as you wobble your rear but your act, not your face, is what makes people jeer is there someone who loves you, is faithful and cares? who won't find it funny when you fall down the stairs?

the sun shines brightly cutting through the haze into tight corners of the post-atomic daze the concrete alley floor, with its broken flower pot is dead and cracked and quiet, and it's steaming, baking hot the dark red flower pot lies empty and unused the seeds that used to lie in it were x-rayed 'til they bruised then pop-pop-popped like popcorn, like the fireworks and guns that sprayed the world with pesticide, that coated nature's lungs as i walk through the alley of the shadow of death i'm human and unbeing as i draw my last breath it smells like the safety of gunpowder and bombs like the laughter of kids screaming and the slaughter of songs the walking dead surround me, but they think they're alive as they shamble through the broken-mirrored halls of their hive they only see themselves, so i'm not sure if i'm real i don't know where i came from and i don't know what to feel i think i might be floating, might be drowning, migh

i'd forgotten what spring feels like after long, fat winter lying dormant prone, or on the couch but not out there not up there not through there now i remember with birds singing and the breeze puffing dandelions in the gentle sunlight summer is the exhaustion, not from life and survival but from running, from jumping, from climbing sore fingers, sore back, sore feet all bandaged and plastered with smiles adrenaline and elation and the faint hope that this summer will be just like spring

is the supermarket a "house of pleasure" that it closes its doors on holocaust memorial day? are the workers inside? are they pleasuring themselves? under bright lights with the fruits and the vegetables the bread sticks and the soft, warm government whole loaves? are they sprawled across the aisle where the liquor stands laughing and playing amidst the mounds of burst bags of candy and marshmallows their hands and faces and bodies sticky with ecstasy? here i am stuck on the lonely, desolate sidewalk in the quiet, empty night hungry dirty with nobody to beg a dime from and nothing i'd be able to use it for

i don't know what privation is or is not any more than i know the squiggles and teeth of the horse, whose head lies between crocodile's teeth i know what i know is what i don't know is pre-oedipal pre-conscious pre-lacking and its sublime sublimation sees me chewing pencils instead of my words did i hear that? or is it mere phantasm? or is it... come, come, you misunderstand it's not so hard, is it? are you your mother's phallus or did you...? no, no. yes. no. and then, maybe i'm wrong and i'm actually on the right path. look, here's the chain of signifiers significant? no meaning to the symbols, but you can't have them and thats not frustrating at all here's the key, but it has no key to figure out how to turn it it bites, the horse clamps down on the crocodile's jugular. its phallus? poor child. poor mother. poor sigma'd freud. frustrated he would be if he knew what we didn't.

"but it's made of gold... and puppies... you can't ask for more fair 'n that!" "easy bub, just take it easy. your statue's great, you know, but we're not a single entity and we have to consider the masses - just because it's not very popular doesn't mean it's not very good. either way it certainly doesn't justify jumping off a building... although if you must, as far as buildings go," his voice faded momentarily as he leaned over the edge, "i gotta say that this one's pretty tall, so i can tell you with confidence that your taste in doom is far enough from what one could call masochistic."

the elephant apologized to the kangaroo for stepping on the eggs, then raised his trunk maliciously.

i locked myself in my own cage convinced it was for my own good i hated myself was ashamed of myself and broke out as soon as i could

we painted our faces we readied our spears fucked our wives goodbye then left to their cheers

if i am not happy how do i tell the difference between tired, and unhappy? i sit here on the verge of another cup of coffee with a large agenda of things i'd enjoy i'm not tired, and yet... all i want to do is close my eyes breathe deeply stop.

not a deep, cleansing breath but a deep draught of chocolate rushing through to my fingertips as i tap away on the keyboard of my mind wondering out loud what it is and why it is where it goes and a deep draught of chocolate from the kitsch childhood fantasy fountain sitting in the display the shopkeeper doesn't look at me, and i think, i must be a frightful mess, when suddenly a cold shiver passes through me a ghost! i spin around, just in time to catch a live one's hand passing through me the contact that reminds me which side of the glass i'm on the chocolate euphoria gives way to the usual eternal distress

freedom - it costs nothing because it's worth nothing. it doesn't exist, cannot exist, because in a word it escapes the cage that has no bars, no windows and no doors. it's a relativist construct, a catch-all that protects us from everything we don't like: but it does have a caveat - it cages us in all the things we do. those things that the others don't want us to do. wanting to give others freedom, trying to force them to buy in, is the desire to produce the ultimate torture; the pain of a broken world-view and its exquisitely uncomfortable counterpart, the uncertainty of choice. what is free? where lies responsibility? who possesses the keys to the cage, and in which way do they turn? why do we need to be free when we can have whatever experience we want just by imagining it? and have its pleasure amplified by our knowledge of its forbidden nature?

one minute you think you've got 'em down the next one, it's YOU taken to town! what happened?? i had all the lines: a pledge - to care for the children a pledge - to invest my all in the empire's domination a pledge - to care for the king's wildest fantasies and would you look at THESE lines? i KNOW i'm the curviest of them all! and what did SHE promise?! that whisper of a skinny bitch, her mouth held tightly shut, her nose right up there in the air... a queen? THAT little slut???

the children are crying and the adults think we're unhappy because we're doing it wrong. meanwhile, i haven't seen any of them smiling and laughing, the way they say they did in earlier rounds. it's the strangest game! the rules were lost ages ago, you can't play it properly by anyone else's rules, and if you don't adhere to the ever-changing house rules you'll be in for a rough ride. then again, the house rules are so impossibly convoluted and contradictory that you're almost guaranteed not to have any fun with them anyway. the rules i remember are awkward, unstable and unbalanced. the only way to win at the game is to cheat, or not to play at all. or to play by one's own rules while convincing everyone else at the table otherwise, which is a different game altogether, and very anti-social. and nobody likes a cheater. it's not okay to stop playing, either. even though we're all out of pieces - the cards are all worn and discarded,

it really isn't. there's a man in a suit and tie at the door, the pizza box reflected in dark glasses that seem a natural part of him even at this ungodly hour. i feel like my eyeball's filling the peephole, as i roll it around to look him up and down. i don't see any weapons, but the box might not contain pizza. he almost looks disinterested. almost. i turn to look at my partner, who's half-crouching, half-standing over the petite blonde he'd brought's form. the surprise of the doorbell has turned the evening into a caricature: the soft divans, the candles, the sexy music and the bottles of lubricants all spread around the luxurious apartment now frame a scene of confusion. some of the guests have stopped their thrashing and thrusting, staring at mary and me and waiting for a signal: what's it time for? fuck or flight? the smell of tension mixes with those of sex and incense. "did you order pizza?" the faint snort and half a smile are e

my dentist demands complete submission, leaving winter in my face [ context ]

1 i sit and stare my future riding on how i complete you and time is running out 2 we stand together you and me so that you can make me seem important 3 i am confined to my wheelchair sitting at the end of my world loved ones pitifully arranged around me as i search helplessly for you 4 i ate too fast you were consumed by a stray hiccup 5 you are the real step between my crazy ideas and profit!!! 6 i spend months and months upon a lonely mountain in exotic india throwing good money at thinking of you 7 ______ 8 i veer from the right paths and you allow it 9 you stand between me and my bank account, my house, my car, my degree, and my job 10 you stand up in court pointing at me, your accusing finger shames me even though sometimes you pull me out of tight spots 11 i drive carefully and you let me know when i've gone too far 12 when i use you in the sand you mean nothing to me and then i feel dirty 13 whose are you, anyway?

snivelling oilus, and lusty, busty crustida planning evil plans, to overthrow achaean lords they don't so much love, as use and abuse each other unlike noble hector, a fool with a great big sword even ulysses' cunning cannot anticipate such a spiteful shafting, no cause to congratulate if the greeks would have known, if this they had suspected victory had seemed less, their enemies less respected the giant horse the second, and who could have been fooled? to play the trick right back, would dishonour even thieves but oilus got there first, sent crustida to conceive great agamemnon's death, she with lovely eyelids tooled oilus and crustida, their dark arts perfect crafted he her with black infection intimately painted their vows of matrimony no more than tempting fate her trade planned, and required for the king to check-mate enter, diomedes, and fall to the promises of this vicious dark vixen, to her sickly sweet sighs whisperings of a devil's orgy

i awake from icy blackness winter, sick summer, whose fever breaks when the clouds break, and the warm air not dragging me back to bed, my usual shield from the bitterness, but instead caressing my heart and skin as i slowly stretch and rise to breathe the day breakfast is a white chocolate strawberry brunch, a banana and coffee i fling open my windows, let the butterflies in far away but here, gentle, hovering spring, i don't need you to be real, to be in love with you in my now you are true, that's so real that it will have to do

the sign at the coffee counter at the gas station says 25 hours, and i guess that's right because that's what they're really selling. we'll be in big trouble the day they stop providing us with such good service. the dark, smooth highways in the early hours, with their visible gusts of dust and icy winds blowing across the high beams, slide beneath us in the quiet of the engine's low rumble, the heat blowing sleep into our faces and the tinny electric nothings of the local station's muzak lulling us goodbye. the trunk is full of gear we think we need and we've got nothing left to say to one another. it's a long drive into the future with nowhere else to go, and we'll just keep on riding until the gas runs out and the motels stop accepting our credit cards. maybe then we'll just stop, maybe then it'll be time to pull out a pack of cigarettes, draw deeply and sigh and look around a bit to see where all that civilization went.

we came in from the desert, large tribes covered in the dust of ancient cultures thirsty for drops of fresh water, and cold for the rays of sunshine we left the desert bound to one another with thick, knotted cords but now with tied hands we slowly thread fibre optic tubes through our ears and eyes and noses and mouths patching, brain to brain, the members of our tribes, stitching ourselves to the edges of the enemy camps the red lights flicker, flash, form droplets of salty water sweated out the unsealed pores to flood the world again build your ark, noah, strong enough to float out the deluge for nothing else we know can survive and when the libraries and the server rooms and the galleries and the museums are all underwater or evaporated, then we can start all over again

we're wearing silly hats bright colours dimmed with the lights bobbles barely bouncing listening to portishead the bass keeping time the warm air-conditioner our hearts and breaths with the silence of a frosty winter's night haunting the external air

sitting and stretching on sun-drenchéd grass sharp spikéd sonnets are piercing my throat scanned to your ear as we all spin around out to the edges where fantasies float centripetal forces are pushing content a tension ejaculate, stringing the sounds a gluing together of my love for you powerful, pressured and knowing no bounds in my mouth, my hearts are beating their beatings down your throat, i stuff my sonnets, and teachings coffee cups, notebooks, and scraps of baked goods strewn about, snowed in by papery winds the skies' legs keep closing, then open again in answer to seventeenth century sins

removing items from my task list mere moments before handing over the keys to the torn down door i smile sadly as i step into the rubble of what was many years a home a warm and fresh and peaceful port in a storm i place my index finger on the trash can and click the trigger banishing to an untouchable digital memory each item in potentia of a universe that all too soon will never exist

a little green turd floating down from above splashing onto my coat it's a note from a dove that's already flown off leaving nothing but sky so i walk on, annoyed but at least my hair's dry

the sun comes out brightly after the rain shining off the wet streets and exposing the treacherous pools of water lurking around the corners the streets are almost empty, too except for the hurried old woman hooting and thumping into the back of the car stopped at the red light everything resolves in silence the lady in front respecting her elder too much to put a fist through her teeth we could tell she wanted to, though.

that's what they call it in soft whispers, and glazed eyes it's god and it's heaven, and mystical ecstacy and they say that drugs confuse people but i thank you, from the bottom of my ringing steel bed as its wheels roll and clatter beneath the flashes of brilliant light as the beeps and footfalls following behind the drip that bitterly nourishes me through characterless swinging double doors past wards of sad people wanting to be better you, wearing your mask and spatterings of my blood my knight in white, righteous, shining fucking armour i thank you for rescuing me from me, from my self from monstrously calm and comfortable darkness i watch, my heart cold, my tears drying as you stitch chains up and around my wrists as you tuck me in, and kiss my forehead, strap me in good night i fall asleep staring through shameful curtains at some tormented guard protecting me from these selfish sins will i wake, some day, from these pills you've drenche