Super tired

May 17, 2008 at 10:31 pm (Freestylings, Nonfiction)
Tags: , , ,

Super tired, all over with being wired, though a part of me still dreams of those furious fires, while resting in the rocking chair of the retired.

I always ask for explanations, as if someone has them, and I hope they do, even though my better reason points to the fact that they don’t. So tell me if in reason I am wont, maybe you can provide assistance where the others failed, its as if fools trapped themselves in a contest with an asteroid belt with horrendous forces pointed in their direction, ain’t no chance for a deflection from the impact that these rocks pack.

I am well aware that wisdom cannot be gained from a book, though the glosses are plentiful and even enlightening, such things are for light weight thinkers, the type that think that mere words can capture the essence of all being, the type that believe the reflections from their own mirror are something other than themselves, seeing in it all a bigger fool than “myself”, and don’t call it I, fuck em all.

I’m not an atheist, though I’m fully convinced that I don’t know anything in the way that I want to, and I am never satisfied even though most my material means are sufficient for my material needs, ya hear, and these things have stayed that way since the day I was born, thank my father, my literal father, boy, and as far as my Father, may he bless himself for in His realm I must always be but a happy slave.

So I stay tired and am more than reticent to accept your explanations, been raped before in the spiritual sense, so don’t even bother making your sly advances because I could give less of a fuck for your salvation and your beliefs of what is my spiritual situation, all I know is that this is not the best _possible_ universe, Leibniz be damned, and that since that is the case I’m not sure if life is even worth living. Romantics aside, I’m probably still on point, for if the human being isn’t special then he’s just a speck of dust and nothing he does is that relevant as fuck, right…

Maybe you can’t believe it but I used to shed tears over this sort of thing, Beethoven and all. Now I just drink and reminisce and think, realizing nothing of importance per se, but connecting subject to predicate nonetheless, honey, and even making the occasional paper or coin of money, and you realize this shit is funny. Though for me it is nothing but a tragedy of large magnitude, a family thing which hurts to this day, G. So I reminisce and let it be, while making moves that run in the opposite trajectory, having things be directed properly with the proper velocity and the appropriate acceleration, fuck it, this is my life’s situation, so I’mma plan with the tactics and the fitting strategy, so that you can react to it and make synchrony happen, buddy.

–2355, PART II

More postings of the same variety, right…

So let me express
what I can’t caress
this girl she stays at her distance
always minding her own damn business
and what can I really say, except to penetrate this thing, OK
and so I make my attempts and conquer, but it is of no consequence so why bother
the trees they grow so high they remind me of the infinite, so tight in circumference and in consequence
I wonder where all of this is going, but if I am to follow my path through the forest such that it will come out in the needed direction and will avoid all negative deflections from this simple man’s predilections, then I’ll love life and its hapless rays of happiness, treading on the territory long banned for us little citizens, and I have to do it lest I forget my rights so sovereign, a white man in a white land just thinking about his white hand’s right to white work in this white turf. Yeah I know the double standard, so get me high enough so I can die for it, I don’t love it so much that I need to procreate for it, and for the Nazi fuckers, I’m ready to be turned into a coat for it, so let’s do it, let me get my broken cross for it.

Fuck a chilly chap that fakes the funk, fucking with a skunk when he really needed to rock like a punk does on a rugged record sounding like it was ripped from four different sources, each from the other until the final product sounds like a porcupine scratchin’ the record, djigga srkatch, djiga what? Exactly..

What do you want from me? Whatever it is I can’t really care about it since the reality is too real for me to bother even as thousands suffocate in the ruins under China. Ain’t that chilly but at least it’s honest, fuck a liar, since he makes most his profits as a product of his personal misfortune, and then proceeds to exploit that slight advantage to keep promoting an impossible visage, he rots in hell even during his temporal duration, so it’s not like I forced myself on him, right, so why bother with the pulpit preparation?

And so to quote some cats: “What’s America without greed and glamor?”

Leave a Comment

cryptic posts

May 15, 2008 at 10:36 pm (Nonfiction)

Cryptic posts, they don’t stop, I have little time for that sort of slop but what little time I have I devote it thoroughly to this activity not quite so surly. Tell me how I’ve made a mistake if such things help me make the time pass when the time is so slow that things that normally would make me drop to my knees and pray have me now communicating my disarray to people as well as God in an international internet communication crypto-comm mission. Yeah, I said it, and believe me it’s not as fun as fishing and that shit is fucking boring isn’t it? Whether we agree is no issue to me, so let me go on to the next issue, buddy, a family issue. Aren’t those the funnest, and fuck your grammar, buddy, and aren’t those the ones that tear your heart, aren’t they funny?

Tell me why every day some new pressure must mount as if the totals were not building up as high as mount everest on this amount, and for that matter, on this account I’ve actually been free of a charge, so judge me not, my peoples, whoever you are these days, I don’t even care– not to mention _know_. So fuck your presence intermittent and uncommitted, fuck a phantom that displays pixel passions, the type that has me gnashing my teeth in hell when life is somewhere on the level of purgatory, a constant slog story. Where is the gun, where are my balls, where is my(the) temple? Where is my shrink, right?

As far as I remember, I retired the bitch and made her go chill on some APA retreat where they talk about the endless minotaur maze that is the mind, making no progress because those with the degrees are just a degree less lost than the rest of us as far as these issues are concerned. And yes, I know the statistics and I know what comes with it, and I’ve read what is supposed to be proper these days, and I still feel like I’m lost in the maze, so what the hell?

No one is expected to explain, though the ones with the alpha status are allowed to make some noise but up until a point because even the lowest on the pecking order know how to raise their nose up towards the sky, blue blood and all, sitting on a cracked, stiff wooden chair, thinking it’s a throne, looking out for their human rights on the screen of their mobile phone, calling the politeness police, thinking this shit is cease and decease but it isn’t and it never will be when passions are raised towards Hades or Olympus since the time is drawing nearer towards that date when things will be coated in sugar and plums, pie and baklava’s, when there will be little time left for that last gasp of those who make a pass, assuming such exist, which at this point is not an issue except a for that always ready cocked fist.

So how about chillin’ out?
How about it?
Well, this is a cryptic post so I take my liberties with and for it.
So uckFay ouYay, itchBay, uvenileJay eelingsFay ANDay ALLay.

Leave a Comment

modified

May 9, 2008 at 8:29 pm (Freestylings)
Tags: ,

No need for introductions, thank Newton for the fluxions.

–1947

Words on the paper make me think about glorious rapiers slashing through the misty forest chopping up the greens like so much potatoes for the porridge, and with this culinary violence I aim to mince no words, though I may miss the sound of fifths or thirds, or what time may have you think is mandatory, I do it with that spice and gory glory so unwelcome in this our porridge’s story, which now heated will offer us with an excuse to dine…
“As if we need that and not more wine! Fuck a porridge!”

Excuse me–and I hate to be a bother, but since the sun is still underground I would find it proper that you remain calm and sober, at least until the break of dawn, lest when the sun comes up you find yourself facing down, trying to clean up what remains from your sleeping gown.

“There is reason for my crankiness and thirst for alteration, and that is that my brain is still hurting from the evening’s celebration.”

Understood but why not ask calmly? “fuck a porridge…” this ain’t exactly a restaurant, you see, and I spent time working on it for you and me. Apologies, if offered, will quickly be accepted but I insist that then with your wine the porridge will also be digested and in due time your head will be redirected.

“I’m sorry. Now can I drink so that once again I may think?”

You may, but don’t you fool yourself, my boy. There’s employment always to be found in fool’s errands, but it is not from lack of work that you chase these red herrings. Why seek what cannot be had by having what should not be sought so often that your self gets muddled in the process? said I as the porridge plopped into a pithy plate. The wine was poured, it was from the red grapes of grandpa’s vineyard, an eye opener if I ever saw one, and I’ve seen a plenty, the boy himself requesting naything except the silence of his quarters as I leave him to his own devices the porridge now cold but seasoned with plenty spices.

2021–

–1920
Gotta stay modified like some shaved wolf in a woolen coat, trampling freely over grass with impunity, a paid vacation from brutality, traded my suit for tenpence a hair but now I run with a glint of despair, looking for that land of milk and honey– all I need is stinkin money, but the fare is more expensive than what hair can get me, need to impress, need to pay fees, for nothing in the world is free, and for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, sheepish fellows now rockin that wolf fashion, scaring and scarring neighbors and children, while I graze on grass with broken down feelings, tell me what makes us fellows so easy to sway, and why it is from ourselves that we stray? Run away but stay sly, fly my son, fly so high to that never ever land of broken promises, the lies they do caress and the image at times fails to impress, but ain’t that the f-ing premise?

Gotta stay modified, like a silly boy with too much pride, like immorality its not what but how you do it, ebbs and tides if not flows and perturbations, of this our sinful nature, are to be analyzed if there is to be hope of figuring out this mess of man, and even then we should be prepared for a change of plan, before these things get entirely out of hand. Like some madman on a stomach bender, my palette–ever so tender in its hues and variations, understatements and overt arrangements… Freedom escapes me as the clock cuts down all finite competition, and as it does, I stare and listen.
1940–

Leave a Comment

Intentio Brevis

May 6, 2008 at 8:01 pm (Uncategorized)

The plan for the post: some carefully selected autobiographical details from the day, some freestyling, and probably no hint of scene 8 (I’m not feeling this story at all, it feels forced, as if I pushed myself into some place where I really don’t know what to do, and thats some real shit. That said, I’m a stubborn bastard and have decided to finish it. Just not now!)

Somewhere in the back a sweet jazz cat’s horn is playing, and a piano provides light accompaniment. I sit and ponder. Drama, drama, drama. Makes me want to move to a solitary island to spend the rest of my days chewing on tropical fruits and living off the land in complete abandon. I remember getting a ride through the Shasta mountain range, where often times you would see a property or two stretch for miles. Miles and miles of grass and rocks interrupted only by the occasional tree and that single, lowly and lonely shack of a house where the owner lives or at least lived. I imagined this to be paradise–with a shotgun to boot. It is also a good place for brutal crimes, I suspect. People really need to chill. The moment you drop the pride, you drop 90% of the bullshit. The other 10 you can bear with, and the real shit, you should deal with. Its a god damn shame when grown ass adults preach the concept but can’t practice it.

–1924

The water in the pool ripples violently around the lily’s petals. The lily is part of a whole constellation of flora specially cared for by the park authorities in the old Abernathy pond. Abernathy is the artificial pond extraordinaire of McKinley park– oval shape, the axes maybe 20 by 50 meters, hard to tell at this distance. It features an exquisitely mosaicked floor on which through the crystal clear water the onlooker may witness the sight of thousands of coins of various denominations and quantities spread out roughly evenly throughout the pond. At it’s central point, the pool is crowned with a fountain featuring what looks like Venus and four little angels, pissing as usual. My vantage point is the presidential chair in my office, on the fifth floor, about 100 meters from the park entrance, and maybe 150 meters from the pond itself. My binoculars are very powerful but unfortunately have only one magnification.

Truly magnificent sight, these ripples. As I dart my sight with the binoculars gently across the whole pond it seems as though these ripples were not an isolated incident. The whole pond is rippling, as if a high frequency vibration were shaking the ground below the pool, the effect being comparable to a glass of water placed on top of a spinning washing machine.

I take my eyes off the binoculars for a minute and look back at my desk. It still radiates that feeling of permanence and stability, not to mention holding the piles of unfinished work, none of which seems to be vibrating. I touch it all the same just to make sure that the tiny vibration which escaped my sight will not escape my touch. It might have been tiny enough to have managed to escape even that, but then again I figured if it was so tiny, it might as well not exist.

I am about to return to the sight of the pond when a violent knock on the door comes to my attention. Clara! That bitch.

–1958

Leave a Comment

Online a’gin

May 3, 2008 at 12:09 pm (Nonfiction)
Tags:

Got tangled up in this web again. A world wide conspiracy to connect computers. Octupus-like with it’s tenticles of corruption, spreading “information.” Rats everywhere. Everywhere! A man cannot even run a decent scribble-shop without interruption from the information generation. And to think I had just managed to overcome the symptoms of web-separation anxiety. I could have been free. But since I am a slave, you get the latest post.

The sea-coast was humid, as it should be, and the relatives were fuming, as they will be, and I was studying which surprised me. I must now interrupt this broadcast and return to “real life,” harboring the assumption that this is somehow a parallel life outside of life. I’ll be back though.

-Y.K.

Leave a Comment