THE ARCHIVES [II]
9.16.07
let me hold you close//bitten and verboten
let me hold you close
I will suffer for you.
I will suffer for you no matter how much it hurts. No matter how bitter and miserable it makes me. I will suffer for you.
Would I be sorry if I was dead? I never got it, I never got it back. So I’m ungrateful. Fuck you. It dies and doesn’t matter, forgetfulness is what you used to keep me out of your mind in the first place, trust me, you can do it again. Now that the tables have been turned, I’m no longer a countable asset. Here for the hurt and stay, never to maintain the love, never to help you happiness. Bitterness. Just kiss me. You’ll regret this comparison. I want to be your sunset. I want to be the night you sweat, I want to be the heat of the moment, the passion that you cross your legs and cry to. But I’m still so fucking regretful…so sorry, please forgive me…No, I don’t want to be the sunset, I want to be the sunrise, the happiness, the warmth, the passion of love, the sound of music, so don’t cry. I’ll always be here to guide you along. Please don’t leave. Oh, god.
I will never forgive myself for what I have done. I will never forgive myself for what I have done. I will never…
IS THIS YOUR WAY OF SAYING GOODBYE? MAY I EAT THE HELLo…darling I might be late for the dinner, I have a funeral to tend to. Rose picked from formless bushes beyond the tangible dimensions. I’m free from bind and I feel like I’ve floated up into the ceiling fan, belch me down on my knees. Cut this little head off like it was simply a petal on your flower. Give me that death I crave. I burnt the little thing until its stomach ruptured, wishing it was me that was dead. I’m jealous. The little monster frightened me because it is me. A mole, stuck perpetually underground. I killed it and set it free, but it was already dead from previous death. I wanted to make sure. I was right. It was me.
Dumb cancer anagramming machine. Heart pounding through weak bones, perfect arrhythmic polyphony. Like a muffled gunshot, in perfect tempo, in perfect martial beat. Shooting liquid nitrogen directly into the vein. Itch around the cut. Cartilage bows outward, meter length rebars pin down feet and hands. My mouth full of bolts. Who's the stupid god now? I am so tired of being so dumb. Do all the pretty girls thank god for making them so pretty? Maybe they thank me for making them look good.
I'm finishing the unreal product. Scalpel! I cut away at the unusable parts. You'll never be as beautiful as you are right now, underneath my light. I avoid the mirror. Enjoy my never ending history of ugliness, my face spattered with welding burns, isopropanol distraught by lit editions of time. I wanted that pink paint to be my final note to a world that is slowly forgetting me, and slowly erasing all of my life.
Baptize me into disbelief. I’ve never hurt more than right now. Snuff me.
One shade of lifeless dumb entropy, evolving to resuit my ever changing need. Nothing in the change stays alternating; gears turn in fine working order, at that settled pace to the manner that no second replicates any other. Dead twin snapshots alive. Perpetual reversal of flow. Self inflicted. Hung dead matter. Steer halved and put up with nails and hooks. Bone saw moves through flesh like fever-rich fingers through water. The drill enters through the kneecap to prevent evasive movement, grinding and churning, inherently sexual in its mechanically perverse nature. You want solace? Excited into desperate fits. Eyes inverted, lids negligible shut. Sterilized and castrated. Stillborn child ejected, hot flesh pours like lava. Webbed fingers to a boneless, milky fist. Angrily convulsing mindflesh, given birth to new defertilizations. I want you to forget about me so that I can kill myself and not feel so fucking guilty.
blind me, taste-free. i begat the corrupt facility. Delete it and the memory fades, does it not? I don’t want to forget you, I don’t want you to forget about me. Why is this hope here? I hate it because I’m still living.
.
I got the call at four in the morning.
So she’s dead. Died in her sleep.
Whatever. Just let me go to sleep, too, with you.
Forever.
w.
bitten and verboten:
Models in the shoot: Me, Chessna, Steve.
Let’s run away together. play burial games out back. so what if I am already dead, play my heart on the balcony. Paint a visage with rouge and crème, like the speckling of tiny fragments, forgettable circles of blood on the searing concrete. Open your eyes and become a martyr. Let's push Andy’s repetitious head into his lime dirt, knuckle to the back of his little temple. I'd hate to see it go, but in the case of art eat art, some dog meat will substitute real substance. Play my suicide toy; I’m just a jukebox for all the things you want to hear.
You and I. we form supple CP non protective measure, counting freckles like sunspots. Bound beyond bondage, kept beyond holding, life preserved like an asphyxiated cat in a sweltering oven. A warm flesh-woven human puking machine. Holding the wires tightly together, white knuckle fists on the rungs of the downward sloping ladder. I’ve been gunned down and left to lie. I spat truth of untruth, the sting stung like acrid acid, the pains of a sharp glitter pencil around the entrenchment wound. Now the old patients think so much of damaging me. Don’t lend yourself; the IV drip is just about as steady as the heartache these days, like Moses’ prophetic shrub, the sacks refill with assorted poisons. Hot, hot hurt. [Don’t touch the mark; practice my play faux gunrunning with suicidal playgrounds. I know you never believed in me. You’re so ashamed. I’d rather be dead, but you don’t recall.] I test the past memories with threatening forgetfulness. I kept the secret and let loose a sandstorm. Beloved like a certain particle spin, begotten like a certain cancerous sin.
I'm tired of all the spinning, so let's fake sleep and not let the phone wake us. Hush the candles we've lit, dim the lights, and lay. Clothed but so exposed, matter exploded to see the innermost parts. I want to look deep into you to see the other side, judging a book by its outermost cover. A tortoise that has eaten another living tortoise, the eaten one, having consumed a meal worm, now is both roles of mother and daughter. Self regurgitation, self-puke, to be yourself is to be frightened, to become your parent is to deny the current self...but to be both is to deny the fright within your movement.
Together you and I will wage hell, scurrying up sandstorms with howling heat, earthquakes of violent malevolence. Holly leaves bedecking the entrance, ice melts. Lit fuse, I’m snake-bitten. Swollen, wretched, so beautiful, unmoving parts kept safe and secure with sheets of clear plastic. Sometimes I feel so barbaric, sometimes it’s like a god damned furnace keeping me awake at night. Tonight it will be too dark to see, hold my hand, we’ll feel around the house and know where you are going. I don’t expect an end to this tunnel, as it is less a tunnel than it is a sideways, inescapable water-well, sans water. But it matters not, the light fades, the reflection of your eyes ceases to show mine in yours. I’ll light myself on fire to guide your way. Rotten pieces of life falling off the bones, becoming more skeletal and limber with every hunk of decomposing flesh.
Just want to play with my tanks in the sand. Put the peacetalks on hold, as the struggle is not yet done. You can’t kill what doesn’t want to live. It’s called moral vampirism and I think you know what I’m talking about. Summer is over, and I don’t really think she ever cared. It’s basic and systemic. I don’t want to follow their stupid rhetoric. Take my hand. I may be coarse, but upon my back, you may strike a match. Light a candle. Sleep with me, tonight. We’ll need our rest, as tomorrow ushers a halo of gunfire that will sweep up the world in its apocalyptic afterbirth.
So tonight, we count the bullets. Tomorrow, we count the dead. Two more than expected. It’s us, sweetheart. Bury me with you.
MWNL.
W.
Just. One. Thing.
I paint to match the pictures I keep. Reminders, mementos. Hopeful future events.
I tried to outbreed to suicide. Failure contempt. Success contemplation.
Death begins a new suicide.
One national shout.
'get out.'
Self shoot self. Hung with hairwoven rope.
I put the gun to my head in my own little way
And fuck the everything that you have that I can’t seem to find.
Took the shortest straw, grasped by chance.
Suicide taken kindly. Invited.
Like a pill, the morning after.
Monoduet. We could watch the sound of music together.
It’d echo through these tunnels, like whistles.
Kill. Feel; Crushed. Guilty. Regretful. Distraught, and destroyed.
Dumb ashamed humiliated defaced weak. Kill feelings.
and I hate the everything that you have that I can't seem to find.
Pull every single one of my hairs out.
Cry piss tears ‘til acid blinds.
I’ve come to the edge of my existence.
Hallucinations in self-hatred; wrath begotten.
I am not all knowing.
I; selfless; ruinous.
I; Uncoax; Unhoax.
What am I?
I; Negative
I; unalive.
MWNL.
W.
9.5.07
Winslow Goes To A Nazi Rally
Every so often, a group will come along, simply to stir up the shit, shouting, marching, with slogans and banners, and well-pressed shirts. These are affectionately called the ‘Fun Ones.’ When I heard that there was going to be a organized NSM, or National Socialist Movement, or Nazi, or SKYNNYRD!!!, rally, I was excited. I planned my week around it, emptied my SD card, and charged my batteries. I arrived early, in my regular street clothes, but with a bullet-belt that I had picked up recently. Bad move, I should have known. So a guard ousted me for having a belt and a bag on me, but before I left, I saw Allie and Lauren, two girls from my high schools newspaper. They’re both editors, photojournalists, and regular decent people. Allie and I walked up to her car, where I left my ammo, and my bag. On the way down, we attempted to reenter the area, which was five blocks on the busiest street in the city, sanctioned off, with massive, comprehensive armed guards every two blocks surrounding ground zero. The entry was blocked for me, reason being, I have no credentials, I had no mode of identification for what newspaper or media I was for. Since I’m working strictly for myself, as a freelancer, I can’t get in. Allie can, and she left to see if I could gain reentry, but it was Lauren who sweet talked the guards to let me back in. Note that she didn’t sex any of them up. She’s just good with words and sounding official. So, I’m back in, looking over Nazi and the anti-Nazi pen. Or, I’m sorry, the National Socialist pen and the Anti-National Socialist pen. This is where I remained for less than an hour, in which time I purged my wallet of scented cards and other bitter nostalgia, with new friends Fred and Ryan.
Fred was a kind, decent man. He was once held hostage by an escaped convict Mike McGuire, who forced him to purchase guns and ammunition for his final great escape. On one of the many occasions that Fred was tied down, he managed to wriggle free and phone the police. Mike was later caught, and Fred was considered a willing accomplice, which, obviously, is not true. Fred is a teacher for North High and Ryan is a senior at Burke High. Ryan was a clever, if not shady, man, with two very nice cameras. Both Canons, of course. We were kicked back a further two blocks by an angry, red-faced officer of the law. We remained there for only a moment until we were given reentry by a cop that had helped Fred free during his time as a hostage. He was a good cop. He had pulled a few strings, and soon enough, we were right back on the frontlines with the news and press, waiting for the Hate to start. It was going to be a long wait, but it was going to be worth it. Cue in the chief of police, or something, he had a tie on but no gun or badge, and looked like a cop that quit early. He kicked Fred, Ryan and I out of the press field because we lacked the necessary credentials. So, shit. We’re gonna have to forfeit our cameras and get in with the vulgar if we want to see this shit go down. Or, fuck that. Fred had an apartment just a few blocks up, where we could stake out for a big before the big Hate started…and we formulated another, even more sketchy and shady plot.
Fred, a divorced middle-aged teacher, had, not surprisingly, collected a lot of shit in his life time. Disney figurines, maybe a hundred different A&W mugs, Harry Potter memorabilia, that type of crap. He looked like a guy who had a lot of evidence hidden in his apartment. So, we’re looking at each other, and we basically read one another’s minds. In seconds, Ryan is standing against the door, and I took his picture, along with my picture, and one of Fred. We upload them to the computer and opened MSpaint. We made our own ID badges, convincing as hell, printed on paperboard, complete with school logos and lanyards. We were set for action. By the time we’re down there, the Hate has already started. The Nazis were already in their pens, mobilizing, shouting, waving flags. No guns, no violence, no drinking. They were all clean. Sucks, I know. With my false press badge, I could go anywhere within our own personal pen that I pleased, but I couldn’t take anything but videos and crowd shots, I simply was not close enough to the action. The chants on the Nazi’s side were refined to ‘Sieg Heil’ and yelling about ‘stupid midgets’ and black people. Actually, for an organization that is based off a government that was feared worldwide for its totalitarianism, conformity, strictly regulated rules, and militarism, the NSM was much disorganized, giddy, and for the most part, fat white men with nothing to prove, and nothing to lose. All boots, no balls.
It’s sad. I really wanted them to provide some real arguments, real fights and coverage of controversial topics. I guess that’s having high hopes for such a halfassed group, but still, I wanted something more than random shouts and anger. That’s what got me the most upset, actually, that they had so much anger and hatred, they felt so violated and threatened, so they put on their beliefs, but they didn’t know exactly what to say! They were simply empty smoke in suit, belching verbose belly-aching through a bullhorn. You’re wearing a swastika, you’re in boots, you should have a goddamned point. Hitler didn’t die because his property values were hit by Mexican immigrants. Hitler put his ass on the lines, along with the collective asses of millions of his soldiers, pilots and generals, for his belief of racial hygiene, his belief of the purity of bloodlines, his belief of a Now-And-Forevermore German state. Not this whiny, pissant bitchfesting. I was disappointed. I came for the hate, I came for the order and for the vicious natures inherited down the German bloodline, I wanted to see some goddamned action! All I got was Nazis, penned up, no real points, no real evidence, no facts or data. The information is out there. Go and get it.
Nazis. They’re missing the point. The Jewish people, Mexicans, blacks, all the races and creeds have inherent flaws, but they are not spawned from being of a particular race or creed. They’re spawned from the fact of humanity itself. They’re focusing on such a small subgroup of people, while disregarding the problem at a whole. They say that blacks commit three times the murder that whites do, but they trip over their statements. They’re saying that whites commit murder too, just as blacks do. So, who’s guilty? The white man or the black man? They’re both guilty. It’s a fact of life. If you’re white, with white brothers, you’re guilty of your race. As is with all races, blacks, Hispanics, all the way down the line. The inherent flaw is to be human. Hitler was so close to a perfected message, but he was so caught up with his own vendetta that he missed the point. If you want pure blood, you need to shed pure blood. The goal is a lifeless planet, where there are no humans to commit a flaw, and the solution is unbiased genocide. Misanthrope. That’s what it is.
The anti-Nazis were in full flow at this point, far more organized than their spiteful counterparts. They held their own chants, of different American-themed peace-and-justice-for-all type of songs. At one point, there was a bunch of shouting of “Black Power! Black Power!” Which was odd, because I’m pretty sure I saw some white and Hispanic kids chanting along with. Then there was an American Indian, who shouted at the Nazis with all points clear. This was his land first, before the whites crashed in a stole it from them! He was pissed and justified, which is of course, the best kind of anger. Lots of middle fingers coming from the crowd, lots of hate, lots of snide remarks at the expense of the surprisingly sensitive Nazi’s[I’ll get to that later.] On of my favorites was the woman who yelled “I’ll bet your wife sleeps with a Mexican while you’re at work!” Classy, I know. The basic rhetoric of the group was “Eat shit and die, nazi scum!” Pretty entertaining.
By this point, the Nazi’s had basically run out of good chants and they were looking a bit more bloated and discontent. Riled up, maybe, but not in a violent way. Maybe they were being electrocuted mildly, but some hidden diode that is a mind-control beacon to Hitler’s preserved brain, found miles underneath the surface of the earth. Or maybe it was the heat that was baking them in their shirts and ties. Who knows? The critical point is when the barrier for the press was broken down; allowing us to go and directly interact with the Nazi’s themselves. They were an odd bunch, more anxious wandering than real political discussion. They insisted that America had been built by white Americans, and that Mexican immigrants had never done a thing to aid in the construction of it. Now, I can’t recall the last time I’ve seen a building being put up by a pure white-bred crew of laborers. Most of the time it’s Mexicans, willing to put their backs on the damn pavement, to shed skin and blood, to make an honest living for their families. I can’t name a more hardworking people. The points made by the Nazi’s were very much based upon self-defense and not about the problems they cited. I called one of them a Nazi, and he was very upset about this. He touted his beliefs above my head, as if I had never heard of hatred before. I told him that he was wearing a swastika, and I asked him what group that is most commonly associated with. He told me that it was not a swastika, but it was, in fact, a symbol of the sun. He pointed to the sun. I told him that Hitler had put that symbol on his flags, and well, we all know what kind of chum Hitler was, and he called me ignorant. He said that before Hitler had put the symbol on any of the flags, it had first been found on Hindu temples and carved into ancient cities and places of worship. Well, yes, it had been found there, but it was a very basic and repeatable symbol. That’d be like a Christian citing every modern building’s infrastructure as Christian-based because it has so many crossbars that make up its skeleton.
The Nazi’s had taken the swastika and turned it sideways, to a diamond shape, reversing the original meaning of the symbol of peace, and turned it into a symbol of war. That’s why my symbol, the diamond Red Debt is based on the Nazi swastika. It’s a symbol of war, the endlessness of conflict. It’s not about bigotry, it’s not about selective hatred, it’s not about racial hygiene. It’s MWNL, Make War Not Love.
After that point, no real arguments were made, no real conversations were held. Just banter and anger. They’re not blinded by their beliefs; they’re blinded by their angst. It’s as simple as that. They’re so caught up in the act of believing, that they can’t even recall what it is, exactly, that they believe. They were so confused. I was sincerely disappointed. I scour the databases, I read the texts and review the reels of WWII, Hitler, his armies, his divisions, and the beliefs of the Nazi party and when they’re finally allowed to organize, they simply don’t have anything ready to go. Does anyone here remember Kristallnacht? Those fateful nights, November 9th and 10th, year 1938, where the SA, the Sturmabteilung, invaded the houses of Jews and other found undesireables and simply massacred the economics, burned businesses and homes down, dragged out the dead? They went from rash acts of violence and bigoted hatred to petitioning the city council for five blocks of shouting space? Pathetic. I conversed briefly with the president of the NSM. We didn’t talk politics, we talked, actually, about what region of Europe makes the most attractive men’s suits. He said Italy. I agreed. The most surreal event was this boy, probably only a few years older than me, if that, who was in his leather boots, black pants and a NSM shirt. I said that one of the most impressive things about the Nazi’s were their boots and shoes. Delicious leather footwear. The boy thanked me, even though the comment wasn’t directed towards him, so I asked him for a picture. He gladly complied, and posed instantly. The shot was very amazing; he was smiling so big and proud. Happy with his heritage, happy with his people, and his blood. The swastika stained onto the flag he held blotted out the sun that shone down on his black cotton shirt. He seemed so personable and content, like a kid that I could be friends with, someone who you’d see on the bus, on the football team. He seemed to be tolerant and accepting of me, which was a first from the Nazi’s that I had seen today. I must admit, he was an interesting subject for my photography.
I left the Nazi side to take shots of the anti-Nazis. They were a diverse people, of all ages and ethnicities, all united under a single cause and message against the bigotry before them. They were a happy, albeit angry bunch. I took some great overhead shots of the ranks, and then something amazing happened. I saw him, Joshua, my long lost cousin, whom I hadn’t seen for…maybe four or five years, right there in front of me. He’s half Mexican himself, and he’s a remarkably decent person. “…Winslow?” he timidly inquired. “Holy shit! Josh!” We reconnoitered; I told him how I had made the badge and crept into the rally to take art shots for my sites. He was really proud of me. He’s two years older than me, 18, and he was, in retrospect, one of the most prominent voices from the crowd that I had heard that day. He had that good-spirited fight in him, which enabled him to fight against persecution and hate, and stop the battle at the line of equality.
There were many cheerful black folk, intermingling with the rest of the crowd, just as the rest did to every other group. There really weren’t any lines between them; there was no division, no racial, no religious. Blacks, whites, Jews, gentiles, men, women, gays and straights. All there. Pretty interesting.
By now, Allie, Lauren and I had formed a bit of a photographic team, following each other through the day, taking pictures of whatever caught our eyes. I left the rally and I had planned to get a ride with Fred, who, minute by minute, was becoming sketchier and sketchier. I got my bullets and my bag from Allies car, and everyone hugged, and left. Or rather, they left, and I began my journey down to the Rally, once again, to find my ride. Only this time, I had ammunition on my person, so it was going to be that much harder to get in. In ten minutes, I had reached the site with the first check point to get into the rally. I was then surrounded by a half dozen cops, each one inspecting every bullet on my belt, piece by piece. Ok, yeah, it was a dumb move of me to bring it, but there is no way of firing the bullets. They’re emptied, the primers are all shot, and they’re bound together by a chain that can’t be loaded into any automatic firing mechanism. Better safe than sorry, I guess. Same reason that they had an excess of 100,000 dollars in riot squads and teams deployed for what was a relatively peaceful bout. Unlike, Toledo, where violence and riots had broken out, and, according to a camera man who’d lived it, “Half of Toledo was burned down.” I managed to get through, to find that my ride was not present. It was a long, hard walk down to work, but it was punctuated with drivers-by flashing peace signs and bullhorns. I recognized them as Anti-Nazi protesters, and they recognized me as the one who was taking footage of the whole event. The feeling of connection hadn’t faded because the rally was over, it was even stronger, like tying two people together, their bond tightens the further they stray from one another.
THE YOUTUBE VIDEO: [link]
Check out the pictures.
MAKE WAR NOT LOVE.
W.
9.1.07
hung himself// THE ARTERY CUT
hung himself
Given to me; nothing in needingness: dead happy dead. The bomb went off properly, but you’d never hear it, now would you? Do you regret being me? Kill one bird with six stones, while five more watch from above. I willed the nothing to fruition. Dress me in your obsidian. At what point did you stop believing? I hate this perpetuality, like a comatose woman giving birth to a stillborn, a dead outlook spawned from death within life. Every second I’ve been broken down, then reassembled, and the pieces simply stopped fitting. My flesh has been misplaced. Every day, the rage of jealousy and pain surges through me beyond controllable nature. Push me back to a day before it occurred, so I could kill myself happier then. Skin is for the weak. Every moment I’m there and with, it’s an excruciating torture, like I’ve never experienced in my life. You’re there and not here. Throw me a bone, I know you’ve got them. I’d strangle myself, if in that last second, it’d be us. I’d strangle myself for new life. Old life. Take me back. Anywhere but here. I can’t remember the point that I simply stopped wanting to wake up, but it happened. With this, I don’t know if it was worth it today. Never can recall the last time it’s flooded me, that feeling of warmth, feeling of being cared for. Not this. Not anything of this dull fate of halfhearted vulgarities spat at me from the far side of their oasis.
At what point should I just stop trying? I thought you were weak. Can I bend the metal too? Or have your snapped…shift your shapes again, but keep me in mind. What I’d give to love what you hate, see it and sedate it into an overdriven catatonic subsleep. Now I don’t want to go to hell, because you’ll be there too, now I fear the aspect of life. I’m weak to have put the gun down. Nothing is more luring than the fear you held. The pills they gave me didn’t help, so they doubled the doses, bringing me up to zero plus zero. Oddly enough, that’s just what I’ve been looking for. But it obviously still doesn’t work. Your math became the subtraction of me. I kept the face on to smile perverse, now the words don’t seem to work.
I would give anything for a single second, in which, things would appear to be working. I'd give everything for a moment that I spent so frivolously before. I'd give anything just to be able to see again. I'd rather be dead than here, and here is where I am forced to stay. No security. Pure jealousy. No love. Just tolerance. No warmth. Just dead relations.
You're playing me like one sided dice.
I brought the hammer down because I thought the nail would bind, and not separate. Who knew I was building myself a waxy casket, with seating for one? Your overcoat will be the wood I need to start the fire. I gave you the bullets you shoot to the targets I made, so the least you could do is poison me.
Heading back to the hole tonight.
hung himself. no more lovely words than those.
THE ARTERY CUT:
To coincide with an influx of self portraits from the ten dimensions, I begrudgingly seat myself next to the laughing mouth. My travels through rejection. I give you my veins. My blood. My death. The artery cut.
Death peaceful unplosion of nonexistent framework. Counting bones with the bones themselves, kept mindful of ones own severance cut, without place or point. Trip where there is no up, fall where there is no down, into the unout.
POINT: DIMENSION ZERO: The artery cut. Dereliction. Deprogramming. The space of no matter, where no measurements can exist. I existed here in a living uterine abortion, underneath the coarse realm of width and height, where numbers exist to count and not to measure. Dull and shallow are the things I have found here, and in unspace, the vacuum distorts the grid, all is absorbed into that single point. A behemoth with a black hole in its gut, sucking down everything, and eventually, the creature will eat itself. Death is not an ending aspect, but simply a termination of a frivolous contract. Take yourself into the imminent black abyss, where all light is lost, and imagine a needle of further darkness to penetrate that lack of anything. Every fiber in the nonexistent being vibrates and pulses with energy, heaving massive mental plasma bolts through nonexistent space. I’m blinded, and then reblinded by further blindness. I can’t find my own eyes in their sockets, utterly numb; I can’t make the saliva to spit. Charred, boundless epithelium.
LINE: DIMENSION ONE: Doubly lost in repeating causality, where the ending arrives before the beginning, so it is considered as just. One second lost into cruelty, no lightwaves to bend, nothing shining, nothing reflecting. Lines based in two connecting coplanar points, based in two nonzero vectors, found unnumber. So the connection between the two points is theoretical, a line drawn just to enable that feeling of bind.
SPLIT: DIMENSION TWO: Just enough room to encase and hold, no space to contain air as a molecule of any matter would be infinitely too large for the plain to withhold. A cut through the mold, kept in an unending scab of width and breadth. A snake does not bite its tail, but its head simply becomes its ending. Unforgiven namesakes and figureheads of impertinent unpower caught on a mobius strip floating without room to bend or contort, simply psychovisual disorientation. I’m kept without room to digest or breathe, in a cage of no resolution and anti-solute dismatter particles. A vector, a motion with direction and place, where I become scalar, floating theoretical particles in dispacial flat chasm drops. Vision ends when the view continues down the previous strip, and collides with the reversal of the eyeballs. Consider the vocal chords themselves, speaking of their own non-existence, like a black hole that sucks itself in, and disallows its own shout of mal-existention.
FOLD: DIMENSION THREE: Now to be kept and hold. Space in time where I am constantly strangled by round trillionths of matter, every moment is a deathwish unfulfilled. Extrasensory blindness and deafness. Numb as the eraser touches the moments of time. Happiness forgot and replaced by dull, white silence. This dimension has failed me, and I have failed it, by applying stress to the single flaw in its vehement design. The matter to touch and to feel, the feeling of applied pressure, of being bound on all parts and torn atom from atom. Ruthlessness of reality purges creation, the death of destruction. My new death is part of a chain reaction of rejections and failures. A goal that I’ve lost all in the struggle to reach. An ending point that consumes all others. Blood drains into warm water, water with width, depth, breadth, containing a place in space, separating itself from me. What vacant hearted chemicals I boast to wash these veins clean of their deviant particles.
LINE: DIMENSION FOUR: Gone are all the little hopes, the bashful entities that kept me from living the life I hid from. New parts from the old future return to alter my past. Nothing can change the failures within life. No witness of the collapse can describe the effects, when there is no willpower in the present, there can be no self duplication in the forth bit of time. Gasped for air that was withheld from me. I’d rather disintegrate to avoid my grave. My past was minor grievances and core dilations, my present is bleak entrenchments of no chance, no hope. My future is inaccessible, like a living death to view inside the webbing of the mind itself. My history of craven longevity. A recreant surrendering of space. Gave up to hopeless will. Heart exploding with jealousy and rage. Uncontrolled release of nothingness.
SPLIT: DIMENSION FIVE: Eyes worn and red from graceless groveling, tears shed to blind wealth. The inner perpetual rotting of never being able to reach and feel the shapes. The twist of my time is no longer personal, but beyond my control. An absence of shape rooted within the true absence of nature, to be forever without is to live not. Timeline facelessly trimmed of all possible hopes, until the branches are sparse and barren, only deviance is in the fantail of the brain matter ejaculating from the back of the skull. Minor incurrence is felt through my bones, where timetravel is a miserable precept because of the horrors of the nature of time itself. Things die and that makes a domino effect of the needing, helpless, weakness that has become the definition of I. Particles collapse by the palpable waves of pure rejection and denial. Observational poison. The split that does not bind, nor shall it ever. A cut of one in two, making one person two dead halves, beheading the weeping before the laughing, if I could endure thrice the pains for a second of nothing, I’d crumble like a fool to the temptations of unexistence.
FOLD: DIMENSION SIX: I spilled out all the matter that I’ve withheld, and I was laughed at. I invest everything and lost it. I gave everything in, I sacrificed and shed flesh, blood, brain, sweat and tears, and I was laughed at. And the laughter continues, because it was done in a manner that will echo, and will not end. Once voice of deception, of enticement, of wantingness, and it has become nothing and everything, simultaneously. The lines that had bound become just falsifications of matter, everything pseudo, everything that would be flesh is plastic, all points of emotion become simple dull tolerance. No structures, no bones, I feel like I am both smashed against concrete and floating in a abyssal plain of self consumption and destruction. I feel equal and infinite perpetual pressure upon all points of my flesh, to the point where there can never be any proper release of self. I have attempted to find the way out before, but the door has been closed, the door has been locked. I refuse this weakness, but still, refusal of a constant force will only bring your head to the asphalt that much faster.
LINE: DIMENSION SEVEN: Laughed at. All possible endings shut. All possible conclusions drawn. All possible beginnings snuffed. All possible hopes dashed. All possible voices silenced. Laughed at
SPLIT: DIMENSION EIGHT: A tame wolf will still lunge for the throat, provided a moment of uncontrol. I’d go back to untame the beast. I’d go back to push my head under the water so that I would not fail the future of my spacetime. I’d go back and do whatever it takes to end this senseless explosion of uncontinuous particles, notes from the forgotten dimension of punishment and cruelty. Pain like I could never believe, heart heavy like pure obsidian, brain shredded liquid matter of unthought. My shut eyes dilate to the new blackness in coming tide. Body gave up. Trapped in this fine glass artery, heartbeat so vulgar and disappointing. Every moment in isolation, even in your company, is torture of another magnitude. Every moment is bitterness and jealousy. I do not want to give up, I do not want to forget, but all possible endings have been halved and have been severed. The death of life is the imminent domain of spatial collapse.
FOLD: DIMENSION NINE: Imbuement in stark absence of color. No point ever had, all points forgot. Instant matter, instant death. The act of mind erasure collected within a new atmosphere of complete distrust. All fingers broken. No part of any universe contains escape, only the unlife promise of stilled death can release from the abjection faced here. I’m waking up hoping to give the time back. Isolation inside a single universe, upon a single planet, in a single deaf house, inside the rattling confines of my empty, brittle skull. Forever withheld and gasping for air. A troubadour of hate and frustration. Vehemence spills forth like turbulent war drums, a jet engine crashing on the garden I tended. To drag a reversal of suicide through the end of the bullet, into the exit wound, leaving through the entrance. Reanimate death. Become life. All parts ending in dimensional glitch betrayal.
POINT: DIMENSION TEN: Heavy light. My all parts forgot. My insides out, cards up. Knives in. Withhold all thoughts. All parts of everything caught up in a single immeasurable instance. Everything once is not, nothing now is. Bones break by nothing’s weight. Spent. Burnt. The lure of forgiveness grasped. It was fake. It was a lie. A spite-driven tease. The will of that which wants me to suffer. The artery cut.
To be without forever. I’d rather be dead.
I’d rather be dead.
Trapped in quantum stupidity. Sorry I brought myself up from the fall.
Put me down like a dog. Make me your ashtray. Anything else. Uncaring. I never mattered. Himself hung.
Kill life.
w.
8.23.07
Funeral Wreath
Drink me in. I wear death like love like a funeral wreath. The inside out of those outside the in. Kept me awake and drawing in indigents this whole time, just teasing myself to believe my own personal anticlimactic hype. Take your fists and beat my muscles down to tenderize my flesh. Prepare me like a dinner, and even if you didn’t know how, I’d take you in under my wing, and teach you how to cook me. Cut off my skin, smash me, roast me, fry me, kill me, eat me. For you, I’d work myself to death, smashing rocks, building bridges out of bones. I’d break each finger off; I’d crush my bones with the hot kiss of a fresh cinder block. I’d kill a man to dig it all up. Find the pipeline. Hit gas, hit oil, hit a vein, strike blood. Old crude vulgarity.
I guess paranoia has eaten me alive. I’ve become the thing that I hated more than the thing I thought I wanted to be. Now I’m nothing but lines of text and pixels caught in a dying moment of solidarity, each second like the first card hitting the second in the fall of the house of cards, like the moment one particle of phosphorus ignites the next, on the head of a struck match. Here is the consummation of every moment I’ve lived, but it’s not worth a dime. I can’t pay my rent with it. I can’t impress myself with it. It’s just an empty dagger with teeth to show through. I want the production to stop. I want to have a funeral where the rail workers stop driving nails into the surface, and drive their sledges straight into my skull. I want my fellow miners to be found with their pickaxes dug deep into my back. I want to be nothing again. I want to be in that same blissful second of confused, blind, excruciating pain.
Hey you. I want to control every aspect of your life. I want to make you nothing, and then fall into this trap all over again. I want to stick my fingers in the way of the axe. I want to bite my own tongue off and swallow it, with your wedding ring. I want to tear down your curtains and burn them. I want to control, destroy, and make a nest out of soot and ruin. I want to know your thoughts and then prove to you that I know, just to scare you into not thinking anything ever again, just to scare you away from me. I want to drive myself to suicide because of my unending need for control over you. I don’t know what is healthy. I don’t know what is wise. I just keep going and going, and I never stop to learn, I never stop to think. I’m the fool in you, the fool you dug out so long ago.
You’re a white, white waste of my collective calories. When you hallucinate, do you see me? I’d be the ghost in your machine. Kept up upkeep of gathered parts, randomized bits of dead matter formulating a fuller unhuman picture. I’m something lesser, something more and hollowed out from datablockers. A cannibal beat to death by fists of knowledge and evisceration, I’m a monster maker of waterdeath and cancereating. A dead bird kicked out of heaven for requesting a longer cut of eternity. Someone kill my ego, please, it sickens me to the point of black-asphalt vomit. Now I’ve divided by zero. The mine carts are no longer found bustling over with gold ore and unrefined silver, now but bones, a constant and unrelenting pull from the center of the mine.
Nothing ever seems to work. So I take my pick ax and leave the real world. I’d work myself to death to get back my old sense of security, my old sense of place. I would. Now nothing can be made, and I don’t have the energy to destroy. In the same gust that dropped me off in this empty mineshaft, I’m gone.
MWNL.
W.
8.21.07
BLOOD SACRIFICE
Paranoia, why don’t you eat me alive? Put your chip in my neck. Wash that tongue, guilty as you feel, free like a prisoner in a top-hat factory. Put BBs down the gullet and choke like sympathy victims of dead nonsense plagues of ineffective subconcretion. Paranoia, why don’t you eat me alive? There is no love left in my life to feed my fire, of course, my forehead burns with headache, heart bustles to push the units through. A system in foundry, purely arrhythmic tangential machinations of human combine flesh. Cells and pixels deactivated, reenlisted as fragmented subtangent plains of unblack polyphony.
Heard harpy voices like air raid sirens of earbleeding. Cut open at the ribcage and peeled back until the pelt could be saved. The only useful part of the human being is found it the termination of the life contract. Shed skin like the snake you are, cut tongue into two hot bloody halves to replicate the enemy, feel the blood warm those cold, icy teeth, many broken off at the gumline from years of physical abuse, bricks, pipes, hammers, fists taken straight to the jaw. Steam shoots from open eyes as acid and hot asphalt make broiling-cum-ejaculations from the open mental cavity. Brain wormy, rotting, folding into infinite parts unconfined. Left me here all alone with a pencil, paper, a razor, and magnifying lens. Every cut and every drop of blood on my carapace is harvested and used to the potential beyond the unliving. Subconsious living death machine. Left little marks up and down the haired part of my arm, not concerned with life or death, just making incisions, drawing blood with natural parts, and cauterizing the wound closed. Suicide, homicide, abortion, death. The needy will die. The greedy will die. The overzealous will die. The zealotry will end when all zealots fight, struggle, and die. The belief contract of the living man will be made no more. The acid in the atmosphere will broil the blood from the rivers and lakes of no-mans land. Disimagination of subatomic principles, bending lighttimes will. Insidous news cancers, open the pores, open the skin, open the flesh, dash out the eyes, remain awake.
Smear the lipstick off. You’re useless without your face on. I’d wear your skin for an ego boost over my superiority. Knees only. No teeth left to bite through the restraints. Like an angel chained down, beaten with hammers to within an inch of it's life, spat on, and raped. I’m sure you’d gnaw your wrists off to free yourself from death.
Suicide//Homicide//Abortion//Filicide//Patricide//Matricide
MAKE WAR NOT LOVE.
BLOOD SACRIFICE.
W.
8.18.07
give the lit matches back to the forest
Sisyphus gave me his heart i gave him mine and kept it.
i guess this is going to hurt tomorrow, too. i inebriate spite in a[n] [un]fit of love. fingers so expensive. Knucklesuck. Dumb of me to beg an empty gown. Dumb of me to sew without a needle. Dumb of me to try without thinking. Dumb of me to continue without going. Dumb of me to love without Kevlar. dumb of me to fall down. dumb of me to stand up.
sewage so bright
substance of light
a fit; epileptic
shiver of spite.
mwnl.
w.
8.14.07
That's right kids, I'm back from my travels. From the trip, I've assembled a photographic journalistic barrage of events, places, ideas, and imperfections documenting my perfect descent into the Old World.
First off, I ended up in Amsterdam for a 9 hour layover. I arrived just in time for the Gay Pride parade. I think. Maybe it's just every day in Amsterdam where there are boatloads of flamboyant homosexuals gyrating and thrusting, in slightly-too-small yachts. I hadn't realized how loud the house techno was, how hard the gay was, and how many well-oiled men were giggling and prancing about along the harbor until I was waiting in line for the Anne Frank house. While I was in the house, roaming around, rereading all the old diaries of this young little girl, I began to realize what an awesome girlfriend Anne Frank would've made. Seriously, she's totally adorable, she's smart, she's got aspiration, and she's actually following through with her dreams. Erm.
Nevermind.
After that, it was lunch, and I realized that, in Europe, there is certainly no shortage of beautiful women there. It was basically a non-stop parade of some of the most jaw-dropping gorgeous women on the face of the earth. I was stunned, really, I was. And I felt like a fool, because they were all leaps and bounds smarter than me, speaking multiple languages with such flow that I could never obtain. Not only were they attractive, in a manner that some stateside girls can be, but they were simply kindhearted and polite. In America, I noticed that I don't ever get eye-contact with anyone on the street. No one ever seems to smile on random notice. Not that way for me in Europe. Ladies smiled at me, Men smiled at me, it was all good. Even when I was being thrust upon by some pierced-bronzed body with an accent thicker than the Ozone isn't.
There were plenty of street performers in Amsterdam. Some of them would pose for pictures with kids, others would simply stand there and look cool, like a dinosaur in a museum. But unlike dinosaurs, one guy was painted gold, and he had an orange Mohawk. Contact me if you've found a dinosaur like this. Oh, and there was a store that was selling this super-processed bright orange slop in a pale white bread bun. It wasn’t too far from anything you could get in America, hereinafter referred to as ‘Merica, and the product was called MEATBEEF. I found this to be rather amusing. I didn’t eat any, as you’d have guessed. During lunch, we had a short song played live for us by a wandering accordionist. It wasn’t long before he was told off by our waitress. He honked a sad song at us, then left. We saw him walk away; each step released a hoot from his dangling accordion. He was a hero.
Later on, we boarded for a brief jump over to Zurich. We arrived a bit later in the day, and, with an accumulated 100+ kilograms of pack to move, we decided that it was time to head to the hostel. This proved to be a bigger challenge than we anticipated. We headed for about hour in the opposite direction, without water or sense of place until we were told that we were on the wrong side of town. A thick gloom settled over the group. We found our way over to the hostel, unpacked quietly, and then I enjoyed a half sandwich and something called Tuc. Think club crackers, but less butter, and better for you. Tasty.
Later on, in the hostel, I was found out, taken miles away to a fake artshow, and then I was progressively tortured until the man who cut off my fingers slipped on my blood, then I escaped in a new suit, with a Cyclops asian girl who killed herself in a trainyard, then I cut off the fingers of salad freak, roll credits. Wait. No, that was the plot of some movie, not reality. Shit.
Now is about high time that I introduced the crew that I traveled with. My aunt Jan, a criminal psychotherapist. We played every cardgame we knew to within an inch of it’s life. She used to be a punk girl, boots, short hair, an all that good shit. My mother, who planned this trip, things like that. She makes cakes for a living, as I make bread a la Charlie Gordon. My brother Logan, who is studied and read young man, also, a dick. His girlfriend Gabrielle, a wonderful young woman who has made a certain mistake by stooping so low for my brother. I forgive her because she’s memorized most all the Beastie Boys lyrics. She can recite them on command. Pretty romantic.
Our first sunlit day in Zurich was spent wandering about, and the crew eventually found ourselves at a prestigious museum, befronted by the gates of Hell. I learned a lot at this museum, several massive rooms, exhaustingly studied pieces of existentialism, breathtaking realism, mind-boggling surrealism. I’ll take this with me.
So, in Europe I learned some new things. First of all, I didn’t know that someone in ‘Merica leaked the secret of electricity to them. I really didn’t know that they had lights, and all of that, so when I tried to bring my lighters and kindling onto the plane, the guards bugged me about it. I asked them how I was supposed to eat without cooking my food? What if there are no campfires left in England? Some people don’t think. Also, they had bikes by the dozens there. I found it very wasteful and typical of this new non-non-recyclable culture. Haven’t they heard of fossil fuel? It’s like magic, you put a bunch of liquid bones in your car and turn it on, the bones become movement, you go to the place you want to be, and the bones vanish. It’s incredible, but no, the Europeans insist that my bonejuice is hurting the planet. Whatever, I’ll just use their bones to run them over so I can use their bones to run them over.
Then there was this jester guy. The crew and I were watching the waters, eating some pasta or something, then this jingling spandex man came a-prancing by me. I followed him. He danced and his bells rattled atop his head. Someone convinced him to jump off the bridge, into the water, and he came up bleeding. I’ll bet he picked up some pretty awesome venereal diseases in there. Mmm mmm.
Eventually, I found myself overlooking a scape of all Zurich had to offer. There were people playing chess on massive scales, and some playing on regular scale. The trees set a nice shadow, filtering the final rays of the setting sun. There was a bee drinking water, too.
We made our way back home, and I slept. The next morning, we purchased fresh fruits and sandwich making elements, as we had a long trainride on this day. An old woman dropped a bottle of water, and I picked it up for her. When she looked up she smiled a crooked smile and sputtered out an excessively audible ‘DANKE’ It was about this point that I began my confused foray to decode the German language for my crew. I was the only one who knew any German, anyways.
The train ride was entertaining. The landscape got progressively more rocky and mountainous, and the train ride itself was eventually nearly stroboscopic given the amount of tunnels we went through. When we stopped, I stepped out onto one of the most beautiful landscapes I’ve ever damn seen. The Bernese mountains, the highest part of the Swiss alps, capped by the Jungfrau peak. After lunch, the rest of the day was spent in wandering and amazement by the intensity of the new world into which I had been so softly dipped, like a banana, into chocolate. I chatted with a woman who, in her day [1950’s] had scaled the entire range of mountains before us. It began to rain, so we talked until it let up.
The next morning, I awoke to a very bizarre scene. The room I was in was completely eaten alive by fog. The clouds had dropped from above the mountain, and they’d poured rain all night. The entire town was soaked, and my vision was limited, but it made for some amazing photography. I left for some walks with the crew, and we founds some chickens, a couple cows, and a sedated squadron of goats. Following that, we boarded the longest gondola in Europe, to take us up into the clouds. The gondola ride took a half an hour in it’s entirety to complete, dumping us at the soaked peak of the mountain. We had first believed that we could travel upwards, above the rain [not my belief, I assure you] but we had actually traveled directly into the rain cloud. See the photos for better details. In the cloud, we found ourselves surrounded, outnumbered, by cows. Each on slowly, quietly chewing their cud, watching us as they pass. Another thing I love about Switzerland is the fact that they fit all of their cows with this large ornate bells, so as I walked, there was this orchestra of near and distant cow-bell clanking. Pretty soothing, actually. So, we tried to find this fabled waterfall and lake, and only halfway there we realized that we wouldn’t be able to see either the lake or the waterfall in this thick fog.
The next day, we shuffled aboard a train, aimed for Prague, our next and final stop on this tour. There were a few shifts in travel, transfers and whatnot, and nothing interesting happened until were robbed on way through Germany. We fell asleep in three split cars, and bandits breached and snatched up purses and wallets during our slumber. They must have been sneaky, because I’m a very light sleeper. Only a couple hundred marks were taken all together, and my aunt’s camera, with images of this trip and of her travels into India. Unfortunate, true, but the passports and jewelry was saved.
Then, we step off the train, my first footstep into the Czech Republic, Prague. First off, Prague is probably the most depressing place I’ve been to in a while. The first thing I saw was oceans of trash, unhappy people, and greasy, nasty food. And more barbed wire. Secondly, what kind of language is Czech? I mean, sometimes Spanish sounds like latin, sometimes you can sound out words and figure out what they’re getting at, but not Czech. It’s all consonants and dashes. I don’t think they can even understand it, it’s insane. Third, what kind of currency is the crown? I changed my 30 USD into about 25 franks, that makes sense, but when it got changed to crown, suddenly I had 310 credits sitting in my pocket! Lunch cost 1000+ crown! Come on now, they even have these little tiny one crown pieces that are worth about as much as a Conan O’Brien monologue. That’s beyond my understanding, really. It is.
So, Prague is hot. I stopped seeing so many amazingly beautiful women, and I started seeing a lot of desperately poor people. Prague has elements to it that are unlike any other big city, it’s a bit like Charlie Gordon from Flowers for Algernon in a way, because the city is big, it’s got all the pieces of new technology, but it’s simply not structured in a way that it could handle the new westernized culture. I felt like I was walking through a populous Chernobyl or Pripyat at times, given the sheer amount of old Soviet buildings and statues that remained standing.
One thing about Prague was they’re metal scene. It was incredible. They had flyers for NIN and Marilyn Manson dashed up everywhere, and if you looked, you could even find flyers for Meshuggah. That made me happy. I tore down a Meshuggah flyer and I keep it right by my bed. But, outside of that they were having his massive assault festival with Satyricon[I got a poster of them, too], Deicide, Madball, Pain, Vader, Gorgoroth[!!!], Suffocation, Katatonia, Immolation, Dismember, All That Remains, Enslaved, Misery Index, Made By The Fire, and of course, Meshuggah. I heard that Dimmu Borgir even decided to come down. I’d pay good cash to see that show.
It rained every day in Prague, making it hard to mobilize and see the sights. We did see many different art exhibits, including the Kafka Museum and the Saint Vitus Cathedral, which was amazing. The entire cathedral was easily the biggest one-room structure I’ve ever been in, decorated lavishly with near infinite coatings of gold and silver, adorning each and every statue of notable pope, bishop, apostle, and each rendition of Christ that stood, dotting each open corner of the church. Massive, huge stained glass windows, organs, crosses and chandeliers decorated this place of worship. There were dozens of tombs, crypts, and standing graves for past bishops who’d attended their masses. It’s unfortunate that the spent so much time and money on such frivolous cause, unworthy of any true attention. Catholics, I tell you.
Our Hostel here was of the lowest caliber I’d seen so far. The walls were concrete painted orange and yellow, the cots were damp and lumpy, and my pillow was stained with blood. We were on the edge of the street that was currently being resurfaced, so every morning, noon and night we would be keep awake by the relentless grinding and churning of heavy machinery. You know those Russians, they can take a common mans machine, and make it twice as heavy, half as fast. Free breakfast was served in the basement. The breakfast was burnt coffee and bread, and sugary jam if you wanted it. No one did.
I saw a lot of old historical villages from the WWII ghettos. Lots of old synagogues, and most importantly, The Old Jewish Cemetery, in which, the Nazi’s had only given the Jews in the community a small lot to bury their dead. Soon enough, the lot was full, and the old graves had to be dug up for new ones. Eventually, by the end of the war, the cemetery has become a tangled jumble of graves, each one responsible for dozens of corpses beneath.
There was a massive public park upwards in Prague. It had been completely taken over by rogue skateboarders, who actually had some notable talent in their sport. Even though skateboarding is more of a fashion than a sport, they had some respectable tricks up their sleeves. At this point in my trip I realized a little secret about myself. Whenever I see skateboarders, at least three or four, at least, roaming around, trying to one up each other, all I can think of is how much I want to see one of them get struck by a big bolt of lightning. Like, hard, so that his wheels and trucks get blasted off his board, his piercings shooting out of his skull like fragments of steel from a pineapple grenade.
This point, I was walking around with Gabe and Logan, and it was decided that whenever we needed to head in a direction, and we were absolutely sure of it, we had to yell THAR! And point in the direction we were going to head. Past that, I found a bunch of nice medium goth and hard goth stores, plus a bunch of designer outlet stores full of hopelessly expensive clothing that I could pretend to afford. Finishing the day, we saw a live concert of Brahms, performed by what appeared to be two twin sisters who thoroughly enjoyed their own performance. I love Brahms, but now I’ve found new respect for piano duets. Probably one of the best I’ve seen in a while.
The next morning began the longest day in my goddamned life. Literally. I awoke at six in the morning, in Prague, and I immediately began to pack up all of my belongings. I boarded onto a taxi, and the crew and I headed out for the airport. We waited in line for about an hour before we flew from Zurich to Amsterdam, a three hour flight. After a two hour layover, we boarded a plane to take us from Amsterdam, across the ocean, to Minneapolis, a nine hour flight. Through the most rigid turbulence I’ve ever felt, the PA system crackled a brief message that made my stomach sink: “Chhht…if there is a doctor on board…please come to row 28.” First thing I thought: “SNAKES.” We arrived and waited an hour before we boarded the early plane that would take us from Minneapolis to Omaha, IE, home, but there were complications. I guess NWA[Northwest Airlines, not Niggaz with Attitude] has some bizarre union contract where they can only fly so man hours before they can no longer continue. We were grounded in Des Moines, Iowa. The captain turned off the seatbelt light, and told us what was happening. He said that he knew that he couldn’t take us all the way to Omaha, but he didn’t really feel like telling us. Also, he said he wouldn’t open the cargo bay for peoples luggage. Right then, I heard, seriously, an old woman say that her heart medication was in her baggage, and she needed it to live. The captain shrugged and said he was “Sorry, but really, nothing I can do.” Right, dick. If you’ve got this lady’s corpse on your plane you’ll damn sure open up the cargo bay to store it in there.
So we rented a car and drove home. The story doesn’t end here, because when we got home we found that a tree had fallen on our house, its branches poking huge holes in the ceiling of my house. Odd, I know.
All in all, the trip was wild, the women were lovely, the food was good, and the outlets were DC.
Check out the pictures, and check out the video on my youtube channel --link
Thanks.
MWNL
Winslow
8.3.07
NO REST FOR THE WESTERNER
Tonight I board a gun aimed for the heart of Zürich and parts beyond. Armed with new meaning and visceral purpose of a vast mutuality within acrimony and spite, I engage the full paradox with a new camera [Canon a640], new lights [with which I will cast tangible shadows], and the most painful action that the world has ever seen. Beset with the dark new light brought forth by heralding misanthropic philosophical abominations, forbidden by design and beyond the human plain, carrying an unjust blight of the dissolute Hippocratic oath, I am to step foot in the same soil that the planets most feared dictators have stepped. Consider this: I'll be plunging my cloven heel into the same boot print of a young Adolph Hitler, walking silently with his Mauser1892 across his bony shoulder blades, pensively awaiting the swirling black delusions within the confines of his frightened, effeminate mind to manifest themselves in the face of caustic peace before him. With that, I hope that his persistence against human presence will still remain in the air, for me to absorb. The cosmic drifts of Acherontic wrath that he shed in vain, and in Krakow, Stalingrad, Paris and so forth, to be found, and kept. I insist that the hate sucks me up and drains my last remaining parts of humanity. Only then, may I refine it past the ludicrous constructs of Antisemitism, and nationalism. There is a certain dread beyond our keeping, a certain auspice held by those internal grotesqueries…the churning of your stomach would never occur if it was not for the flesh you ate, the blood you drank.
With the sickle, I cut the swastika down from its perch. With the hammer, I bend the bars into shape. In my travels to Hell, I will either be damned, or I will bring the damned back with me. I pull the stray bullets from the chamber, through the flock. If guns cause violence, violence causes peace…so; guns do cause violence, but not enough for my desired path. A warless soldier touched my neck. He was contagious. He fired an arrow to the side of my sow, the gangrenous amputee culled from the flock for what I’d scribed as ‘quantum leaps’, to test the defeats of transplant. It bled out the ether. Intoxicated on the fruits of the first kill, we aptly drank and ate from what was left of the enigmatic corpse. Lulled into a sub-comatose twilight dreamstatus, I dreamt that I was counting orbiting stars…and multiplying their distances and weights, their mutual pull upon one another, and finding the common center of mass. I dreamt I had awoken in a hot flash, sweat pouring from my brow long enough for me to realize that it was blood from the lobotomy, and not beads of that salty saline solution that stained the garbs of my cot, and the satin of a thousand others. A five pointed star in pallid sweat, and a sharp dagger of burnt brown blood spitting forth from the open wound that I did so much nothing to repair. Who knew flashbulbs couldn’t sew stitches to keep the fetus from bursting forth? From the dream I awake into a world of start virginity, the icy reality that has done a notable job of keeping my mind on track and in denial. So, the blood wasn’t real. Well, the blood was real, but the thousands of beds? False. My cot? True. Stitches? That was just a fantasy of mine. Something else I should tell you, but I don’t have time for it now. The blood was real though...as I said. Down my chest, into the snow, bright red patches of steaming fluid. I coursed my fingers up past my brow to find that, not long after the my temples, the skull simply stopped. My brain was gone, and the top of my skull upside down, partially concealed in the depression of snow. The soldier hadn’t shown face… I guess he fled too. He was no longer warless. He had procured my mind in place of his own, and now, he’d fight, suffer, and die within each moment. My war now his. My world dislocated. The sky, darkened by flak, the snow, blackened by pollution. No wind in the air, no current in the rivers. Standstill. Earth depopulated. Sucked sere of resources. So goes the war.
I’ll kill him and get my war back. Happiness isn’t a warm gun. It’s a cold hand.
The old world cringes as the black gives birth to my light.
MAKE WAR. NOT LOVE.
WINSLOW.
7.30.07
TWO HUNDRED AND SEVEN//YOU WILL EAT YOURSELF
TWO HUNDRED AND SEVEN:
TASTE ON MY LIPS. LIKE URINE. I HEARD YOU SCREAM THROUGH THE GRAPEVINE. POISONED, LICKED. YOUR PISS CLEANS THE BLOOD FROM MY HANDS. BURNING HOLES IN THE TIMESPACIAL.
FORGETFULNESS NEVER. ALWAYS RECALL. IN AGONY. IN DECEIT.
YOU HAVE HANDED ME THE GUN.
I AIM TOWARDS YOUR SKULL. YOUR EYES FALL UPON THE MUZZLE.
207. YOU WILL EAT YOURSELF. I WILL SHIT YOU OUT.
MAKE WAR. DO NOT MAKE LOVE.
WINSLOW
PART II
YOU WILL EAT YOURSELF:
MWNL.
FROM THIS BLACK BOX WARNING HOLE OF HADES... I SHOUT TO YOU; THE READER. MY FINEST APOLOGIES FOR BEING SO BRASH AND SO COARSE... BUT DARK TIMES CALL FOR BLACK MATTER.
...
I'm so tired of this. It's finally over, and I can't tell you what it is.
Legal reasons, and a volley of death threats aimed at me. Serious ones.
Shit you wouldn't believe. Excuse my recent profanity...it's unlike me, but drastic moments make butchers of ballerinas.
The last thing I heard, and I'm being entirely serious, I'm not looking to shock, I'm not looking for attention, or to impress, the last thing I heard over the phone was screaming of at least four different people, then a loud muffled striking noise, the screaming got drastically louder, and then nothing.
Empty, cold silence. It says volumes.
So, for you, I cough up 14 of my blackest and most ethereal pieces to date. Each is in sync with the next. If you look, you'll see, the get exponentially blacker, bit by bit. The beginning, I am in the outline, and quickly, nothing else is. Just a blur of cosmic anger and hate.
YOU WILL EAT YOURSELF//TWO-HUNDRED AND SEVEN
TWO HUNDRED AND SEVEN
HERE IS A SHOVEL FOR YOU [GO DIG YOUR GRAVE]
BLACK MAGNET//GET ON YOUR HANDS AND KNEES
This is a good way to kick the coffin into the grave. This is a good way of saying goodbye and good riddance. This isn't me leaving, this is me shrugging off a sick, subhuman, me pushing this gilded paraplegic pedophile off my back.
You know who you are.
And for those of you who are wondering what I used to make these pictures, they're technically photography. I got my new camera in the mail, and it was badly damaged, so the images came up heavily fractalized...though, for these pictures, it was my hours of work to perfect them, not simply a chance creation of faulty equipment.
Laughter, laughter, laughter. The gun cocks.
MAKE WAR, NOT LOVE.
WINSLOW.
7.28.07
I consume infinitely of nothing, and I watch the numbers skyrocket. Stomach barren and full, my ribs bowing and stretching outward. Complacent hopes of thought drift downstream and into the gut. I eat nothing outside the cosmos confined, and I feel like puking it all up. No longer lustful, no libido [a drive which there never was room for], and a hand from the hole reaches up to pull the fist. Something kept me from breathing. Something kept me from chance, from hope. I descended into the grave I’d dug myself with digital paradigms of self destruction and within that pit; I dug another hole, a grave within a grave. When she planted those flowers, she called it a burial. Nothing is as it seemed back then, the past eats the future, the future digests the old spirituals. I can’t believe I held that hand.
Love asks and is smothered by blanket affection. Hypocrite bloodstream unrestrained. Inbred lies found their wings at the jumping off point. I built this coffin for the two of us. Either I’m getting fatter or this world is getting smaller—or I’ve gone insane. The neck chokes the throat. My bitter half told me that she had a paralyzing fear of spiders, and I was the spider that feared her paralysis. The bolt drops to the floor, and with it, the other shoe. I can only breathe when someone is sucking at my neck. The light of life is dead. In lieu of the last dance being so manic and frightened, I saved for you, the Saint Vitus…the drugs dictate the decidation of the corpse. I don’t touch them, but I’ve been touched. When asked about the abuse, I pointed to the eyes of the voodoo mask. Bite me until I bleed. Pain is not pleasure. Contract this disease. I’ve written a shallow mess that I have become.
I’m just saying I could never dance to this kind of calamity. Orchestrated chaos is perfection in C minor; something of a bone-rattling ruckus from deep down within…maybe I’d feel the blood move me if I only had a heart.
What wrath have I wrought with my cards? Unknowing. Data absent but vivid memories within my pedopolis playhouse. Betrayal. Come touch me and prove your worth. Invalid shutterbug, you’d never make it by your own rules. Quit. Decide. Corpus enigmatic. Keep it on the shutdown; I’d love to meet my better half if she even had a name. I’ll push my finger down your throat, hit the button, drop the bomb. What I would give to surpass fear and terror. This is it. I’ve become it, finally, a product of insecure society wants and dead-wants. Neediness is ill-regarded as temporary insanity. I could only assume that my disestablishmentarianism is a product of such nonsense…but I’ve been kept and decorated like a Christmas tree. You’re only here for the bottom half; the gifts, the toys. Watch yourself loosely, as the fetid humors leak from the gaping clasp-wound, angels watch you sleep and drink, somnambulist, hear my call. I’ll push my head back up inside to hide the pain. I’d run through barbed wires to avoid being dropped headlong into them. Again. Just another aspect of a failed upbringing. I’d stoop to your level but my knees are superimposed holographs of promises of a [blemishkeeper.] My record has become cleaned. I’ve gasped my last past gasp. I want to see progress into turmoil.
Damned under medical Behemoth.
Future anxiety torments.
Unilateral neglect grows youthful.
So, they say you can never pinpoint the moment you snap. It’s a long, long battle of mental and emotional breakdown that leads to one single point of explosion. I’ve found my fuse. I spent hours today, in the blistering sunlight, in the concrete jungle that surrounds the Hole with the fender of a dilapidated old Chrysler trying to dig up those bones. I found a femur and a few teeth. Never found the skull. Still. I’m stuck here. Under my desk, holding my head. Taping my mouth shut, pinching my nose. Pleased to slide the needles in to inoculate…to run away is to find shelter of treason.
Marching towards my death.
The sun sets, the ocean boils.
MWNL.
Winslow.
6.22.07
CORPUS ENIGMATIC//DARK PHYSICS
DARK PHYSICS RELEASE NOTE //HOW TO BUY PRINTS
CORPUS ENIGMATIC:
I drink from the cask you left me within. An inebriatory yolk of infinite uselessness, to be fatherless, motherless. Touch the skin. Plant seeds.
So the feeling to be hated again. Life used as a weapon. Revenge against collaboration. Self lost in a burst of searing malevolent spite, finally approaching the zeroed cancerous auspice only to find that the sacrifices don't add up to worthy points. Blithering cold, guttural heat. No longer a usable drone, no parts for salvage. Pitting my heel to the side of the skull, kicking it down. As my life and world shudders to pieces, as I leave the third dimensional vector, I care not, I cease not. I've become forth dimensional, and the things that kept me from living in the past life can no longer interact with me on the same plain; I've escaped the joys and the miseries of my life by neutralizing the thing that kept me from living it. I've embraced what it is that keeps me from continuing.
trapped in a gust of solid guilt.
So I won't return home for about a week now. Less than that. I miss the foundries that kept me from satisfaction and happiness. I taste quicksand and I sleep in a den of pure ambiguity. Only recently I've stumbled upon certain revelations that could alter the existence of this entire home, in which, I sleep. Fittingly, I puked out the cadaver and slept into forgetfulness. My mind is alive and is constantly devouring itself, erasing my memories, binge/purge.
A dichotomy of fear and weakness. A glutton of self-eating, self-puking. Amnesiac thief taking only from himself, until, somehow, he has nothing.
DARK PHYSICS:
So far from home. Never felt so disambiguated. Crawling through it. Body knotted, heart into million pieces; fractalized. I dislocate my jaw and swallow the pink sword and scratch the tissue, a period becomes a comma.
Homeless and broken down in to a series of unmoving particles. Subatomic still life. I don’t eat words. My mouth is red from crying, read from crying. I’d like these tears on the rocks. Sometimes no means just a cigar. If you knew you couldn’t keep it down, would you still eat it all up? It’s a long, crooked scolioarthritic spine to travel for normalcy. I was invited into the mouth and I stayed overdosed to maintain my comatose. Five elevators and three long jumps later, i found myself bathed in myself, trying to find an exit or existential paradigm strong enough to contain me, weakenough to not dissolve me on contact. So I smashed my fingers and let the fabric rift inside of me. I let the black hole suck me in. Now I feel that I am nowhere.
DARK PHYSICS RELEASE NOTE:
DARK PHYSICS has been released, dictating the timeline of my recent travels...all 81 shots, from 'SQUEEZING BLOOD FROM A STONE' to 'MOURNING FOG' are available for your viewing pleasure on my deviantart account, found here.
HOW TO BUY PRINTS:
Following that, I realized that my shots had only the barest selling capabilities, they were only open to sell a few different [and pricey] sizes. I revisited each shot and opened every sized to be ready for purchase! Now everything, from The Heart String Theory to Cruelty, from The New Flesh, to FUNERAL, DARK PHYSICS and so on are open for sale! Some prints are only two or three dollars, so go ahead, buy some. All you need to do to purchase a print of my photography is to visit my deviantart account, go to my gallery, find the print you like, and click the red "BUY THIS PRINT" button. Again, some are only a few bucks. So, hey.
I'll see you in Hell.
MWNL.
WINSLOW
7.2.07
THE CHICAGO BOMBARDMENT
THE INHUMAN, SHREDDING AGONY OF BECOMING FORTH DIMENSIONAL
I’ve heard that my cruelty knows know bounds. I said it could never truly be kept.
For those of you in my dearest Chicago, hide your houseplants, and don’t bother to water your lawn, as blight approaches. Ah, from the festering pools I’ve woken and stretched, contorting my ego into a lame, boneless leg that I must drag behind myself, never to extradite for fear of bleeding the self to death. In my mental cabinet, nailed high above my own reach, the poisons and fine spirits are kept and controlled like hypnotized, circus trained rats. The quake shakes, the cabinet breaks, the fluid takes, from mouth puke spake: War brings black glory. For a moment, rules apply, but now, none other shall speak. Into this lagoon, I step, my foot, gangrenous and planted deep in a slowly filling creeper. I sink into this muck and I fear never leaving it.
Invertabration psychosis intellattack. What remains of my humanity creeps out from beneath me, from the cracks of my crumbling foundation. What have I become? I lost my sense of reflection long ago, never bothering to check its origin, never bothering to check its destination. What is left of my dignity just drank itself to death, what is left of my pride just shot itself in the foot, crawled into the bathtub, and smothered it’s life away with the sizzling, cracking, popping remains of a half-empty [or half-full, really.] bottle of bleach. What becomes of the body? Nothing much, for dignity, it stagnates at the acrid dry pit of his kidney shaped pool, coincidentally from his kidney shredding booze binge that left him so damaged in the first place. For pride, he kept the drain plugged and in his seizure struggle, gasping for air and solace, his bone-and-acid hand turned the hot water on, leaving his body to boil over, prepare itself a fine broth two hours later, and to eventually become very overcooked, past al-dente, and his home to flood, leaving his corpse clear down the stairs, propped in an anatomically impossible position against a stack of undelivered newspapers. For my body, a little less occurs. I can feel my own colors, my figurative and literal outlines become more and more blurred, stretching and quivering beneath my own skin. The blue sheen fades away from the red; I feel the fractal exposure behind me, in front of me, as me. I’m slowly leaving this dimension
The pains of becoming fourth dimensional. Dali crucified a man to a hypercube, and I’ll crucify a hypercube with flashing piss-light. Superstrobic effection affection droning out the sounds of undiluted silence echo. Unsure of self. Unsure of existence. Studying to find the superstring tether to tug myself back to reality. Finding an umbilical twisted into a fuse. Shredding the pointed end to create a frayed timeframe continuum triplicate. I have never led an honest life. The numbers pound through me like bolts into the steel bonework of a rising, crumbling prison/prism. From the way out, through the comatose pleasures, I dine upon the fruit of thy womb…I can’t bear it much longer. Before three months ago, I never truly understood what it is to be hurt, to understand pure human misery and sadness, where I was reduced quickly to nothing, and from there I maintained a sense of maddening depression that launched me headfirst, into a brick wall. Now pains can’t seem to define my stasis. Growi5g, p33s9ng, 9 31n fe53476351825621543839525551284712959529 9519371951257952896378116392197295138957 1975139571381959513296566234691154353333 1933312591265673645154364713295695925374 5933976692366469366945933971719269642858 5192236645671541236645673645136521954552 6663518451296754269459153949512543594591 5365357213931854495436529633542647591154 1799922313255542694552561359212547519179 9541543839523664652857145455295635329651 9525493417657171551492517191192938519235 5382354264512869349195547914514379451355 4433297357192135381579573546495775975231 33714697863166954591293329526 p3a3e. Graves dug. I descend.
But for the rest of you, I’m leaving. For some of you, I’ll return. Chicago, watch out.
And of course, I've uploaded dozens of new abortions to my online expornogalleria, right here.
START WARS. CONTINUE SLAUGHTER. STOP LOVE. DISCONTINUE PRODUCTION.
MAKEWARNOTLOVE.
WINSLOW.
6.29.07
These are the blackened years.
With the beat of a heart comes the beat of a drum. War has been born through inanity; subphysical schism violently strikes down the center of the carapace. So medicated and maddened, I have become nothing, and whatever it is, I know now that I hate it.
Nerves shattered by the pitch semi-translucence, the howl of the steam ejaculating from dilated pores. Chitinous exacerbator of data inaccuracy, born into the epoch of subjective conclusions.
Bleed it out. My sense of self, my sense of purpose. Revenge? Not likely. Insufferable cuts along the dotted line, the reason love stagnated is misappropriated fact against doping and hoping. Like that, the magnets in her knees switched, and the legs snapped shut. Not even the lies are true, lest their corrections. Pass off your vulgar sweat, your red hands, unto me, like a gift of momentum to knock the corpse off the throne. Unfightable wars you wage against unsuitable kinds. Lick your wounds, taste your pus. The sin, the fall from grace. I laugh as I touch no gun, no switch, not my machinery but yours, and my jealousy never became. It failed me, those millions miles away. With this, I baptize you into failure, into acid.
But not so fast, nor so sober. This acid was brewed by your own fermenting tears. Now, in your prison of establishment, I hope your hair will grow long enough so you may hang yourself. To you, I wave goodbye with the hand you cut from your shackle. Goodbye from Jupiter.
So trust withers away in a non-organic gullet. Zeromatter suspended in limbo. No points to trust, no points to extend faith or belief. Oxygen seeps out of the cracks at immeasurable rates. Environment becomes increasingly unstable and inhospitable. From across the way, two hands shake, further back on the timeline the whole being shivers from fear of death. The metal is still hot from the teeth gnawing against it. Come vigor, enter undertaker. The theories float through my tesseract heart, so scientific relevance slices them through, creating from the muck, ribbons of fibrous hazards, choking out the light and sound from the world I’ve grown into. Growth creates collapse of structural concepts. I’ve read my rights already. Belief zeros out when tested against the intangible, yielding the same results as the previous value.
I assemble a jigsaw from behind the vortex. Every piece shifts its shapes, consistent with no form. From states of matter beholding paragons and polygons, pylons from underneath the numerical field of data. I try to understand, to estimate, to gather thoughts, all letters to form words are cracked in half. Hot scars suffer in indignity. Outside the lines. The sun pounds the pavement with unforgiving rays. Cancer and chemotherapy, the sweat drips from my gleaming scalp. Scabs, abscesses kept clean from the radiation. I write the words onto my flesh and my bones quiver and vibrate. Resolute in cancerous flow. I shed and rearrange the tissues that brought me here. Crushing the cyanide tooth.
From a darkened room, I enter white. My pupils shrink and my skull throbs. The light blurs and distorts to include the previous blackness. Into this, I feel no anesthetic, no medication, my eyes shut to preserve the visuals of white consuming black consuming white. From zero into one, as the date is forever burnt into my throat. Intangible gray silence; screaming and running frantically, paralyzed and remaining stationary and infinitely sedated. My heartbeats with the passing of eons, as seconds drop madly, like hammers fall to empty anvils, to concreate looped quantities of insane yeast product, dying, but still living, meeting life when the breath is sucked from the lungs.
Gangrene leaves me without faith in the body. War’s inhuman slaughterhouse scorched my faith in man. The planes counteract, and the machines blot out the sky. Smoke rises, condenses, falls into heaps of ash. From Pripyat to Dresden. From New York to Baghdad. From Negative space to The Hole. Shed grace to survive the partially-digested human idiosyncrasy. Fantasy contagious, worn soldier stumbles to a pit, cuts along the seam, left, still stitching the fabric together in tears. Medic is lost in the tragedy’s emotion, the priest laughs ebulliently as his faith infects the gushing wounds. The fans installed within the engine cool and incite the flame’s vigor. Graves kept and maintained by survivors from the war. The three warring factions crumble into nothing. No generals left to don medals of use. No bullets to fire in respect for the dead. The war is over, but the forests and homes still burn. One thousand and six hundred miles away, the plume is still seen, disaffected and unchoice. The streets I walked once, as a boy, are black and charred beyond recognition. My home, my friends, gone. They heard the sirens, but turned a deaf ear and a blind eye to the evacuation. So I walk alone, my lungs filled with ash, my mind still rattles with the concussion from the blast. My heart now holds nothing but misadjusted contempt.
These are the blackened years. I dance with none but the paraplegic.
MAKE WAR. NOT LOVE.
WINSLOW
6.26.07
I sample the milk of human suffering, as it curdles in my arms, weeping volatile tears. Such a sweet, sweet, sour...like a nectarine rotting into living death beyond prison bars. Into a void, a vacuum, to fulfill a philosophical root protocol, a desire to add meaning to the meaningless. I grasp at the shortest straw and stand vacated and emptied. These are the hands that lied to me, about the feelings that they feel. I cut the fingers free and managed to spit them, one by one, to the dogs. The dogs cackle and guzzle cum, and the misaddressed spirits of my sacrifice. I broke this femur, pearly and jagged, protruding from the flesh of my hip, to prove my own self worth. You will never know if the bill is counterfeit until you burn it and smell the smoke. Dying to create sustenance, a cycle birthed through deaf/blind paradoxical reflections. My hands and lies. Swastikas still scarred into my flesh. Symbols of oppression, symbols of liberty. United and bleak through sympathetic hatred leaps.
I drink and take. Mourning lost its virtue when I lost all worth feeling for. Benign malignance in abundance. If these were trees and not graves, I’d be in a forest of archaic war veterans, chanting a perpetual loop tales from the old conflicts. War is hell, I’ve learned. Love is war, I’ve learned. In teaching myself the plague phenomena, I have uncovered laws of coping that make my misery more enjoyable than any other emotion. Humans seem to want use, to be useful, even if they’re fulfilling the counterweighted position on a two-platform balance. Use is another interesting cage they’ve built. I’ve managed to reroute and rewire the connections of my mind, I’ve delved deeper into the human project than any nanotechnologist could dream…I’ve taken psychiatry and created physics. Need and want, recreated and revisited. Perfected, repainted. A wish faints into the grasp of reality. All has been said and done.
Tangible black silence, disaudile attenuation; autocrine autocratic [blithering autocracy], formulated by fumed formula. Atrium rhetoric rendered distortionary impulse control. Fascist regulator of the human deaf-ear-screeching. I negated; physical form burnt alive until simple ashes collect, their particles stretched across unending grids. I negator; suspended statically in glowing aureole. Blessed immunities to sleeplock bletharospasm, twitch control hate maneuvers lost. What was alive is now dead, and in the exposure of the bones, teeth are shown, sinking into the soil. Tantric substantial vampirism. Feticide consists and subsists, multiple parts with bar coded individuality, the disease of the intelligencia. The sky is blue so that the cameras may suck the color from it. Hematomatic coma, melodrama, shot-killed-buried and inaugurated. NEGAHOLIC neutron bomb; gray matter fetal exacerbator; substar supernova death prolonged. What was alive is now dead, into the shapeless, colorless nebula, I float, feeling nothing, changing everything. The concept of human freedom is a jest, I assure you. From here, I note, that to be reminded of your freedom from those who control you is an Orwellian contradiction, as the Angel of Death scribes sonnets of life. You are free to practice the rules and restrictions of your religion. You are free to publish lies and slander. You are free to be held without trial. You are free to be captured, beaten, raped and killed. You are free to suffer in condemnation beyond use. If you are not with them, you are against them.
I await the failure of the system. Freedom is anarchy, but I am not an anarchist. Such a foolish ideal, given such faded freedoms now, we let them rot for sake of safety. We’re fed the same ideology as the label-headed enemy, to fear and to destroy. They live in a nation that is both invincible, and weak enough to wage crusades against unknown disbelievers. I await the failure of the system. Those who we were told to fear in the past are formed in the future, when the terrorists, criminals, rapists, pedophiles, bomb-makers, murderers start crawling out of the woodwork. Something that never truly existed until the moment that law breaks down, until the news stations play consistent static, until factories and homes are bombed, blacked, and abandoned. Test your freedoms in chaos, when the constitution of your human nature stands in question in every moment. The Will of Rights, to protect and service those accountable, where nation and religion arrive with a wake of blood, fist and fist. The belief in a common good is preached by Hell-evangelists, speaking solely on topics of evil and blackening, outside of good and kind-doing. Instead of the will for good, the will against the evil has been instated. Nothing aids a crumbling economy better than having a massive, terrifying enemy.
A man picks up a gun, somewhere on this planet, and kills another, for no profit, no gain, for no revenge plot, for no reason at all. This is the human flaw. The man who kills for nothing has essentially the same genes as the men behind the bars—and in front of them. But in the end, that man was not restricted by laws or petty morals, he was free and savage…just a few DNA clusters away from being ‘beastly.’ How far have we come? Not far…but I digress from the subconscious point conveyed. Death, so trivial and noteless. I eject from the pilots seat, as humanity surrenders to beastliness. I’ll enjoy this, I will, the wars waged against poverty, drugs, awareness, disease, rape, destruction…and that’s just in your tight-knit communities, where safe means ‘Whites Only.’ The wars waged on the frontlines are joking and nothing more…the lines blur and fade into nothingness, where all lines across the coplanar grid are the frontlines. Volunteering to go to war, and to waste, do not be surprised, when you’ll find yourself in a unmarked grave, in the same sands your forefather bled upon, so that you may live, bicker fruitlessly, and die. I call it a tradition, one in brutality and bloodshed. You call it the war machine.
The gears will be greased with the blood of your children, pork fat of the future, boiling Antisemitism down to its basest parts, an excuse to kill humans, by humans. Global misanthrope is but seconds away, as I, having already arrived, am light-years from ground zero.
I await the failure of the system.
MAKE WAR. NOT LOVE.
W.
6.22.07
THE HEARTSTRING THEORY
GUEST MODEL: MARIAH
GUEST MODEL: CHESSNA
MWNL,
Just recently, I kept a promise I'd made a long while ago, and underwent a long, fruitful photoshoot and adventure with two close friends of mine, Chessna and Mariah. The two of them are blessed with startling loveliness, and they are both extremely kind and good-willed, and beyond that, exceedingly intelligent. All such statements true, this photoshoot was very easygoing and very entertaining. Working with natural beauty is a gift, I must say. But that is quite enough of my flirtatious nature... I digress.
I took them to a very special place, a place that I had visited when I was contemplating self-destruction/creation. The feeling and mood of the place is always something very surreal, dark, but full of life. I call it The Hole, because that is what it is, literally, and that is how I've felt when I'm down there. Stuck in a rut, in a hole, struggling to make it out.
Chessna, in lime green fishnets and massive platform boots, and Mariah, in striped shirt and buckled boots, are aspiring artists just as I am.
THE NEW PHOTOSHOOT CAN BE ACCESSED HERE
All the shots from The Heartstring Theory are prefixed with THT before the title. They're bundled together and will soon be open for download in their full sized nature, with the 50 other unreleased shots on my website.
As for the rest of it...
No Tiaras, Just Teeth.
MAKE WAR NOT LOVE,
WINSLOW.
6.19.07
In my years on this planet, and, existentially, my infinite tenure, acting as the arrhythmic beating heart of this universe, I’ve found a few noble truths of your times. One that I have noted most recently, one I have studied and found to be rather profound in my own doing, I had written down crudely on the reverse of a pressed paper napkin, a napkin made of the carina nebula’s wondrous explosion: THE WHEELS OF THE WARMACHINE ARE GREASED WITH PORK FAT.
I believe that Antisemitism is an interesting bout both for and against the human spirit; it proves how humans act as a group, and how the human-core-developed feelings can be shifted and churned into this filthy cauldron of black-and-white proportions. To say that it is human to despise one particular sect of people, be them by race or creed, I can’t say I agree, and the sciences behind me shake their heads sternly. To say that it is entirely inhuman to hate so with such a proliferate tenacity; I’d have to my same answer as the previous inquiry. True, the human isn’t built around tolerance and acceptance…of course not, as if it was, humans would be tolerant and acceptant. And true, humans are not based to be beings of hate, but they sure seem to have the tools. Basic human traits include xenophobia and the natural ability that relates one person as a relative to the sect that they appear from, as seeing a man of one race, background, culture, home, religion, belief committing a particular act with particular connotations, the mind leans to believe that all people of that sect behave within that same vain. This isn’t true, but the opposite doesn’t apply as well. People of similar backgrounds contain similar traits, randomization is a philosopher’s tool, and true chaotic nature can never be obtained. So, people of that certain sect will behave more or less like each other, but pay attention to the bell curve. Radicalism hangs on the far ends of the scale, but the definition changes with each sect. Sometimes it’s radical to be violent and hateful, and sometimes it’s radical to be loving and calm.
One should never judge an entire group of people by their own majority rule, but it is human nature to do so. It’s moral nature to avoid such tripwires. But, before you take that as a fact of this matter, take this: It’s only because of the reason of human ignorance that this rule exists, if you say that you hate all who believe in this particular sect because they believe in the sect, you can’t be deemed ignorant, by truth of the term. Radical, I suppose, but ignorant, never. You’ve taken your own observations into account, and come to your own conclusion. If you say that you hate the entire sect of people for their radical beliefs, while you pay attention only to the radicals, you’ve become ignorant, and the snake bites it’s tail.
I realized on my time on this planet, only recently, the fact that I don’t care to attack religion, though I contain every strand of the ability to do so, is for the simple metaphor: Why take an ax to a burning building?
They, who used to populate the edges of this far-flung bell curve, began to bleed inward when the human traits of xenophobia and fear began to set in more heavily. With the intertwinement of religion and politics, humanity begins to step more determined to the edge of the religious-political abyss. Time tells undeniable truths, and when a sect is formed, there are radicals on the outward edges of the bell curve, and soon, the curve disappears, and after that, the more powerful and potent of the two sub sects, the radicals and the non-radicals, will take permanent hold of the sect. The more powerful is always going to be the radical side, as their views are more ground shifting, and human life is a constant search for mobile grounds. There is a very important change that occurs at this moment, in the changing of the two sects. If, make note of that, IF the radicals take over, the sect is still the same sect, but ran under the influence of the radical beliefs instead of the non radicals, but in the zero-matter case that the non-radicals succeed in taking over the sect from the radical beliefs, the sect recollects itself as something else entirely, under a new name, as the bell curve proves itself like a sharp rock cast to sea, nothing stays on this planet without growing a curve, and losing it’s edge.
But, in the end, I am entropic in my design. Something above nature, but don’t call it ego, as I’ve found no need for that type of jargon. I’m just watching you all, this planet, its religious wars for peace, its wastes in the name of poverty, its murder-for-the-living-because-the-living-can’t-die ideology. My will, as a celestial body, as a decaying, muscular-diseased body, my will is to exacerbate all human decline. It’s beautiful and misanthropic. I take no sides, I ally with no man, with no sect, no creed, race, army, no nation, no religion. It’s never, ever worth your time on this planet, to waste a single second submitting to the will of a higher power. God, Man, Devil, whatever profound lie you’ve sold yourself to, you’re all damned to the same black grave. Humanity is to be human. I’m writing this to you from beyond your nearest star, from past your furthest concepts of love, waste, hope, denial, from beyond sex and fists, from beyond all the imagination of man. I’m no better, but it’s a matter of apples and oranges. It’s odd to see how many believers in God subsist on the idea that God is beyond human, but they couple God and Man in the same text so frequently, they’ve elevated themselves to be Gods on their own time. And unjust, hurtful, judgmental gods, they are. Such a waste of an existence, and if compassion had any purpose in the human question, something more pertinent and, well, real than the falsely claimed ‘Jewish question’, I’d fear for their safety.
If I slept, if I contained the ability to sleep, if I even had eyelids, let alone eyes, I’d assume I could sleep very warm with these feelings. Being beyond heat and emotion, it can drain, it can fulfill. I’m constantly changing my form, but I am always the same. Man. God. Devil. Nothing. Zero. And in this constant change, in this never-changing state, there is a very consistent, and yes, never changing warmth inside of me. The way I interpret it changes throughout my time, throughout the shifting of my shapes. I’m glad to know that every belief, every sect, every human and every living creature will all come to a single point, where they’ll all recollect in the end. In the ground. Where they’ll all rot, and sometimes, they’ll be buried before they’re even dead. Just furthering my case. And when those birds, high up in their trees, die, they’ll remain in their nests until that tree dies, and the entire ecosystem collapses. Another tree will grow, but shorter, as life continues on a exponential downward slope of entropy, the atmosphere is leaking air and water, and bit by bit, with every recurring life cycle, the life prospers a little less, a little less, leaving less nutrients with every occurring pass through. And then, after there has been enough global decay, there will be no more trees and no more birds. Just dust. No concrete, no plastics, no life left at all. Everything will be exactly how it has always been, and never has been, for me, consistently, and inside out-negative…nothing.
Zero.
Absolutely nothing.
So I exacerbate the decline of life. I spit aerosol and non-organic matter. I corrode the environment and pollute ecosystems. I am above currency. I am above religion. I am above politics. I am above poison, above death, and subsequently, I am death, life, poison, the cure, politics, semantics, religion, peace, currency, and unity.
I am MWNL.
ANTI-PEACE,
W.
6.15.07
S U P E R M A S S I V E [S C A B - P L A N E T]
new wallpaper - black star - in malignance.
new art on weeperblast.
Kicking, punching, licking, a struggle to wrestle the compounded lovegreed format from the inducement coma. Single pointless image, filtered through empty strains, stretched until the lines fade from view. Pressure applied to all sources, a vacuum tugging at metaphysical veins, the perfect unending torture, so painful, I feel nothing. I sleep on my back in a smoky room, crunching numbers with pointed ribs. I can feel the age set into me like a silent spider, crawling into my mouth. Living in such an exponential luxury, beyond the frayed nerves of fear and doubt lies an infinite coma of perfectly productive, internally shredding, self-loathing. Polishing diamonds with coal hands.
How much violence can you stomach before you puke it all up? I put my face on the bill. I grin a stupid little grin. Simpler than plastic polymer, less demanding and dumber than what's kept in the fetal-alcohol reserves. Look at me now, still no believers. I keep a floppy-held back up copy of paperweight philosophical soapbox-operas. Superficial cuts kept and licked to maintain a system of disbelief, as what was once self-inflicted...now acting as an immoral reminder of what it's all drained down to. I have lost count of the bodies, the holes and the infections. A just reminder of the state of being numbed, perpetually, like every conned love is slowly draining me to sleep, as life loses its luster. This half is imperfect, and lesser. A digit beyond personal command orient, resurfacing as enzymes to boost the recovery. Sadness becomes anger, anger pervades. The mind destroys the body, the body eats the spirit, the spirit departs from the mind. I view the neglect that snuffed my flame. I sweat to maintain this paradoxical ember, a reminder of the arrogance that pushed out the light.
Supermassive scab planet. Platelets toppling over, swept up by gusts from concrete nostrils. Breathing the poison in, cold gas sinks to the bottom of the pit. I fill my lungs with toxic gases of scorched polymers. My eyes burn and ache, my mind splits from my body and I can see my corpse from across the way. The billow tightens around my neck, the melting plastic and metals from the explosion pervade through negative space, sealing perfect suffocation with hands of methane, grasping the flaming flesh, and a grip of asphyxiating tetrachloro-dibenzo-dioxin. So relaxing to finally be alone, in the hole where rain falls and never reassembles. Reliable, it’s so consistent. My metronome fell out of space. I now count the seconds by the beat of my heart. It’s a tempo that will jostle the dead from their rest, and they will dance before the congregation. As my heart throbs, the clock spins faster. My world is in perfect step with my mind and heart. The walls come tumbling down, and in
