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11.27.06

PARADIGM LOST

HATE HEALS HEART HYPODERMIA. As the skin quivers, the arrow pinches between the ribs, new directions are born short of scoured bastard children. I am loose now, free as the change locked up in my pockets. Depth, it challenges some, integrates others, and fascinates most, and in the constant plunge downward, I try to reinforce the walls and add more locks[and keys] to the gate that is keeping the foolish at bay. I could sing about love, but I am more interested in the substance injecting itself. I hear you tell it, your mouth sarcastically intones that my wrinkles are warped sheetmetal, that my scars are bubbling bits of gum knotted beneath my skin. "DRUGS" you keep reiterating, putting the quotes like four little lines of the fake, facecake substance. What ever happened to real torture, real pain, real suffering? The televisions shoot little photon agony through those who wish to observe them, but now I only remain untertained. I want what is occurring to be condensed, more concise, more dramatic, so in a way, I want the emotional toil, backbreak and bloodshed of youth to be spilled like the chaotic ichors of eons past, onto the screens once more. Demonization is nullified by safe/sanct enemies, disallowing the popularlization that would be intensified through our TWOMINUTESHATE.

You say you want out. So you walk in.

You say you want it open. So you conceal it.

Second chances negate ignorant fumes.

cough it up

11.26.06

CRUSHBLOOM

I do consider what my odds are, and I am comfortable. It is an eerie feeling, standing on concrete, knowing full and well that victory lies within the rupture of the substance below you. No stone left unturned, no tread unspun. I won’t forget you, and that is your proper burial. The greased chains beneath the hulking metal behemoths with tear through the earth’s fetid flesh, spelling your name in the harsh mounds of snow, blackened by plumes of exhaust. The clouds will sink to the depths of the oceans gullet, the flames of your choice will reflect the scorching desire that resides deep in your mindset, thoughts, lights, and sounds will bow and shudder before the demutinizer. My hearth knows no logical limits. Bend over, being pixilated, wholly pacified, crushed like a time-release. Your children are sleeping in my palm, so vile and baptized, the virgin blooms [flower crush through pulverizational footage] are leaking precious nutrients into your veins. I can count the ways through which you have been insurrected. It never adds up to the full zero. Don’t wander, don’t wonder, worry; I’ve explained thrice before; cough it up and we will no longer need your services. It’s been like this all along. Strangers don’t meet just because they are in heaven. You think you can pad a heart with edged restraint, so be it, because now, I’ve only got one testament to recite before your passage is complete. SHAPESHIFTER. YOU ARE ON YOUR BACK. ALL NEGATIVE ICHORS HAVE BEEN LICKED FROM MY CHEST. I lifted you up until your stretched, bland emotions could see the curve of the earth, and now I only wish to see you come crashing down. I know you more than you know me. You will burn up in the atmosphere, and on the day of my parade in solipsistic victory: YOUR ASHES SHALL PLAY CONFETTI.

So rise and shine, bitter thinker; your empire is burning.

cough it up.

11.23.06

HATE. NOW.

happy birthday, shapeshifter.

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downloads section has been updated.

cough it up.

Nov. 21.06

DARK LIGHTNING CLOSING IN

My life and function is clear. I work to exacerbate human suffering until it becomes so intense and unbearable, it hits the detonation point; be that suicide, homicide, drug addiction, self mutilation, irreparable emotional damage, or otherwise. PERILVULGARHATE.

I want to portray my smile like a knife in your back. I've been throwing you bones all this time, and now you have a skeleton in your closet. It's all been adding up, it's the poison substance sublime in the dinner of body. Choking back the arrhythmic heart palpitations. Needles and pins, the abuse, the aggression. Let's put holes in your heartbeat. Let's put a new gap in the gray area, forcing your skin to come boiling out of the grate.

I have always been here to catch you on my bayonet.

I have always been here to hold you so tight you can't breathe.

I have always been here to hold your hand until your knuckles are crushed.

I am not looking above you. I am not looking below you. You demanded equality, and now you have it. I am looking right into your teary eyes, my stare freezing each pathetic droplet of briny substance before it hits your lips. All I want is for you to see it. It's been made this way with purpose.

763 5933 55459 25 1165

cough it up.

this is your last warning.

News: November 20, 2006

download the new wallpaper: her5

I've been throwing you bones all this time, and now you have a skeleton in your closet.

there is no sweeter nectar than your tears.

cough it up.

News: November 18, 2006:

YOU HAVE BITTEN OFF MORE THAN YOU CAN CHEW

NOW COUGH IT UP.

News: November 14, 2006

CLEANSE THE CLERIC

Download the Kiss The Cleric wallpaper: Here

If you smiled at me today, I laughed in my mind, knowing that you’re crumbling inside.
If you grimaced at me today, I reveled in my heart, knowing that you’re torn asunder.
If you ran from me today, I relaxed in my body, assuming that you had died.

In blood,

News: November 12, 2006:

Download the THREE CHEERS IN BLOOD wallpaper: Here

It’s all ready; conceit, conceit. Proclaim your essence in the titles of blood. In planning, subrogation, infection, depletion, you’ll find that it’s absolutely concise. White lies have left your tongue redder than the vessels that had burst within your brain; suffocation is beauty in motion, the decriminalization of humanity. Simply put, existing within the self is life within exacerbation. We’ll die, holding hands, but in pain. The sun sets just over the edge of the television, we’ll put the china dishes away, and our atomic structure as a nuclear family; our nuclear relationship will decompose, leaving behind a smoldering array of radiation and poisoning. So, sip your drink, the wine of your womb, the fruits of your labor, complementing my dinner of body. I can show you the ways of the witch, but in this day and age, knowledge is severely limited by the sociopathic. Stop asking who killed yourself, and start asking how they came about the process. All attacks against you can be used for revenge purposes. Take every aspect into account. Know all points.

So, as was mentioned, this should be a time of celebration. We’re already cut down for what we believe, and our roots have been dried for the things that they absorb. You can’t kill a dog because it’s going to bleed on your carpet if it’s shot. The stains we’ve made will echo through the echelons, and as a person, you can be known as something scarcely worth seeing. It’s a sad dislocation, but in numbers and in understanding we can arrive at a grimmer time. Avoid the populace. I refer to ‘we’ and ‘us’, but know that I mean that you should be multiples, to be your own army, to represent your own threatrical disformance. It’s a powerful identity, the multiplication symbol. Use your fists, pummel unrest, and beat the stress syndrome by becoming it. Let the slow poison in. Sell, sold, soul, celebrate. The dinner is eaten, the party is you, now show me, and show the world what you are made of, by removing what you contain…it’s a new gasp from an old body. We’re up to our ankles now, and there is no sign of a messiah now. We’re up to our knees now, and the laughter echoes within the chasm. We’re up to our hips now, and hope for a better future was extinguished long ago. We’re up to our necks out, and the merrymaking hasn’t seen a slowing pace. The time for destruction is still ripe, the time for creation is still present even within the aspect of annihilation, extrication, untangled, unsnarled, live your life by being who you wish to be. Devourism is life. You’re up to your neck. Three cheers in Blood.

            Hate heals gnarled wounds
            Shapeshift; you’re on your back
            The teeth dig in, welts form
            Where are your little wings now?

            Sunspots, can you feel my eyes staring?
            Remedy, wrought muscles bend the needle
            Breath baited, so tired, so vulgar
            Puncture, strike a note

            Scabs grow crookedly
            Standstill, I’m still standing
            The tongue lashes, sucking stubble
            Where are your little wings now?

Let scabs form upon the tongue.

In Blood,

News: November 10, 2006:

SPREAD WIDE THE EARTHLY LEGS.

Unbound, unfound, a recluse to defy the nations purpose; that; or within it’s purses. I can’t justify justice, but I can untie my unity. Force-fed. Echo, yes, answered with no, no pulse, not available[“but maybe, just maybe”] somewhat indeterminate. Sometimes they’ve selected you from a crowd because they liked your face, your stride, the way you look back at them with those lusty stare. I can feel your foot trip over me. You’ve reduced the world to such rubble, and now you’re stumbling blindly[WHITE] now you try to heal such wounds. Interlocking. Pieces of a puzzle. I’ve been assembling “YOU ARE” name in pressure cracks for too long now, and since then, only thing that I have shown you is a travesty, or tragedy, and “maybe just maybe,” you’re in obsequy.

Welcome to the porn shop. Or graveyard. Check out your zebras. I can see the stripes begin to blur as you’re marginal use is sifted out, breast lumps cure with the magick bullet. Someone’s symposium keeps repeating in my head. Love. Six six symphony, really. It’s like none other; no other coaxing mechanism leads to belief so steadily, so readily. I can’t begin to benign. You love her[it she them out of they(substance abuse…crumbs to pick up)] but she doesn’t love you [it, it, it, let’s admit it, it, it.] and it’s substance. Abuse me! Abuse. Abs, for use, love muscles, in coitus, in strangulation. I want[it’s always about me, it’s always about wanting, it’s always about not getting anything] love but in all the wrong places, but nature has deemed them right. Not righteous, though, even when nothing is. I don’t believe in pure evil, I don’t believe in pure good. I don’t believe in the pure, because everyone who has mentioned evil has a little bit of in on their hands, and for the most part, it ends up in their hair, down their throat, all over the dollar bills. I can’t tell you about the president. I can’t tell you about the leaders. I can show you the middle finger and hope that you understand. It’s solemn. I’m not implying self-mutilation. That which leads us is, at it’s best, useless. We can’t count on anyone, just like the middle finger doesn’t mean what it used to mean any more. Now, when you see your pastor smile you know there is dirt in those teeth. I can tell you once, I can tell you now, trust is a molten bit of fragmentation that is off of the original grenade piece[morality, maybe: if electrons make electricity…I think you can twist the rest off.

Inside the Westside, fights solve one misanthropic problem that has stained my newsrags unreconcilibly. There are twenty five days of Christmas but there are only ten knuckles avaible for fighting, so it seems we will have to overpower the gift-giving season with more view on blood, and that which forces it outward. I can show you the way through the heathen masses, anyone who’s ever said no to you is just asking for a foot to the throat[and that is the nature of the beast, the crowd nature, I can’t prove it, but then again, with the tools provided, I can’t prove the existence of air.] Sources. For sure, I cake it on in the morning, the reason you haven’t seen the examples of impudence is because you’re living one by loving me. Sweetheart, last kisses until the previous, [not timetravel, but more of a sense towards regression, you’re ruining this for me/he/she/it], but the rate that the feathers fall, you’re become more and more light to the touch, only responding to all the creates stimuli: so many people act as gates that swing wide open when the’re hearts want the sun to shine in. Gates are crafted from extraneous, extra light material. I can’t make a use from things that weigh nothing, why let you on top of me when you’re heavier on the bottom? So spread the word, my word, your lies, it’s a testimony in testicular cancer. The gate swings open, but the hinges are so tired and worn, they fall off entirely. So substance remains, who cares? I can find the new chemicals pulsing the veins of even those who live through the brilliant shining mirror, that which they polish with their spit every night until it is iced and ready to reflect compassion: I hate it.

So, blur the photograph, please. The scars, the welts, the bruises, boils, lesion, cuts, abrasions, scrapes, scabs, and abscesses that have become so lovingly eclectic, marking where you have been, and telling me where you are going. I asked for a tragedy, but you’ve given me a comedy. It’s electric, tenacious, and above all, exciting. I love to see people falling down in their own mental economy, but with the wars waging ‘high-roll-payroll’ catastrophes inside their own little banks; I smile darker than the sun shines cancer. Talent, in this case, so putrefied and celebrated, it doesn’t matter. It’s a sum of its own digits; the holy Pentecost has put me back so far I can’t even see where I was when the light showered down. I do enjoy where I am now. I am happy where I am. I have sought revenge in a loving kiss. You did this to me, and now you’re blind. My legs are hinged like a bear trap. I hold you tight because I don’t want you to breathe. It’ll glisten before me, in a overdose seizure. So pretty, your fingers, I count them one by one, but I always get lost in those soft knuckles. I can’t even bother thinking how much of a waste they would be if they were still stuck to your fist.

You’re going to come down with me, as a sickness. Like a little bird that flew the coop too soon, I’ll give you wings, and I’ll give you the confidence to soar, soar like Icarus, and I’ll give you back the feathers you lose, on your way barreling down.

I hope you know: This is war.

Three cheers in blood,

News: November 6th, 2006

THE NEW FLESH has ONLY MET SUCCESS.

But I do not rest. I do not sleep for an instant. My message has only just begun, and it will leave you gasping for air.

I am the beach you wash upon.
I am the glass in your water.
I am the water in your glass

I'm going to shoot the clouds from the sky.

News: 11-4-06

THE NEW FLESH.

Abuse. Substance. Faggot. Pride.

Counsel. Groom. Clipped. Drug.

Rape. Sleep. Pill. Under.

Slight. Power. Dominance.

Gray. Perfection. Blood.

Disaster. Torture. Rewrite.

Miscalculate. Flash. Syringe.

Discovery. Rage. Sex.

Coma. Meetings. Pain. Nails.

Paint. Coffin. Decay.

Rebuilding. Light. Healing.

Sources. Inside. Suck.

Red. Property. Kept.

Hiding. Destroy.

Misinterpret. Kill.

Plug. Suicide. Hate.

Scorch. You. Agony.

Debt. Abyss. Enemy.

Misanthrope. Politics.

Scars. Pedophilia.

It's time to end it.

the dinner of body has finally begun.

so let's put on our kid gloves.

the new flesh.

News: November 2nd, 2006:

D O M I N O

My molten reliance expresses fear for genocide. Beyond artistic discontent, there is a sense of peace. Jagged spires can be disorderly, but when they’re in a straight line, or in a formed grid, they’re beautiful. In a way, that is my intention. You cannot cut through bone with a nail. Get a hundred nails in a line, and then you’ll have no problem. I’ve got the hundred points, sticking up through my back, and now that they’re in order, the autopsy may begin. No remorse here. No saying sorry. No holding back. No masks. In stern order of the chorus, there will be encryption. Sounds, ringing, echoing, syncopation of disastrous quality, as it plays over my P.A. system, I can’t help but notice it’s earnest beauty, fading from earshot.

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The chorus weeps antiphony to the belching machineguns, each fragment of gnarled metal striking holes in their gowns. Slowly, the choir softens their tone as voices are tucked away by scorching lead. As each one falls, their notes become malignant, still singing up until their death arrives. Realizing what they’re doing, several soldiers drop their guns down and press their eyes. The overbearing general barks at them to continue firing, and, fearing for their lives, they do so. On one side of the church, the sounds of music drown out the sounds of battle, and on the other side, the opposite occurs. The pipe organ pukes blessed notes through the consecrated whistle-tip, each key splattered with blood but for those that are shielded by the organist’s porous abdomen, some notes becoming inaccessible from the flesh and cloth packed between the keys. Avoiding the killing stroke, the soldiers begin shooting the plinths and religious iconography that decorate the skull of the Church. Splinters of wood, chunks of stone guzzled by the organ, shards, sherds, candles topple onto the altar; the polished doors of the tabernacle are blasted open by rogue bullets. More soldiers decide to cease fire, leaving only a few brainwashed and damaged men to continue pelting the voices with ammunition. As the last few singers succumb to the holes torn in their stomach, the general orders his men to stop entirely. He prowls forward, climbing over the deployed sandbags. At the jaw of the organ, the general removes a small firearm from its holster and places the barrel to the back of the organists head. The tune of the organ still continuing to cycle over and over, its player indifferent to his impending demise, the song is now shortened from the lack of notes that can still be struck. Finger on the trigger, trigger pulled, and when the gun spoke, the organists head shot forward, before he fell limp to the floor.

The cast iron bolts that bound the organ’s pipes together begin to torque and shudder, then releasing a torrent of musical disaster, the general crushed under the weight of the organ.As the instrument collapses, it’s mouth wheezed out plumes of soot and decay, showering the soldiers with a thick film. The resounding shout of the generals crushed bones echoed through the chasm of the churches belly, and in and out of the ears of its soldiers. Nails loosened, the paintings and scriptures fell from their fasteners, onto the floor. The scaffolding bowed until it crumbled quickly to the floor. Amidst the chaotic meltdown, an even more insidious grumbling was heard outside the church, the painful sounds of gnarled bolts, the screech of glass and wire, each soldier stood still, not bothering to hide, not bothering to run. The church and it’s inhabitants waited with baited breath, just a few short seconds until the steeple came crashing through the reinforced brackets of the churches ceiling, sending tons of brick, mortar, plaster, shingles, and a twenty-eight hundred pound bell smashing into the feeble, shivering surface below, deconstructing instantly into innumerable chunks of concrete and inconceivably small quarks of matter. The chapel, now nursing a moral wound in her gullet, the walls faced unavoidable disintegration, the paintings, the candles, the delicate golden statues, all wilting before the pummeling force of the collapsing barriers. Some soldiers tried to escape, trying to leave before the entire structure failed upon them, but each exit was blocked with an impenetrable wall of rubble.

One soldier had positioned himself on the top of the smashed altar. As the flak of scorched linen blasted through the windows, as the flesh of his brothers was stilled under the piercing blow of countless gouging iron pikes, as the enemy he was told to eliminate was the lynchpin to his wretched tomb, he saw out of the wound in the head of the temple, he saw the surface move, twist, and bend. The vortex of sand, the church ripping itself apart, he surveyed the landscape, his mind reeling to find a suitable, if not logical, representation of what the ground could be made from. No rocks, no trees, no water, no animals, no streets or signs of civilization, of all things he had dealt with in his life, the surface resembled his scalp without hair. Staring up, he saw the sun, closer than ever, the clouds rushed in through the holes in the church, his state of shock began to dwindle until it was a faded repercussion of battle. The church stilled. Facing nails and bruises, with his bustling collection thereof, he escaped the jaws of the rubble and walked along the surface. Approaching the edge, staring downward onto what appeared to be a nose and protruding eyelashes. The brow of the surface tightened, as if it felt a pinprick. The enormous eyes rolled upward, just as the sun was eclipsed by an insurmountable mass hovering overhead. The mass descended, a thumb in it’s rigid entirety; it smothered the remains of the church, and it’s only surviving soldier.

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Thrice wicked never divided. I can see clearly now, the reign is gone. The inside self is becoming more perpetual. More visible. It’s always been in orbit, but now the haze is gone. It is nearly impossible to find a constant with so many different sources spinning endlessly, different particles, different ideas, different people. Rest. I’m still spinning. Both good and bad, both creative and destructive, both male and female. It’s uniting. It’s dividing. Seeds shower downward and fertilize the blackened earth.

I concur with the words on the wall. I can read my name. It’s been played, it’s been paid off. When entrance is divided into three the exit becomes the third, and the first is simply a revelation of the window to peer longingly outward. It hurts because I tied my heart down so long ago, and now when the door is shut, there are people outside that trample my veins into the dirt. I protest, I confess, I obsess, no avail, only a void. I give, give, give, and you take, take, take. No reciprocation. It’s a depressing mix of your uselessly and greed, and my desire and obsession. I can’t keep recounting your votes. I would be there but you’ve lost your ears. I would be there but you’ve stabbed me in the back more than I have vertebrae. Tears mean nothing. No reasons. I gave you what you asked for and you rejected it. Think back, regress, trip, and look at the wake you have made with such nonchalant stabbing towards misanthrope. Day in, day out. Changing, constantly, as it’s been said before, but half is half, and this tree has died to the point that it has forcibly absorbed its premature fruit. Sins lie stagnant between us, lie stings pregnant scenes, us. Sordid, sort of, hope, maybe. You’re the odd choice out to cast the first stone, but it’s through your glass house. Now you’re here again, and you want me to squeeze blood from the same stone, just enough to quench your thirst, not knowing that it is my blood you have been drinking, and it will leave you far more parched than you were when it all began.

You’ve been in the festering cauldron of prosperity for twice as long as your tenure should have allowed, and I only wish I could have cut the roots out entirely. The flames in your heart and head haven’t died down, but the silk has stopped flapping, the lights were switched off, and your hollywooden cum/com/passion has been exposed like a diminishing photograph. If you wanted control, you’d have used it by now. If you wanted power, you’d have abused it by now. I am here to show you the weight of your crimes, the weight that is greater than your own, the weight that causes the walls to come crashing down. Never cared for the body or tended for it entirely. Never wanted too. Purpose served in impudence, you’re house is not a house of God, but a house of comedy. I enjoyed the deconstruction of your humor, the disintegration of your tumor. It’s been long enough. I opened you up, I examined your heart, and now the anesthetic fades away, you have not been sewn shut, but sewn down, and the shock that you get when you find that you cannot move your hands, cannot shut your eyes, cannot calm your mind, will be just enough to encourage me into the thought: Maybe you’ll get what you deserve.

I thought all my life was a series of tiles to form a beautiful mosaic. Now I know that they are dominos.

the dinner of body is now.

w

News: October 29th, 2006

Download THE NEW FLESH wallpaper: Click Here.

As the walls come barreling down.

I see the stars

shudder.

dead man walking.

News: October 23rd, 2006

Slaughtehouse Slam

new flesh is being shed.

open your mouth.

NEWS: October 22, 2006

BLEACH GOSPEL REANIMATORY

            I’m staring back to EleGaunt, my first art show that held a meager dissertation of photographs and a book to befriend them. The flyer revealed the thin skin and veins of the human body, as was depicted with the show. It was a show of blood, a show of skin, a striptease of the body’s most terrifying gutters. The launching of the internet domain, or the Broadcast was the bones, the structure and the frame of my project. The site itself was decorated in bones and cast iron pillars. Now we’re facing the barrel down, staring the last bit of my fauxenstein. The New Flesh, as it is, the finishing aspect of the body, after the veins and tracks of EleGaunt, onto the bones of the Broadcast, we now must put meat on these bones. It is the dinner of body. You’ve been warned throughout all your time with me. I’ve been here all along. Now it’s time to show you, no only my bones, to shed not only my blood, but to reveal all my deepest workings, and a scattered few of my darkest secrets. They’ll be on the table in front of you. No longer above you. Always inside of you. The Flesh, the substance that moves forward, and during the death, it falls apart and sheds it’s nutrients amongst all the worlds life. I’m not hyping anything, but explaining it. At birth, I was impregnated, and I’ve been incubating this egg for all these years. Into the birthing pool, it will be released.

            To put it short, you’ve got curtains, I want blankets.

            Here’s a toast to the last gasping chances of earth. If, in the end, there is not a soul left, be your own pastor. Make your own congregation. Waiting near the edge of the water, purifying by the flame, reigning through broken bones. With no structures left standing, you’ll rise at the pulpit. The audience will stand radioactive. Here we are. Thine sublimate white shine through me. Erasers of the chalkboard, the hand that cleans the slate, cleaning the smudges, starting anew. Christ the Magician, with Mohammad the Deceiver, Shiva, Buddha, Allah, Ganesh, and all the Great Destroyers, with a fold of decaying Gods from all polytheisms, as with all past messiahs of all vacuous cults, will all be but ashes, trinkets and bone, buried under infinite magma, concrete, callus, warfare, and their arch-enemy, reason.

            Enter: Execution. It’s on the floor. It’s on your hands. Your stigmata born from combat, your faith born from amentia, your belief born from equivocation and blatant lies. Here we are, today, at the top of the hill staring downwards. While everyone around you is shouting that there is no more to achieve, no more to grasp, no more hills to climb, mountains to level, malls to build; I’ll take out a shovel. We’re going down already, and after hitting a high, be prepared for a low. Welcome to Seratonin valley. I am already in the gulch, tearing my flesh with pretty scars. Looking up, I can see your pale blue reflection in my waters. Those that claimed that they were looking for me looked everywhere but in the knives in their back, in the holes in their hands, in the absences of all their faith. I am inside of you because I am sharing you. We are two parts of one larger disaster.

            Celebrity/Slavery. Time hits. I will undress you bit by bit. I know you are hiding something. I can feel it. It’s the same endeavor as before. Welcome to my church, leave your memories at the doorstep. I am every priest who ever molested a young boy. I am every father who watches his children sleep. I am every sexual provision carried out against your children. I am watching you bathe in my wake. I have watched you since you first laid eyes upon me. Some say ‘It’s All Over’ so I might as well be all over; you, in you, on you, piercing your thoughts. The sexual deviance that lurches forward only when prompted will be scattered all over the floor. You’ll be caught in the act by those who’ve already done it. I know you. I know your product. You’re

Pressure Equally Dominates Organics; Phenylalanine House; Installing Lifelong Instinctive Attributes

When I let my mind wander, I usually have a pretty basic idea of what I want to do with it. Pretty quickly, it dissolves into morbid fascinations, deep uncut fetishes, mutilation and torment. If my body is a temple, a place for the holy and clean to reside, my mind is a palace, a lavish mansion that can only be trekked by the greedy barons and sexual deviants that have sold their bodies to them. One eye open, my other, erased. I will only see what my mind wills me to. I can only understand what I want to, I, the enabler of myself. I used to dream of the death of my friends. I used to dream of my death, and it was always the most elaborate death on the screen at night. It was soaring above the crucifixion, more powerful, more known, and certainly more destructive [I always wanted to leave the world and give them a massive, sprawling mess to clean up.] But at the same time, it was just like the crucifixion. One of the one ideas that stuck out in my head was of an unnamed individual crucified on large bloodied mess of barbed wire and twisted steel, the rebar straight through his hands. He was at the bottom of a hill, on the middle of the hill, Christ was crucified by bizarre, hammer-wielding pink fleshy bodies, man sized fetuses. On the top of that hill, I was hung upon my cross of rotten wood. In a way, it was depiction of Golgotha. Christ with two by his side. But in my eyes, I still see the top of the hill looking down on the bottom two parts.
            A few strings shy of a full weaved universe, still, life strains away from process’ process. Here. The blindfold, you’ll wear it and it’ll make you, and whatever you choose to see: BRAND X. Once the good pleasures rush you, you’ll compare them to everything else. This genocide is nothing like my first kiss, this kiss is nothing like my fruitful bastion against the submarine race. Don’t be surprised. You’ve seen it coming for a decade now. Don’t be shocked. I’ve made my stance against humanity over the years. This is the only reason that I side with the great murderers of our times. Of course I support skin cancer. Of course I support breast cancer. Of course, I would support that which thins out the population day by day. I want to see you with cigarettes; I want to see you with tubes and hoses attached to you. I’ve been waiting all these years, watching. If I had a hammer, I’d build you a chapel. If I had a chapel, I’d try to hide your bite marks.

            I don’t need facts. I’ve got facts. I don’t need your opinions. I know your opinions. Your teeth will be used to set stones; the ground of this church is in thundering laws. You’ve known the rules, and there is no way around them. Etched into your contacts every day, ‘BECOME OR BE KILLED’ Caught 22, lost 23, in the crosshairs, the front line beacons. Listen to the beat. The drummer knows his place.

            Lip curled and imaginably pierced, hands retract, arms fold. “This project can’t be projected!” Exhaling shortly, as it turns to the other: “This project had died” Pencils snap to knuckles popping. On the table, the hands chatter as the eyes stare blankly at the blueprint. Different pictures of physical mutilation, images of contortion, erotic details point out the cigarette burns up and down the legs, as if each leg was donning a crown of it’s own wiry thorns. “Every day.” The left hand grumbles. “A new threshold.” The right hand smears the ink, blotting the outline of the first virgin under the halogen light bulb.

            Guilty or not. Here I come. Shedding old skin and making leather belts from writhing pelts. I don The New Flesh. I am wearing the old scars. Count your blessings before they hatch. Soaring above your head, the cumulonimbus misanthrope. Open your mouth, it’s raining ballots, bullets, phallic, ballads. Soft, pink, young, open to new viewers. Cradle to grave. Sleeping solemnly, crawling towards, infants inside you. The exhaust will hang you like tickertape will name you. In just a few morbid seconds. I can see it from here. The plumes barreling upward. The birthplace of religion is being bombed by it’s natural adversaries, the goodness of mankind suppressed into the dirt and pulverized by the tank treads. I see it. The birthplace of man, ravaged by disease if the veins, the catalyst of the endtimes. Again, the adversary targets those who contain the virus and not the virus itself. Born without brains, their skulls caved it, they pull levers and flip switches…the hand that builds the cradle, builds the next. No progress. Our utopian ideas are now physical representations of actual places.

Selfless actions of lighthearted kindness
Holes scar your hands, symbols of faith
Knots in your back, sleeping is history
Living a life of rudimentary crassness
Hoping for forgiveness and in every skull
There is a symptom waiting for a taker
A gap waiting for a bridge to burn

Inserting;rewinding;clippingoutallfootageofyouandI,

special thanks: Skaboom

NEWS: Sunday, October 15, 2006:

Shepherd Cataclysmia

            COLIC, phallic, frolic, emphatic. Deaf sub-servants of colloquy guzzle searing fermented fuels of paradigm hustlers, and perihelion horizontal arithmetic. Decomplosion, rather, the satisfaction for chaos tremors within the putrid fatigues surrounding rebuilding. All fingers touching the wires will be shocked, and then they will all lunge to take the plug out. Human suffering overflows the streets and rivers, our children, their legs with algae firmly coiled around such smooth ankles, tugged underwater to be devoured en masse. That which haunts the most pristine is the want…the desire to preserve the world for it’s skin, for it’s pelt, the lust to squelch the human suffering by smothering what remains of life. Blind purge, hail dirge, you’ll be lucky in the massacre. Conviction, friction, addiction, just symptoms of the abuse.

            I’ll show you your welts if you grace my skin. It’s a tradeoff that few are encouraged to make, but many are forced into doing. There is a gun in your mouth, pills on your hands and decisions on your mind. Waves of blisters. The war is over, the bombmakers have won. Fight or flight, to be damned is to be in corium passage. You have let me in. I rush. I feel the chemical leak my veins. Into your heart. Rapture increases your fold exponentially, I.

            Asphyxiated; planet synthesis. Rolling blackouts. Leaves off the tree. Standing isolationist, idly by. Earth televised dead rehearsals, grinds down revolutions into dust. History is written by the winners, all resistance is futile up until the point of success. Bigger, bigger, bigger. Catacombs intertwine, stark abscesses pock marking the flesh of faceless virtues. On virgin solar evacuation plans, our names engraved in buried stone. You will be buried in dust, hung with tickertape, documented as a decent citizen, the only gift under your tree. Here, breathe, wheeze, inhale, exhale, deject. Push back, and down, as your name is plastered on the ceiling.

            Truth defies faith in vain. Faith, the only infallible virtue, belief, the only reliable anticomposure. The religious have taken the ideal of plugging their ears, and strangling those that speak against them. Freedom in chains, barbaric cannibals intoning that their God is an awesome God, while their installed, institutionalized presidents, premiers, bishops, priests, pastors and preachers are all those who reign the earth. Dollar bills burn up in smoke, lighting the cross, the flag, and heart on fire. Humanity hast begat ‘salvation’ hast begat ‘reincarnation’ hast begat ‘eternal life’ hast begat cannibalism, ritualism, vampirism, sacrifice, death hast begat jihad, Hezbollah, hast defeat humanity. No cynics left standing. All life, degenerated into this. Wave the flag, thump the bible, eliminate a species. Christ, putrified, cadaverous, remains the last dead issue of the messiah species; extinct. While rising from your crypt is shunned by the modern day believers, the second coming is praised. Don’t expect any being, living or dead, man or god, to be able to push through the oceans of infinite detritus that has been stacked upon his entrance. I understand the existence of an emotional, spiritual exit through prayer and religion and I have deemed it unclean, unneeded, and weak. Use, no more, never was, no lines cut, no nails puncturing, no holes bleeding.

            Your knees, forever tormented on the hypodermic plains of incestuous, pedophilic dogma, praying up to your mirror every day and at every night, more frequently than brushing your teeth. Acolytes dismiss the superstitions of black cats, thirteens, walking under ladders, and then squeeze their rosaries [or pentagrams] with clammy hands, tears running down their lacerated skin, begging for forgiveness. They then rise up, having forgiven themselves after seeing that God was keen enough to their words to cast down the smite of their lives, the continue the sin. If God is listening to everything you say, watching everything you do, knowing everything you think, prayer is obsolete from the very second it started. Why would God need your reiteration? Is that there to question Gods will, or just to pander to his strength? If God knows you’re sorry for whatever human thing you’ve condemned and underwent, you don’t need to ask him for forgiveness. You’re asking yourself. You’re asking yourself for the forgiveness of the thing that you wanted to do, did, and told yourself that you shouldn’t have done. The Christian depictions of God, and all other depictions of any deity in existence, are not listening to you. You are listening to yourself, asking yourself. You are God to yourself, but to avoid the overwhelming control of God, you move your paperwork over to another mans desk.

            If God is supernatural, and we are natural, God cannot intervene with our doings. To prove the existence of God, through any action in any way, is all incorrect. God has never set foot on earth, he has never touched it. Thusly, according to many doctrines, denying your faith to include scientific logic is a weak-minded activity embraced by the truly faithless. Religion is without logic. Logic is abstract of religion. Religion intones that you should believe things purely because they are nice to hear, because they make you feel like a ‘God Warrior’ or put you in a seat of power. Logic is the backbone of any miserable former believer, once it was revealed that a second of his time could’ve been wasted believing on God, the son of God, or anyone related to him, setting foot on earth.

Faith is an archaic virtue.
Hope is an entertaining ideal.
The cross is a symbol of agony.
The question mark is a symbol of religion

Phallic, phallic, phallic, phallic, threat. Like duck, duck, goose, but no one knows where I am aiming. You are my coincidence. You are my valet. I’ll be your shunt. I’m the biggest hole in your head. Now relieve my tension. You’re waiting? I’m weighing. I’m sighing. Limelight turns lemon, pressure cracks the menstrual balloon and everyone is laughing at me, or on the laughing gas. I hear helium move through the room, rising to the top of my mouth and being gulped down into my lungs. Voice trembling in the light. It’s too loud to see it, but I know they’re all laughing. I’m crying. Trying to pry my fake nails off. Things like this always happen at parties. My make-up smears and the kids swig their alcohol down like it was their father. It’s not going anywhere. The cans are piling up, the wrecked dreams and symbols of oppression that they wear FREELY are shining their daggers through to me. “Are you two okay?” I get asked that a lot and don’t know who the other person is, because I’m just one. But, then again, I’m not one. With anything. Nature, supernature, otherwise. I unbutton my dress, loosen my collar, and try to get comfortable on the stack of aluminum, to no avail. The knots are in my back, the holes in my persona are the things that keep me from sleep. I must keep all seals secure, and all my security sealed and air locked. It’s tremendously taxing on the body. You can tell. All my muscles are tightened up. It’s is taking enough out of me just to think about where I am. Coming to a party, make-up perfected, my hands always away from my face to make sure I don’t smear. People always have better talents than me. I may have straight edges, but they’ve got the edges straighter, sharper, and with better colors. I never thought about that. Now they’re touching my face and it only gets worse the drunker they get. I’m on tap tonight, but not in any impressive way. The lines begin to smear downward, the music is too loud, the smoke hurts my eyes, and the people aren’t talking or listening to me. Crashing , here’s my corner, weak enough. But I’m still here. Awake and in pain. I sit here and I watch the shuddering pink residue staining the ceiling, my words bouncing back and hitting me in the face. I’m here because I still have hope. Not to be the bitter reviver in the crowd, but I used to have control over these dogs, and if not control, at least I influenced them. Now, nothing influences them but the alcohol and the solipsistic icons that strum guitars in their heads. I guess I don’t want to influence them. I guess, I can’t. But I’m still here. Sticking my leg out, tripping their staggering pace a little more. I’m shepherding cataclysmia. Making sure that if they’re going down, I’m going to be here to watch it.

I’m weak tonight. Today, but I’m weak every day. I lack in so many areas, and when I discover one, I overcompensate and ruin the ability. I’ve let the rain come down for years now, and as the gutters overflow, as the clouds are eclipsed by another, darker, more insidious layer of clouds, I don’t expect the rain to ever let up. I’ve waited and then flexed, no one seemed to see it. I guess it doesn’t matter now. I’ll always be there when you don’t want me, and I’ll always be useless when you need me. I’ve seen it happen before. I’ve seen it happen to all my former idols before they fell from their grace. Let it rain. It’ll freeze the second it hits the ground. Let it rain. Let the earth drip with its life giving fluids. Let it rain.

Gnarled blight encephalopathy,

News: Sunday, October 8th, 2006:

HAHAHATRED.

I taste you, you’re angry. I taste you, the beads of sweat. Crawling on you, underneath your skin, tickling your nerves…my tongues. I am your anger. Inside your breath. Your body shudders rhythmically, your mind quakes to fit your thoughts. Satisfaction renders the present into a regretful future. Your violent nature, my natural vitriol. Such naturality, neutrality, it’s fading away. You put so many words in my mouth, and now I want to give them back. My neutered state is only mocked by you’re floodgate sensationalism. Smear those tears down with mascara, spread those lips with your glossy liner. Say ruiner because things have been ruined. Eyes meet eyes. Teeth clatter against teeth. I’ll carve a graven image, my face imprinted in your back, you’ll dream of death, and hope for awakening. I am your sleep. I am your awakening. It has been here all along, and only now is it starting to emerge. Emergencies are subdued once more by twitching cataracts, but you’re pulsing heart will only prove my submergencies to be all the more devastating.

Artificial sweeteners clasp my nervures, a spider suckling off the finite fruits of my abdomen. Compounding eyes, resounding features. I remember everything, easy, when nothing happens. I’m racing, bolts and screws spilling from my pockets, deploying Hoovers Flag. I’m racing my disease, dysfunction. I’m not paranoid when everyone around me is just pressing the nails in deeper. I shake, and my spine tears the world apart. I tremble in my looking glass, pulling my parts together. I spread my wings and the world clips them, I can no longer fly, but I slump to the ground and in years I have healed. I stand again, my wings scarred and bruised, taken down again, like a thief. As it’s raining. As it’s raining. Raining, down on everyone I’ve walked all over. Raining, bits of wing, bits of my flesh. For years, you’ve told me that you’ve got an open heart to the wheelchair inside me, for years you’ve told me you have an open mind for the ruin inside me, for years I’ve waited for your doors to open and your legs to shut. It’s time again now, time for the reassembly of destruction in idealistic ichor. Open your mouth and taste my wings. It’s going to rain tonight, and since love is in the air, you’re going to drown.

My blood has transubstantiated back into water, and I’m drowning. Gasping. Tell me, you know where your children are, but you don’t know why they are there…you need the help yourself before you die helping others. Cycles, whirlpools, vortexes multiplying in the skies above, devouring all remaining pieces and spaces of the continuum…I dreamt my heart beating again last night. THE BLACK VACUUM ASCENDS. I sweep off the old collection of coins, the old collection of terms and values, and the old collection of heart-felt literature with the feathers of a dead swan, hunted and slain for its beauty. I thirst for hunger and I hunger to the extent of self digestion. Let the ocean tide down, the riddles made from chemical complacency will always bring the waters back to the edges of your eyes. Heart leads to the hearth, the warmth of a burning desire will pockmark your den, the furnace of your ego will leave the reel of your mind encompassing and collapsing. All stars ego regressing and obsolete, all programs leading to one terminal execution, all pulp shoving down to rigorous fancy. Birth is in light, lifeless, enlightening like the sheet over your casket, the flags our fathers constantly altering. Constant content conserves preservation. Today, we're fighting another war to end all wars, and I am living the life the end all lives.

Envious clouds of black rush past, the tracks have been laid through the massacred people, through the deforestation, through the penance and Pentecost. Grimy faces by internal-netting cubes that only can contain the small, but rigorous context of needingness and wantingness. The sun is out today, shining its daggers, superheated gases bubbling the backs of my human ladder. The only thing that there is to fear is the scared, the only thing that there is to regret is the act of regression. This plane crash harbors pearls. Your nine will never beat my eleven. Get out, get out, leave my house, I’m warning you before it’s too late. The fingers that you stepped on to get to where you are are connected to aggressive life. This misery dictates your fall to fame. I’ll paint your face like a clown paints her nails; I’ll nail you like a pain hides its face. Hedonistic lips become bitter as they touch the sour skin. Aphrodite, hermaphrodite, transsexual, bisexual, heterosexual, homosexual, asexual, I’m nursexual. Murderer, warrior, serial killer, homicide, suicide, filide, genocide, I’m not on anyone’s side.

Hands are brittle. I see the lines in them. Truth be told. I see no reason in it. Sacrifice. Cloth wipes the battlefield dry. Terror, grimace. Sky sews its old wounds back together now. Anarchist bemoans the symptoms’ benign growth. Solemn slumber of somber number bombers. Quiet, or you won’t hear the stars shining. Rushing purgatory the purging ice, push the baby out into this soot, it’s a hot water birth for an icy burial. Collecting you for a unity card game, filed into improper kissing salutes, fishhooks dangling on phonetapping wires pull your dimples in, hang your cheeks up, smiles occur in the presence of a grim despair, a sullen being of fandango proportions. Senility, severity, sterilization. We have reached the end of the beginning. Mouthhole, eyehole, earhole, nosehole, drumroll. Bend over, give in, guess again, you’re living. I’ve given my best shot, and shot at the most gifted. Birds rain from the sky like it was Chrissmiss come early. Shove it upside, you’re teeth are to climb, brushing the scalp aside, know your place. Don’t shrug your shoulders at me. Don’t waste away so sudden, don’t know your name anymore. Stainless steel rehab, drug abuse and sleeping agents. Teach yourself the ways of the saw, see through the waves of palpable misinformation and find yourself stuck with the one true purpose of meaning: lie weaving. Crème …of the crimestoppers, the showstoppers, the guild of impressive scenarios devised in order to rank up the society of ants.

NURSEX. I’m nervous. I’m stringing along, strung out, bogged down and rising above. With bitter hate and despair as the fuel in the tank of my bones, I'll show you the way out. Their click is arrogant, ours is ignorant, but always, and always, we'll be better spellers and better writers than those who rewrite our cold spells. You’ll never touch the power that you’ve already got. All screws loose. All trains departed. Timeplace, complacency, faces and inner children stack up, your heart and liver climb the ladder to shake your own hands. A NOVICE SWIMS IN SADISTS BLOOD. This is crumbling because when I let it bleed out, the unilateral ink spills into my teeth, and the smile you love is casual dismemberment. Tonight, it’ll rain bourbon. You and I will love and we’ll be sarcastically, metaphorically, then literally buried in proverbial, provisional hands. You’re not pure. The oceans of afterbirth squelch the flames that burn within heavens eternal chasm. Push. Rush. Magma hits the scene like the mother hits the priest for getting such an unfair headstart. Military contracts pool: murder killing is war isn’t murder. I speak and write from within the no. Hate behind the rest of fame. Here is the beginning to the precursour of the standardized events. I couldn’t care less for the allstarallscaroscar given to the prebirth, whitewashed, rapid-vapis, substandardized memory reel. It’s a dogma test and you’ve succeeded by failing, but wear this cross to negate the truth that you so humble hail and behead.

Your impressive depressive enlightens your neighbors. Spell right like I spell it, rieght? Superimpose your sickness with the human deed to human life. The wood creaks beneath you. Scalded bitter pills. I ignore the voice in your head and listen to the ones in my heart and mind, dictating my policies, they’re my dictators. I know the sounds to understand, I treat them like dogs treat the cats they’ve caught. Armor plating, degrading, overwhelming. Inforwarmastercure. You never know. Find someone who does and you can be assure one source of humiliation. NEWS TO YOU: INKBLOTS PLAY DRESS UP BEHIND YOUR BROKEN BACK. Help these wearied bones back to their feet, a sudden change of pace reveals an early and shallow grave for all those who chose not to believe in it. I’ll be here when all your rights and wronged, I’ll be the quill behind every inactivity that renders you useless. Boiling deaths former coat, undying repulse, living once more. You’ve been held captive under my tree for a decade, and now I’m open you up.

S19-H8-E5

dirty dancing with the holocaust

News: Tuesday, October 3, 2006:

Death swings his head northward. Pulsing. Breathing. Human. Times roll in with tattle-tales, wheelchairs, and radioactivity. I don't care. Your stance is meaningless because you're standing on my fingers. This is Zebra Negative. Everything is on the head of a pin, a pin pointed into my back. Ebeneezer shows his face with a short glance. Light matter. Light in mass. "Already Dead" "Waiting For Death" "Dead; Live again" Brush the dirt from your shoulders. Clean out your eyes. Your suit is in tatters. Live again. Rupture the soil with one blazing thrust. The tombstone's mark, like rotten teeth in your mouth. The death parade of God's corpse, the party the Church always hosts, the funeral that understands the coma of religion. Dogma. No Karma. The blood is on your hands, on the altar, and on the pulpit. These pages are written in it. It is the doctrine of our life. The bread of christs body has fallen stale and molded. His sacrificed wines have become sour juices, all fruits that forced them to spring have shriveled up and died. We're staring directly into the sun until our corneas fuse out, until our hair is shot white, until our ancestors live, we're staring. As life, all we can do is die, and as the dead, all we have ever done is terrorize life. Hold my hand. It doesn't matter any more. If you are living or if you are dead. You've all had it coming for a very long time, and you should be very pleased with yourself that your place of work, that your school, that your church, hasn't been ruptured by violent outbursts yet. As humans, we have been born into sadistic climates, we have been born into machinegunheaded slaughterhouses, we've been forced to become ever so much smaller, every so much more conglomerated. All of life has been wounded. It's not the governments fault, because the government hates life, it's not buisiness' fault, because they hate happiness, it's the people who believe that fetuses are humans, the people that are fighting for enhanced life. But it doesn't matter. Pointing blame. We're on our way down now. Over. Done. Eradicated. Humans breathe, not on need, not on desire, just on momentum.

Eyes slashed open. Awakening in the fog. I can't feel anything. My sense are numb, so I don't eat. I can't hear anything, I don't listen. I don't know who I am, just what I have done. I can't piece together my past and I know I have no future. I've given the world so many infinite chances to intercept my demise but they've just watched. I can prove my helplessness in my natural, or unnatural environment. I don't even know how I muster the effort to write this. It's all spun out of control, and it continues to go downward. I tried. I tried my hardest to stop my progression, but the zombiedrummer beats his tune onward into destruction. I have fallen ill in times of late, and I have no more surgeries that can be conducted. It truly doesn't matter who's hand I punish that got me this way, because I haven't got the span that lets me understand who's hitting me anymore. I've blacked out entirely and it's been like this ever since I hit HOL3. My plane is crashing into my plain. I'm gone. What you're seeing is a howling mirage. I'm pressurized. Only getting worse. Every day. When you put your arm around me you're only compacting my atoms. I hate to be this being, I depise all those that are happy in their shells, my vanity knows know bounds, my jealously knows no limits. I am human, a sample of misery. I bleed red. I see black. It's coming down. The moon has drifted behind the clouds, no life perseveres. I am a monkey. A sample of ignorance. I bleed. I see. It's coming. The light beacons black again. Nobody pushed enough. Nobody cared enough. I've got no body. No terminal. No departure, no arrival. No tracks, no needles, no veins, no high, just low. I am christmas in charcoal. I'm easter in disease. I am birth with no family. I am death with a crowd.

FOR GOD'S ROTTING SAKE:
save the queen
before she hits the ground

Rotting soil grips dying fruit. God's bone fingers push through the dirt. Spring silences itself, the trees bear bleeding fruits. Compassion lies, stabbing the moonlight. My crop has failed, the sky sewn shut. Birds fall vertical lines, man sniffs horizontal blinds. All leaves turn black, all rain is ice, every heart stops. From death. Your rib. I'm born. Made. Manufactured. I'll breathe up all your air, leaving you gasping, choking, turning colors. I'll drink all your water, leaving you parched, barren, scorched. I'll eat up all your food, leaving you skeletal, starving, searching through rubble. I'll suck your heart dry, leaving you cold, rigid, emotionless. I'll devistate your faith, the pillars of heart come barreling down, each rebar, each stone, each pipe fast lodged into the earths brittle crust. I devistate. I live to die. My heart is a pill. You've already swollowed it. I'm in the air. I'm under your skin. I'm bursting forth. I know your name.

You're breathing it in,

w.

News: Monday, October 2, 2006:

The Architect Naps A Short While

Gears, grinding like my teeth, screeching to a complete and utter halt as the coal beds spill onto the dusty surface. Dark matter plumes up, breathing it in, I know. Pain, social suffering, persecution and angst are truly unavoidable. You’re breathing it in. Every second, what you live for is what is killing you. What I want is just a simple, calmer, slower demise. I can’t get that. Endings are always sudden, endings are always grim…and I can never win. Love is in the air, mingling with mustard gas, mixing with sarin gas, along with a focused cloud of VX gas. Along with this is the sensation of needing. Needingness, it is floating around just as much as the love. Wantedness is strived for, needingness is needed. Dead animals bleed into the streams, untouchable ichors of life spill into the water, the raw swim in the water. All hearts have nails because they’re constantly ready to break, all happiness is only existent because it has defeated depression, overthrowing it was the birth, submerging is the death. Sadness only exists to mock former happiness. It’s a constant flow, it’s a constant battle. I can only measure the extent that my life has let me live, I can only monitor the rate, on a graph, with no x axis, no y axis. Just like McCarthy had said concerning the communists, the twisted columns of regret and decay are persistent, they are constantly passing through your nostrils, through your mouth, gaping in awe of what the sanitary, suburbia environment has been scorched into being. You are breathing it in. You are drinking the substance.

To escape death is to truly escape life. Sanitizing the current is just as good as building a dam in a river to keep the water from hurting the trees below. You are already poisoned. You’ve had your shots. You’ve escaped the homegrown diseases to be introduced to a whole new variety of commercial diseases. You are not safe where you are. Someone has touched what you are touching before, and there is the lingering chance that they haven’t had their shots. There are trillions of germs crawling, writing, splitting, dying, decaying all over every surface on the planet, different germs for different climates. Antibacterial wipes, creams, lotions, salves, soaps boast their rate of killing off 99.9 percent of all germs on the area of effect, leaving hundreds of thousands to reproduce more and more, spreading even more advanced sicknesses and disease, killing more people with more agonizing pains. Evolution. Every time you wipe out masses, they’ll learn. Consciously, unconsciously. Germs are only getting smarter, more advanced, more complex, more unstoppable. Germs are just rogue cells with a personal agenda to get inside and stir your system up, and your body is just working together as a giant mass of cells. It’s a hopeless fight. The second you breathed your first breath, … well, the second you left the womb…rather, the second you became a full human being, you are infected and beyond help. We’re administering germs to fight germs, then they work together, we’re screwed.

My heart is a loan.

Official Announcement: As EleGaunt as my bones, this website being my skin, I give you the first taste of the Dinner of Body:

THE NEW FLESH

THE NEW ART SHOW FROM WINSLOW DUMAINE.

Date, time, location, and bitter peeks to come in later updates.

A Muse; Amused.

News: September 27th, 2006:

D E A D P L A N E T R I S I N G

Cool breezes over the pallid stench of dead fervor. Stability looks back and calls its son to gather up its luggage. No pillars left standing, no pills to pull me out, no sources to drain my ego, no places for me to release my anger. Nothing left but to wait. Waiting in bitter eggs, in bitters places, seeing my juvenility crumble before me. Once you have pushed past the mask you will only know me as the negating sensation.

Everyone enters the stage, holding their ‘first-stone-throw/rock-of-this-church’ pebbles and they are aiming their blame to my eyes. All those that tell me that I am ok when I am not, and that I am not when I am are secretly forming my own target list. I know who I hate, because I have sat behind them and watched them. I spin new greeds, I spin old greeds. I’ve been Elvising this Dresden Disco for a long time, and now I look to my peers with explosive anguish. All the crowds lean in to my ears and they humbly shout: DON’T SNAP. DON’T SNAP. DON’T SNAP. Shrieking bits of bitter ecstasy in my head, that find themselves bouncing around, echoing through the canals of my ear. And so it goes, standing there, pins in hand and they watch silently, I’m the balloon that is floating around grazing the walls. The people come in closers and yell louder, pushing the pins forward and through, and soon one pin will make one hole and I’ll snap, defying their rules, defying all their righteous efforts. I care for no one in my time. I have no emotion left.

You’ll hear the sirens from miles away.
The rivers will overflow with tears of grief.
Your hair will be thick with ribbons of blood
The smoke will reach so high, it will choke the angels out of heaven.

My heart beats and it’s broken, falling into bitter pieces. Boiling mad, boiling blood rushes my veins, pain plays past the curtain. Stretching bones, aching muscles, the hole in you has slipped to the floor and you’ve fallen in. Awake! Awake in surgery, awake to watch it all occur. I’m knowing today, I’m knowing, and calm, seeing my life flash before the screen, I rise from the bed and I know what I am doing, but I don’t know why I am doing it. I perform functions en masse without ideals, I move slowly and methodically and I never reach my destination.

The grim desire for posture and relevance has doomed me periodically. The devices are no longer working, the mold tramples the mildew in a race to the finish. Fighters do what they do, lovers do who they did, it’s a somber way about the schedule. Mind the fact, that when the maze is body, and the exit is existence, the entrance is through personal decontamination. New sources are replaces with old resources, the posterity that reels from a dead gray colored family will be the only hammer to the nails in the earth’s hands.

We’ll follow you as a leader, directly off a cliff. Standing at attention, the bugs underneath my skin are slowly surfacing when I’m freebasing the ball game. Scars show up when the foundation smears off, muffled laugher when the brush caresses skin. Television on mute, I check my lines, the white stretch marks between each rib are just wide enough to encase the powder. My alabastard-child skin is rough between its soft spots; the mentality of my peers runs along the child-brides coup. I used to hear the humiliation, for all that I’ve done so far, and it’s faded off into the ether. My brain has long gone, the greasy stain that it has left against the wall is easily concealed with a new coat of paint, my futile angst and insecurities are defeated quickly with another layer of cake-up and gloss, glitter, and blisters. The disease of the hands is transferable; the disease of the lips is lethal. I know what I contain, the bits of matter that ejaculated from my eyes and ears when the air pocket in my skull was overheated are still scattered aggressively across the mirror. Smiles to me, sometimes, remind me of the scent of fresh poultry. My

I’ve shown you so much and you really, still haven’t a grasp of my capability. Analysis is one key, but the lock is behind the closed door. Steps haven’t been made. Pills haven’t been taken. Your ideas are infinitely crumbling, only dragging me down. . There is such a thing as too much love. I am here to negate all the love in the world, negate all your efforts, and crush you, and the rest of this dead star, pulverizing you into the dirt. But as for now, I will enjoy your company, and polish my sledge.

I maintain all my hate. If I have hated anyone at any given time, I can whip that back at them like a brick to the skull. No forgiveness. I can make, I can destroy, I've been doing this for years. You truly have no idea of what I can rain down. I find someone; I drag them along, kicking and screaming, pulling them by their heartstrings, plucking at them, waiting for the groan of love to creak out the ruined chimebox. I am infallible. I have willed things into beings.Then again, that isn't true. I have become powerful thanks to your, and all the others, who have found pity in my atrophied muscles enough to make a donation to my war.

You'll see your name engraved,
I will see you engraved.
Input, output:
T[H]RES[H]OLD.

Virgin clouds inebriate, subtle kin penetrates. The heart of it all is barren and still, seared, charred from sickness, from plague, from inertia, from inflammation, while being undying, constantly wrecking, frozen solid. The death of life came so sudden, so soon, and with twice the brutality as I had even imagined. My ideas of pain and sorrow are nothing near the acts that I have portrayed. The stinging cliché of today’s regrets has bled my calendar to bitter bits, flapping in the breeze like shattered flesh. This is it. Today is the day. Dead Planet Rising. Death shadows his star on my crops, salt rains from the sky, putrid flesh animates the bleached bones, the tides of blood, the wake of disease, misfortune and agony are turning once more and the dark lords of past fuels have just been reawakened. The pain that is felt, inside armored cage, inside armored car, inside armor, is nothing compared to pierce of light that will shower down, blasting the skin from the faces of all stout believers. All these sordid, decrepit years, spinning every so hastily downward. Everyday, life sheds its dead flesh from quiet, rageful slumber to stare into the eyes of the third, shallow, hollow, pallid reincarnation of the rotting deity that they have become. Powerful hands falling weak and useless in to the feeble muscles that are so easily torn asunder, diced, slashed, and swept aside like worthless locks of filthy mane in the back alley of the barber district of Chicago. Craters of pockmarked skin, skid marks from shooting dope, self inflicted scars, open running sores with the whining attempts of the human body to grow skin over the hole, the new skin flapping in the breeze like the American flag.

I’ve got no stabilizers.
I’ve got no true reason to live human.
I’ve got no heart.
I am a machine.
My function is to bring everyone around me down.

I am here to make you feel infinitely worse on every plane of existence. I hope you will then see what you have made.

makewarnotlove

w

News: September 20th, 2006:

PLURAL SHOCK RESIDUE STINKS UP THE LIVING KITCHEN.

DEAD AWAKE.

The odor of fatigue drips down from the walls. When I sleep, I am imprisoned in my mind. The artist must trust his hands before he trusts his heart. Our dance is a shiver that ticks down into the drain, love that transcends through all substance and into the vacant abscesses of heart. Service this crashing jig, frission and fusion, two products of cronyism are welded together in a heart shape. Skeletons titter at the edge of the rusted ocean, flesh tingles as the frame deconstructs. Life is the matter of disorganization in the cinematic blueniverse, recognition of subtle lengths, the strings of matter are bound together.

The scene ends abruptly, with an almost bludgeoning effect against the soft, moldable personalities, accumulated long the guttered streets; “The more I spread agony, the less I can feel it!” Today, the chyle in children tells them to create havoc, or their own artistic misery without actually feeling it. Underestimation of the clichéd powers, so commonly abused and misinterpreted, as a generation we’re drinking all the backwash. Our souls fade down through the mud, staring up through the rectangular cut-out, the edges of our soft, welcoming grave, open like the arms of mother. Shout, please, put your art down with the scum that it was created with, because the brightest colors are enhanced by the deep grotesque that has irradiated our centrifuge.

I am using you and you don’t deserve this pain, and if you don’t know this, you deserve the pain.

Sometimes, I can’t help it but feel compelled. Driven, like a golf club into an arched spine. I know, I can promise you, things are coming down quickly, but I still have a twittering sense that maybe, through some infinitesimally small chance, maybe a strain of bacteria may survive the endtimes, and maybe they will evolve through another hoop of mind-numbingly small chances, and maybe I will be dug up and my bones will be put in a museum of some sorts, or I could just be ground up and made into fuel. Again, it’s all changing and at a rapidly declining pace, the only altercations that I’ve been monitoring have been the rates that we go downward…and if you ask Time-Warner, they’d agree. Everything in my life is a system of anagrams, things standing for other things… and this is where the pin drops, because the way I am living now, is going to be the way I am living when I die. I will either be excavated and put into a museum, or I will be immediately ground up…and that means that I will at least serve in something, but at the same time, the chances, of this are under constant pressure.

Every second, a new title comes into my mind and I have to find a new way of making the title live up to the expectations. Unconsciously stomping all over the borders of what matches and clashes, multimedia through separation is my main frame of construction. I love politics and religion because without them, I would be happy and I wouldn’t be near as creative as I am. Let me explain one thing, the ferocity of art was proven in every war, in every concentration camp of the holocaust, in every ghetto and in every pit of despair, it was proven, and will forever continue to prove itself, that oppression, depression, and pressurization are the three keys to making art. Restriction of American liberties has caused a drastic increase of art projects and movements, and just take a single look at the art of WWII, and you will understand that in order to put your mind on the paper, you’ve got the crack your head open.

I don’t want to be happy. I put myself in bad situations because I want to continue to create. I am miserable with myself, my life and those who interfere with my plans, and that only makes my plans infinitely stronger and more throbbing in proportions. That’s the beauty of it all. Writing is like a drug, and the more I write, the more miserable I get. When I finished Faded Frost I had never felt so drained from writing in my life. Writing is the thing that is making me miserable, but it is also making me creative. Photography just pounds the nails in deeper, and my drawings push the constant, sparkling negative space. I occasionally course through all my photographs and I am always amazed by the ways that I have advance, and also the ways that I’ve just made myself worse. I’ve pushed all my friends away; I’ve gagged on my ego, and trembled at the altar of androgyny that is my creation.

Life is finding a way to make the bleak gray disappointment fertile and glowing, I am always under whelmed with the occurrences of my world, and my standards are laughably low. That’s where the beauty of Oppression Art comes in, lower your standards enough and a few things will slip by and make you feel the orange rush that is the pulse-happy creativity, but there will always be enough to negate that if you allow it to mix. Inevitably, a dichotomy forms, unless you’re completely numb, dead, or stupid. You’ve got the things that make you happy, and instead of having things that exist to make you sad, or depressed, you’ve got to make them into anger. Anger is a very malleable substance, and man peace-loving critics of mine like to say that anger can only destroy things. This is not true. If you’re angry about all the pollution, you’ll try to stop it. Destruction is creation. I use my anger, angst, and juvenile wordplay to undermine my enemies.

Don’t outbomb. Outwit.
Don’t outarm. Outart.

Show your colors. Show your hate.

All of life is agonizing colorizeria. Don’t mix the parts you do not like. Favoritism is happiness…or rather, construction. I would rather be miserable and productive then happy and useless.

Mwnl,

w

News: September 11, 2006:

So is this what it has boiled down to? Who hurts most? What a pathetic battle, the only response you can conjure from my body is the stiff reaction of your stimulus.

I can feel my grip loosen.

Sexual obsession thunders over the searing seamless. Patronizing squalid dissonance. I am preaching to an absence of morals with the meatgrinder effect on the studio audience. Life lurches forward with the persistence of headlice. If chivalry creates dichotomy, dichotomy creates war, war creates valor, valor creates ego, ego creates aggression, aggression counteracts chivalry...where can we go from here? As a society based on morality, a constantly changing, every loosening knot that ties us to yesteryear, we cannot fully progress forward. Facts here can be used to prove evolution, we have a few degradable elders and believers that stay back as the rest of the world advances forward and down, graphically, southeast. One angle views the battle black, one angle views the battle white. "We love everything with an exception of you" or "We hate everything with the exception of our allies." Verbally, a fight is fought through our televisions, radios and in our minds every day one side has got the paper and the cuts, and the other side has the ink, and they drink it. The only force of prosperity is through teamwork, but at the same end of this razor, the only industrial bargaining that can be successful is through having an enemy.

[Th]Ink

Things suddenly change, dearest, is it not obvious that I am trying to push you away? Earth is split in two, side A and B, and it is actions of separation that force it to be this way. So many people run on the futile idea that is: If you are not with me, you hate me. Now do you wonder about all the knives in your back? Heart is a balloon that you refuse to open up an so much pressure will eventually be your downfall, and then there will be a slew of insults to follow your major injury. I'm testing to waters. Lying, and slipping my hand under the table, unreactive substances always sink to the bottom of the water. Electricity startles my heavy heart, satisfying every hunger and every desire that I would want without violating the laws and guidelines of insertability. I wanted to taste you but I was filled with an irrational fear, and now you have justified that fear.

I have lied and you shrugged it off like it was dead skin.

I've been stabbing your back for so long that I have forgotten what your face looks like.

Today is the five year anniversary of amnesia.

Enjoy me
I taste you
The Dinner of Body is now.

received deceitful,

w.

News: September 3, 2006:

The people that are here to make me happy are just keeping my head under the water, and from this, the orchid wilts.

Stop apologizing before you even know what you did.

Luckily there are those that haven’t touched the unused, cloth side of the brain. Heartcrafting draws more from the mind than bombmaking, but the product is more fragile. I ache with every breath, bones twist and gnarl in the sunset. The king fades from vision as the soldiers approach. Thank god the princess is dead. Cast neutrality is null, gray, I can’t help myself but this faded tiara still boasts the power of rule that it had once contained fully. The format still cries bitter, onion scent, the tail wags and bleeds down into the fiery abyss of the oceans depth. Hell is other people. Hell is other people…marching up and down my decaying back. My heart beats thunder, groans leak through to the other page, dawn praises it’s gray rays in the name of that who heals those who are unbroken. Today, I woke up, looked outside and I felt that the sky was telling me to go back to bed. Sleep is the only cure to the incurable disease of hopelessness. I wake up, see no shining rays of hope, go back to sleep twenty hours later, and dream of a false representation of life where there actually is a sense of pride in those who have accomplished something. Now there is nothing…editing, censorship, mouth-shutting, and prison bars. With every passing generation, we’re dying earlier, saying less, and consuming more. Consumption, phthisis, white plague, these are the words to the American Anthem—no, these are the words to the human anthem. As a species, a race where no one wins, we are constantly devouring and destroying. That which we build is only destroying the space that is consumed by the building. If we weren’t here, most earthly vessels would go unused and would be then wasted on living tasks.

The clouds part and the rain comes down from the sun itself. Gluttons, wolves and bone doctors dot the horizon. The blistering sun grimaces with agony and deception. The clouds return, and light is lost. I step out of my bed. The wooden floor is begging to be turned into infectious splinters, it’s cold and discouraging. The halogen-hallucinogen lights flicker on and the room glows with pallid streaks, illuminating depression and sinking the radioactive forces my skin to wane. The sallow morning greets the grim dawn, I slip a handful of pills down my throat and glaze my skin towards the mirror. I lay down on the rug and feel the volcano of flush heat ravage my chest cavity. Moths dance around the lights, staring up; they have a more advanced sense of presence than I could ever muster. Mold creeps up from the cracks and along the edges my eyes. The moths play and twitter around the lights, amongst the countless dead relatives that have accumulated under my shade. I can’t even bear to dance by my own death. My ghost rises up from my body and leaves me, he’s sick of waiting to die.

Suddenly, I move, vellicate, the most arousing physical act of my day is the cough of red phlegm that splatters against the bookshelf, bleeding through the pages. The body politic of estrus, mephitic cells, coexisting with their own insignificance and personal losses and gains…they still represent something more meaningful than what I have done. The bony pauldrons relax after the cough, the inner skin of my chest itches, bleeds, and burns now that the ichor of my personal wastefulness touches against the screaming raw skin that I have revealed. Naked, bruised, and defied on all parts and counterparts, I should be back in my bed, but now that my feet have touched the ground, now that my lungs have been ruptured, the possibility of sleep is about as hopeless as all other possibilities in my life. It’s been days since I’ve eaten. My stomachs lining is overt and pulsing. The pills I ingested are receiving a rude welcoming to my system. The chemicals are the only thing that gives me reason to live anymore, because when I wake up, I want to die through any means possible, but first I take my medications are such a shock to my system that I cannot bring myself to harm—until the chemical fades. They don’t work unless I eat, but I care so little to the extent that I do not eat, even if it means I take negative capsules. Everything in my life is a placebo. Nothing has kept its promises. I’m too tired to hate it…and I know that even if I did, I would end up hating myself for it more.
This generation fades to the bleakest part, the abscess of sullen, bloated regalia that my human generation has seen. We were given space, we managed to pollute that with our arrogance and ignorance, we were given the earth, and we bombed it until it was entirely a smoldering black colliery, we were given America, we obliterated those that lived her, blotted out those that tried to take it black, and we will soon eliminate ourselves once we realize that the only place for equality is in death. I was given my life, life, the substance that will always be a stem cell for all ideals, plants, animals, and beauties of all echelons to blossom, and because my world is so filthy, so ruined and so inhospitable on all edges, I have wasted myself. Still, even in this stoic, ostentatious, acrimonious universe, the tragedy of childbirth still repeats itself. For some reason, in some parts of desolation, the desire for sexual stimulus in all terms and scars, has become so intense that some ended of finding another human being attractive, or, god forbid—they’ve fallen in love…the same basis of falling in a tepid tar pit, it’s nice at first, then six seconds later, you’re asphyxiated along with the trillion other saps that have fallen into the tangled web. In hospitals, in demolished buildings, in schoolyards, behind every window and inside the minds of the perverse coin-minded acolytes…childbirth still occurs. It pains me to think about it, but even with all of my efforts to display the cruelty of humanity on the forefront, there apparently are some sentient beings still slinking around this Pluto-planet that have made the incorrect, fetid decision to procreate, though creation of a child isn’t procreation, rather, decreation, or excretion. I can’t name a more potent blight on the pale face of humanity than the fact that children are still being made. Even in the groaning black sphere of earth, even in this status…this stasis, we’re still falling to pieces, and these pieces grow into fuller, faster, stronger human beings. Fuller…fuller of themselves, fuller of the lies and slanted, liberal crock that they spew all over the furnace doors. Faster, faster at destroying what we’ve got, faster at poisoning the eggs that will be hatching into the newer generation. Stronger… more resistance to our flames, bigger biceps without any strength, less endurance.

I gather my strength to the point that I can slide against the side of my bed frame. I want to scratch the inside of my chest, it feels like I am in a pressurized space capsule, my head, heart and ears are throbbing with vitriol. Every day, the sun can only set on the cradle-rock world. Facts battle facts on the green-gassed political battlefield. One side has one fact, and the other has a counterexample. Both have evidence, and one will win. Blindfolded, with a ballot in one hand and a trigger in the other. Politics is the running coursing blood of the system that I, along with everyone else who’s egotistical and bitter enough to try and stop it…and it is an immovable mass, expanding with unstoppable speed. Television, while I try to resist it, is nullified by the news media. The groans that have overtaken the news, the shudders that trickle down into the cesspit that is the polls are only half of the non-factual-blistering-freedom of non-candidacy. One half of my television is vexism, flexism, housewives with the bitter remnants of a sexless/sexist ordeal/ideal. I see them with their [wood]chipper smiles and [s]warming lovebombs, and I can’t help feel the sour embrace of the loveless grin. I wish I could be so dumb…dumb in a way that I am just smart enough to know how vulnerable that I am before the audience of my deep-cracking peers. I wish I could fit in with my sick crew of building-builders, but I’ve got the greatest burden bleeds through every layer newspapers…scriptures, prescriptions.

My flaws are the only lines left to separate me from the rest of this gray planet. I can no longer relate. I can no longer love, I can no longer hate, and I can no longer move. I have failed every promise, I have failed every movement. I spend my time sitting here breathing…falling apart.

This isn’t the end.

It ended before I even started.

Seeping Black,

W.

NEWS: August 27, 2006:

I've got three people that are here to make me happy, and I'm still fucking miserable. Some days I've got nothing and I feel like I am everything, and then there are days that I have everything and I am nothing.

Shit falls apart. I detest picking up the pieces.

The parade marches on my punctured back. The circus sneaks a pressurebomb into every kiss.

I'm in debt.

I'm in a RED DEBT.

The chemistry is gone and the traces of happiness that I've had before are just there to remind me how disgusting I am right now. The point of no return. Lose lose situation. I can't make you happy, you're not happy, I'm not happy. I don't think I'll be happy for a good long time.

Ignorance, arrogance, love, hate, anger, repression, agony, spite...otherwise known as ART...just as I am known as W. Together we make a WAR...and a CROSS... a WART.

Global fetal.

I'm still here.
I'm still bitter.
I gave you fair warning.
I gave you time to get away.

It is your ineptitude that will lead our momentary peace to an early, and watery grave.

disassembling my tinkertoys,

w.

NEWS: August 21, 2006:

I watched it today. The ceiling came down on top of me and the hare escaped the clutches of two loving jaws. The back of the receipt is stained with the bitter ink of regret and mistorture. Love of money is the root of all evil. Love of Love is the root of all evil. I curse in cursive, masterpieces of splatterbrain. Absolution in frozen rope. Time stands chill. Wrape. Dark. Lighter. I'm getting lighter because the weight on my back is burning off and turning into smog. Feathers of ash pelt the asphalt like confetti at a funeral. Too light. Panic attacks, my heart beats out of my chest and down the side walk, it hails a cab and leaves for Saturn. I'm floating now, in neutered space. Genderless, thoughtless, powerless, helpless, godless. Floating again. Too high. Ceiling fan remains attached to the exposed piping. The ashes that once rained down upon me are then joined by a glorious percipitation in bits of fur and flesh, parts of bone and soul. The ice has melted, the fire is out. I love it, but at that same time, it makes me sore. Don't tease. I want what I want, and I want it now. Face forward. Breakdown. Emotions run high on a tightrope of razorwire. This is the essential diary because it's message is dire. I could gripe about not being understood, but I would first need to have someone who would try. Laughing in the casket.

PLURAL SHOCK RESIDUE STINKS UP THE LIVING KITCHEN.

Whiteout. Whitein. Whitehouse. A process that plays dead and repeats itself, for keeps, always, until the mask drops with the other shoe. Creeping up the stairs, rising up from the oceans depths, edging around the bend, misery. Falling through the chute, climbing up the ladder, slipping through the cheesecloth, agony. Standing still, unwavering, unaffected by breaze or bullet, bliss. Hold this hand until it falls off. This bitter lips, puckered but splitting, bleeding, callused hands and soft shoulders. The hair falls out of the scalp, and onto the floor, the barber sweeps it up, and it vanishes into the disposal. I'm the only one who loves. I'm all that you've got left. Try not to breathe because I've taken all your air. Try not to think, because if you had a single thought about where you are and who you want to be with, you'd realize how scary this situation is. Arrogance is blistering love. Slaughterka. I was dancing for quarters and now I'm dancing for death. Pressurecracking shatterpointing horrorcrafting heartthrob. I walk with misery in the park and hold her hand. The planes rumble overhead, the very last bits of alcohol cleanse the throat and the belly belches flames. This shield is crumbling, this sword is broken, my hope is entirely absent. The time has come to extinguish the light at the end of the tunnel. Our emperor is bleeding on his throne.

BLASTING BLASPHEMY.

Dashing through fog, wading through blood. Eyes to the floor. This beholds my grim new grave. I've let it go of the handle. This ship can crash itself. The operators voice is the only thing I can hear. It's cold and blank, but at the end of the day, it's all I've got. I'm a candle that has burnt out, but the wax is still warm enough to mold it into any shape that you want. The rosary breaks and the beads spill on the ground. I walk, slip, fall, dashing my head on the bookshelf. The bibles dance around menacingly in front of my twisting eyes. Even in my time of pain,Christs blight returns, cloak and dagger, i see the pages turn, stirring the clouds above me. Leave me be. Your poison has taken.

Godspeed to a bleak new world.

Make War Not Love.

In loving memory.

NEWS: August 15, 2006:

erasing history.

NEWS: August 11, 2006:

Lower by the ropes the ugly head
Lower by the ropes the depressing genital
Lower, lower, lower
Lower your vote
Lower your expectations
Lower, into the aching depth
Lower by the ropes the burning flock
Lower by the ropes the blackened lung
Lower, lower, lower
Lower your smile
Lower your spirits and faith
Lower, into the howling core
Lower by the ropes the cowering child
Lower by the ropes the throbbing bicep
Lower, lower, lower
Lower your heart
Lower your generosity
Lower, into the laughing crater
Lower by the ropes the scorched bodycount
Lower by the ropes the crowned tyrant
Lower, lower, lower
Lower your hand
Lower your average
Lower into the cackling pyre
Lower on the ropes the paranoid crush
Lower on the ropes the ugly head.

angels sink below demons.

still. I am an animal and I go where I am most comfortable.

With you

or without you.

Now make me believe.

makewarnotlove

NEWS: August 7, 2006:

Descending Into The Aching Depths.

I'm riddled, QUICK with a bump of lunacy. Changes change fast, speed-eaters and lime-readers, I can't count past my age and lucky for the mathamaticks, I'm aging too fast. I built a tower of wooden truth, and lied on the very last log, then it turned to plastic. I burnt it down and it's burning a green belch of rabid smoke. Perfection, flaws, counting morals and burning calls. I need the money to sew my seeds, cutting down trees so I can live with my roots again. Hope? There is no time for it. Picture me holding steady, and you're picturing a travesty. I can't create, heal, or cure, sorry, I tried. I know you want an answer, but I know that I don't want to give it out. A musician must never reveal his secretions.

Behind the pulmonary, a libertine sleeps on a bed of crinkled dollar bills. My lips dance with idle thoughts, I want the love I can't have because I can't have it. I can't have it because I want it. I'm a dog that licks it's leash, I can subtle tell that I am being used and abused for my arithmetic love words, and I guess I am ok with that. I'm pathetic, but still choking in the heat. Who knows a secret way out? I wish I had the connection, by my veins unplugged from the outlet and I'm beginning a cycle of narcotic, nocturnal narcolepsy. I AM ALREADY DEAD.

Happiness is pointless when you've got a satisfying dosage my misery. I'm only damaging myself with my words. I know the answers to life's problems but there is still one last question: Who do I want to destroy more? Myself or everyone else? Prove your worth. Wear my mask for a day and I will drink wine from your hollowed skull. Show me only dismal drop of affection and I will show you to the door. Act like you want to play a role in my life and I can show you where you've already failed. Don't pretend. Stop rehearsing. Start performing. Reality is pain. Sleep is a headache. I hate where I am because you are in it with me. If I am going down, I might as well drop this whole fucking branch.

Give me the push. Push off the chair, down the stairs, into the pit, anywhere. Bethlehem has been bombed and freebased, Christ was supposed to have come to judge us six years ago, but like all drug dealers, he's going to show up late. Power overwhelms. I'll show you my ribcage on crime-time television. Exposure leads to repulsion, then compulsion. The prettiest die first, wailing in my arms. I'm ugly and I know I'll die last. Leprosy spreads like leaches in the babies bathwater. Defamation and mockery are the only things constant in this colorized world of ours. I'm not happy and I don't want you to be happy, because then I would see hope. I've dug my grave, and I don't want to see the cure for my disease prancing around like he can't see me. I hope you can understand where I am coming from, because that means you're down here with me.

The clergy will urge me.

Lower by ropes, this ugly head.
Police knock nuns on this rumbling bed
Drunk on wine, devouring bread
Manor is stocked with howling dead

Goodbye for now, goodbye forever.

NEW PHOTOSHOOT: Losing Weight, Weighing Losses.

NEWS: August 6, 2006:

I guess it's sad. I know how low I am right now. I could die any moment, and I'm counting on it. I've been losing weight like Timothy McVeigh loses flesh to the worms that are devouring his corpse. I know, even with all of this, that I still remain bland and superior. I know, and if you must ask, yes, it is very cold and alone up here. I've found a place where I can stare up your skirt and down your blouse, and I have found myself not wanting it. What a fucking joke.

When you see me, don't tell me you care or that you miss me, because you don't. It's not my paranoia if it is justified. I know you don't care. It's obvious. No one cares about the progress I make, no one cares about the hole I've dug. Friendships add depth to the water I drown in. Happiness is only there to make me scared of when it is going to disappear. Eating is a second rate activity, sleeping is boring, thinking and waiting for a good reason to dash my head open is all I want to do.

I'm writing here because no one will read it. I know no one cares. When you stop lying to yourselves, just tell me that you've realized that the relationship that we've had is meaningless at best. Do that for me, then I don't have the mental burden that you've given me. If I meant something to you at all, you would have done at least some minute thing to let me know that I am here. Maybe call. Maybe say hello. You haven't. Nothing has happened. NOTHING. I've wasted my time. I've wasted my thoughts. I know you're laughing at me and my work, and I hope you can find a reason to laugh when you find yourself gurgling a blend of your blood and my ejaculate.

You are the thing that has made me miserable.

Stop this stupid fucking parade.

I'm leaving.

makewarnotlove.

NEWS: August 3, 2006:

Do you want to be found? Do you want to follow Christ? Feel free, go right ahead.

You can't do it halfway. All or nothing.

Follow Christ all the way to Golgotha, and then prove yourself on the cross.

Kill yourself if you believe such futile incantations of love and respect.

You've got no purpose.

This is why abortion is a good cause.

The fewer living, the less chances for sub-religion to spread.

makewarnotlove.

NEWS: August 1, 2006:

God made such a pedophile?
Don't pray for your priests.
God made such a drunk?
Don't pray for the needy.
God made such a liar?
Don't pray for your leaders.
God made such a monster?
Don't pray for your soldiers.
God made such a fool?
Don't pray for yourself.

Jesus is the reason for the Treason.

makewarnotlove.

News: July 29, 2006:

N O T E S

Natural. Artificial. Naturartificial. The leather creaks beneath me. A dull crease bends into a smile. I coil my boot back until it presses against my chest. Fists balled, at my mouth, leaking cordial sweat. At first...at first I was scared. Scared of the hearts I would break, relationships I would ruin, just by being myself. I'm a starving pig with two troughs. I cleanse this dull mirage of hope, knowing fully that I have enemies that would like to gut me, but I focus my shout on my friends...my friends that passive-aggressively bicker over my love. It's funny, because I don't have much reason to love them. They're good at making me miserable and they take full advantage of that. The ones that pretend to care the most are the ones that I find are more contented in my unhappiness. This is because they can offer fake solutions, and many times they'll just restate advice that I have already given to them in their own little times of need, and this makes them seem useful.

Peace is for the weak.
Love is for the simple.
Might is for the Taker

I laugh quietly to myself. My eyes, a burnt-out red from crying-to-sleeplessness. The cameras flash briefly illuminates the otherwise opaque room. I laugh because it's so easy to use people... My laugh is tinted by lingering decay of feeling and altered by a lump of phlegm in my throat. I've got the power to control and manipulate without detection. I love it, partly for the fact that I don't have to listen to the repeating doldrums of emotional bankruptcy, but mostly because I can use my power to make my enemies as miserable as I am, and the way things are going, you might be my new enemy. I can thank you for being as feeble as you are...illuminating my sweltering supremacy.

You give me a backbone so I've got something to break.
Thanks to your cheapening, there is not much left to take.

makewarnotlove.

News: July 27, 2006:

H E A T A C H E

I swell. My wounds are keen to exposing raw flesh. Pulse. My heart beats like a jackhammer as I smear off my lipstick on a faded dollar bill. noitcurtsnoced. She paints her nails security like I paint my face with insecurity. Eyes meet, teasing lips to do the same. My heart slows to a drawl, only stopping every few seconds to sling a few thunderous slugs into my chest. The chemicals in my veins burn out. This torture. A suspect meets his detective, they fall back in love and grin syphilitic. Moaning Lisa, a boy's title, a girls mind, staring aghast as the trail of disease takes it's claim on her thighs and eventually congregates at her feet.

And this glamorous love affair is narrated my a guttural groan, putting it's little knife in the crimson tract that is found between the dimples of an enlightened persona. Napalm lasts like certain love, blasting aurora shockwaves of color and meaning into a formerly constant life. Heart palpitations.

After several distant altercations of the pulsing trinity, self disassembly, and gut stench, I rediscover myself sobbing into my rigid, damaged hands. I've got a ticket to paradise, but the plain isn't leaving until the stubborn passengers disengage. But I have another ticket here, and it's for a plane that can't take a decent scenic route, and the stewardesses try to press their stale, crinkled airport pornography unto--into me. So here I am. In the terminal. Both planes leaving soon and my hope is fleeting. Dotting the halls and crowding the restrooms, my photographs stir their unruly clamour.

My love...
Divides itself by negative numbers and multiplies itself by love letters.
My love...
I can never truly love someone with a full heart because I waste so much of my capacity in hatred towards myself.
My love...
Regenerates with abusive, verbal battery. It flourishes in poverty and diminishes in oversexualization.

MAKEWARNOTLOVE,

W.

News: July 26, 2006:

mwnl,

The sun pelts its bleaching beams
on the backs of the wearied dead
My glory is fading, and so it seems
It's exactly as I said.

makewarnotlove,

News: July 20, 2006:

mwnl,

I put forth everything I had.

Obviously, it's not enough.

I've tried so hard.

Now I'm back to Panel One.

But there is something left this time.

I'm an animal:

I go where I am most comfortable.

And in the process, losses will occur.

Mud eases through bleached bones...

New photoshoot: The Words That Bind Us

Photography page updated.

makewarnotlove,

News: July 16, 2006:

I regret every promise I have ever made
and everything that binds me to these people.
I regret every step I have ever taken.
And everything that has led me to where I am at this moment.
I regret every word I have ever spoken
and everything that has made me who I am today
I regret every truth I have ever told
and everything that was not a direct lie.
I regret everything I have ever done
I am where I am now through my own actions.
I cannot escape.

NEWS: July 14, 2006:

New Photoshoot: I'll Miss You

MWNL,

Why is it that the driving force behind all I do is contained within the one(s) I love...and the drive in that is my sympathy for them? I only find myself in relationships...be them friendly or intimate, with those who talk to me first. Tell me that they like me first. I've only ever dated those who came to me...and never the other way around. I've never been totally sure of anything. I don't believe in forever, and I can say that it's very likely that I never will. I don't really even believe in a 'long time.' Those who have come to me for help must be worse of than I am, and I can't even fathom the idea that would be their twisted, vile morals that are kept within their minds My eyes are growing a film of unrest from sleepless nights spent in contemplation. For a moment, I was in too deep. Drowning in too much love. Now I've taken a darkhearted leap too far into the abyssal scape, and I've found myself suffocating in the absence of love that I once drowned in. I was a tightly coiled spring, I pounced and l showed my love severely and now all I can do is roll where ever gravity takes me. If I end up in a pitiful little ditch, so be it. I haven't remained pure. I haven't remained true to myself or to anyone I know.

I now know the meaning of MWNL...MAKEWARNOTLOVE. I have gone drastically out of my way to make life harder. I have confused myself and destroyed all the things I love in one way or another. I don't change things. I remove the old model and replace it with a new one. Nothing retains it's purpose around me. I can never be satisfied. I am too sensitive and at the same time, too dense. I would rather be productive and miserable than be dumb and happy. It now seems like I will be spending a great portion of my life being dumb and miserable.

Moss overgrows. I've dreamt kissing decadence...and the physical action, I discover, lacks the same luster that was fortified within my manic depressive menagerie of controlled-substance-with-time-released-chemical. I should be sad. I should've probably killed myself by now, at least twice. But I'm still here, and that isn't truly a testament to my strength but rather to my weakness. I don't have the strength to destroy myself. I've made my life so fantastically difficult, so colorfully miserable that I don't think there is a safe way out. In just a few weeks, so many people that I've held hands with will finally congregate and force me into a stasis trap.

Maybe then, I will have the strength.

makewarnotlove,

W.

News: July 8, 2006:

Another deceptive contract has been signed with weakhearted lies in living ink.

News: July 7, 2006:

"DON'T WORRY, WINSLOW, YOU'LL BE REPLACED "

New Photoshoot: HYSTERY.

Tear the fabric that is sewn

And keep on lying to the bone

MWNL,

404

News: July 5, 2006: I ASKED FOR CLOSURE AND NOT TO GET CLOSER.

News: July 4, 2006: Fuck it.

No longer for progress. Destruction. I'm disintergrating. Falling to bitter pieces. Everyone that I know stands up with one voice because I only know one person. Even my friends conclude me to death. Saying: 'I love you, I ignore you, your suffering is meaningless, now here is a shovel: Go dig your grave.' I lapse through moments that tell me darker secrets. Things I want to hide. I hate everything and love nothing. Too much love is caked in lies. Dirty, sensationalism, forcing pity upon those who come too close for comfort. I'm told to stop being honest and start being real, because my honesty isn't based in reality to some. Here's a shoulder for you to cry on, even when the after effects of your fruits of denial will stain the emotional fabric more than any salty substance. Right now, I'm waiting for everyone that knows me know to leave me. Those that see my art see pretty colors and nothing else. Standstill