NEW CANCERS

The sky hung over us like the limp wrist of rebellion, like a luscious orange worm flayed and dripping it’s enzymes onto the dusty pavement. My love felt like the network of veins beneath the tongue, a confusing and sensitive array of focal points tucked away under the sycophantic leech of language. I just barely stick my finger into the cavernous void and ask aloud: how deep may you drive this needle of impassive dismissal? How far may you thrust your sap into the soil of my orchard? For the empress whose seeds have sprouted and strangled the threshold, I'd be aghast to find the same hands on the other end of the bit. The heart is sound asleep, lulled into a sensual coma of pacifism, beguiled by an aroma of fear and regret. The cross hatched teeth of the saw are enticed to and fro against the grain of the ancient oaks, while the two loggers are catatonic, lazily drifting back and forth, causing this perfect, terrible comeuppance.

But I digest…

Love is a fickle twit. How enchanting the image of being can be mislead, while the sexual demons, like damp curtains draped upon a tired elephant, tiptoe past my china. A delicate coterie of celebrations and unity rolled out like the malodorous belch from an old tarp thick with mildew. This little click that I make, the subtle, almost unnoticeable, has been viewed as a gentle reminder of eternity. Every tick of the clock, no matter how far away, is a way of reassuring you that I am still here, and that I will be forever. But…I think there is something wrong with the INK!!!!!! Because it’s turning invisible under the harsh rays of my light, my insistence upon myself has caused me to destroy my own world. By overusing myself, I have cheapened everything around me. My tick, the vow of love infernal is flawed … Because that tick can be stretched out and misconstrued, it can be lied about and submerged in water until the bubbles cease to burst. I still don’t know… and I don’t think you do either. This universal tick, the sound that I make, it may be the persistence of love, the kiss that I crave to show me you still are goddess in a bone-shawl, it may be the innocent chiming of the clock, or it might be the ticking of a time bomb. I say, I’ve cleaned up the broken glass and helped you pry out the nails of so many failed endeavors that I could build a clipper ship in a bottle made of bottles.

Nothing comes easy. The music I make is the sounds of chaos run rampant through the hearts of man; I wish to push my body forever slaveward, like the horse driven to death in Animal Farm. It’s not about faith, or belief or the struggle for peace; it’s about forcing birth trauma upon the carcass of the new world.

My friends…this planet of ours is already burning, so stop digging, I say. Now we must consider how to abort the new fetus. A carnal doom uproariously made manifest in the most serene locales. Like the fist of Mother Nature pounding relentlessly upon the ignorant and misguided, my heart beats pure red blood. Blood to hold you close, blood to keep you warm, blood that I will spill on the tarmac for whatever cause comes my way. Fiery and compassionate, I will the existence of zero to be the soul root endeavor of time across all strung strings.

Agony is nothing. We will die with love intact, embracing each other, against all our enemies. Their death rings our triumph, the deathwork of the soldiers trudging on, through the bog of inquiry. A perfect strain of passion, pure adoration made into a transelastic substance.

For your love, I will stare down the sandstorm.

MWNL.

W.

First and foremost, my apologies for not updating as regularly as I should. I've been dealing with all kinds of hysterics from a rainbow of vulgar colors, so my time has been monopolized.

I have nothing to tell of my life or times, because nothing resonates. Silence doesn't echo, and my image shrugged off it's reflection. Now I just hang portraits over old mirrors and pretend to defy the difference. I stepped softly onto the white tongue in the jaws of death today, my feet sunk into the shifting flesh as I balanced my weight. I could feel fatty tumors resetting their benign bulges beneath the soles of my shoes. A thin slick of water glazed the otherwise dry surface, stapled together with rivets of black tar. I felt my skin sizzling on the concrete. The sun's terrible furnace belched with a fiery ferocity. My every motive was drawn up and seconded out, like an old lover exhumed for an anniversarial embrace, and in the clammy arms, the corpse became dust. These hands are still soft from birth.

And I look into the throat of time, and know that I mean nothing new. I'm here, real, still, on my throne of the Dead Animal Kingdom. My wealth is burning to keep the hearth awake. Nothing begets nothing. My head hangs in my hands like a cinderblock in an Easter basket. A cerebral shock screak shredded my insides, a wasp bit my lip. The methane from the net rot hoists the venomless sac from the deflation of my inflated ego, like a grisly zeppelin of pallid, gurgling colors and the ninth cloud of nine combusts to a hellish screamscape. My madness let loose like wolves into a sleeping tenet, the structures of principle and withhold are made into charcoal black bombshells The vents of decomposition eject inhuman hot air, warble flies, teeth and other vitals, spat onto the carbon tarp of heaven's deep orange sky. Bile and blood, like the thick membrane mucous ejaculating from the forever stretching range of dead animals. A stomach ruptures, and another small volcano is formed. My kingdom amongst them is constantly shifting, the bloody tectonics grind against one another, creating new realms and plains, mountain ranges of bloated animals colliding, dividing.

There is a society built around me. Atop the highest peak of animals, I gouge the legs of my chair. I can see the dump trucks in the distance, unloading another cache of animals to my domain. I can see the glint in their eyes, as they see me once more. I register as nothing more than the strange man atop the pile. They drive on, and have their own incantations of beauty. I chew the tooth of a wild dog, swallowing the small shards that chip off to sustain my parched throat. A tongue is in my hand and I view the garden. Fires roam across the fields, projecting a haze of acidic smoke in the air. The smell of death twisted with the scent of burning fur placates my dead nostrils.

A pox forever wished upon my skin. My house, I burn, eat and regurgitate. Leveled am I. To this kingdom, may the dead forever be kept. A hell has been born unto me, and the plague blemishes all who wish it vanish. The termites begin their relentless march, like the maggots chewing through bones.

And if you'd rather fuck a scaly filthcock than keep a single promise that asks of you nothing more than to stay a habit for a holiday of two weeks, you can stay the fuck away from me and all that I've done.

YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE. KEEP OUT.

Nothing begets nothing.

Dust remains forever dust.

Life wills to spring.

Blight denies it chance.

MWNL.

W.

I've been working on my novel on full blast for the past couple months, and I haven't really had time for my photography. These pictures are from a variety of different photoshoots. They are totally without meaning, simply for visual pleasure or interest, and their 'message' may be derived from your own personal interpretations of nothing.

Hence the title.

i want you to see who i am. i want you to make a spectacle of me, this moticom of matter floating in a sea of discontent and imcompletion. I want you to understand that i am just a thin grimace along one of a thousand impotent and uncaring faces. I want everything impossible to rejoice in their inaccessibility, the crude, lethargic counterbalance of nature to be gilded with such a great furnace of gold and urine, I want to erase all forms of knowingness and peace, from humility to confidence.

I want you to sip the milk of my most inhumane of sacrifices. I want to see you vomit uncontrollably into the pewter cauldron of my being, and I want you to lay down your arms and fall before me.

I want to cleanse the spirit world with bales of fire, to set the hearth of mankind ablaze, and to extinguish this universe of all signs of life, just for a single moment of my peace.

I've hit the cold jowls of selfishness and egoism, the most vile and carniverous mandible of solipsis made manifest. I read that all good things must come to an end, and I simply suggest that the only good thing in this existence, is the fact that all things end.

I give this world nothing, and I wish to take from it everything, and in the stale truth that I am ultimately powerless and crass, I will only rest in knowing that all this writing, praying and hoping will draw me no nearer to God than murder and burglary.

As I said before, there is zen inside the zero. Not only to be the owner of nothing, but the knower of nothing. No facts, no skills, no weights to bare.

An earthly vessel barren of any features or distinguishing parts. Smooth and without interuption. A perfect fit into the system. A puzzle completed. Pure concealment established, the inabilty to differentiate perfected. What was once many, becomes one. What is one, becomes nothing.

MWNL.

Last night, I saw a musical legend. A seven foot giant, fervently bemasked for his adult life, the guitar virtuoso sensation that is Buckethead played an astonishing 4 hour show. The venue was packed and their love and appreciation for this otherworldly mastermind was made clear with the pulsating gyrations to the obscure metal-jazz-bebop-funk chords plucked by Bucketheads massive hands.

There was much clucking.

If you don’t know who he is, I should refer you to his website, [link] , and for his life story, visit [link]

A short summary of the man:

He is the product of a whore and a pastor, who was confined to a chicken coop for most all his early life. With only chickens and his guitar to keep him company, he went somewhat mad, and then broke free of his confinement, liberated the chickens, and burnt down the coop. Now he tours the world, forever beneath a KFC chicken bucket, and behind a featureless white mask. He’s released nearly 40 solo albums, and he’s appeared on at least 50 more.

In short, he’s fucking amazing.

Nothing much else to say about the man, outside of the fact that he is easily one of the best musical artists out there. He stopped the show to rifle his hands through a large garbage bag of toys and comic books. He threw them out to the crowd, and chaos ensued. He did the robot, and played with his nunchucks. There was a small fat man playing with his mandolin. I still cant hear out of my right ear.

I took many pictures, and a full-length video of his song Revenge of the Double-Man off his release Monsters and Robots.

And I’ve been working on DAK as much as I can with my other projects. No rest for the wicked.

It's been a while. In our time apart, I turned 17. I'm writing more to M.O.. and I got toether with Chessna to do a long-awaited shoot. It's called Dead Animal Kingdom.

M. O. FORNAX IUGULUM -THE END-

Hey. This finishes Fornax Iugulum. It's quite long compared to my normal writing, so I'm going to outsource it to my other site.

This next friday, I'm turning 17. What the fuck? I should be dead by now, and to be entirely honest, I'm rather disappointed.

I decided that posting the whole story would stretch the page too much to put here. For the full post, and the six page long continuation of last weeks story, click here: [link]

And direct your comments regarding to story to that page, please.

As for the new pieces?

These are pictures of a petrified human fetus, from Thailand. I bought it for a friend/bandmate, steve: [link]

Finally, a real corpse for him to play with.

planto bellum non diligo,

MWNL.

W.

MANUFACTURA ORGANICA

ONE NATIONAL SHOUT: "GET OUT."

Move.

A love affair with unrest, a dreadful throbbing migraine dethrones this earthly vessel. Impeachment and the seizure of power, my inner diplomacy undulates, throwing the control of my anger between totalitarianism, fascism and anarchic genocide. A lineage of rebels make an orchard of nooses, and in ten years time, the soft soil that marks mass graves will become sprawling victory gardens. All war heroes are simply fodder for a much larger, more frightening machine, a cantankerous titan that has hid in direct view for all of our civilized history. An elephantine bastard, a mutant of flesh and steel, where veins would pump blood, there are cacophonous chains rapping relentlessly on the plate metal skin of the beast. An arsenal of amorphous teeth, spinning wildly in their sockets, shred the fabric of peace and solitude. Tremendous columns of flame erupt from snorting nostrils, elections sucked up in a whirlwind lies and malevolent intentions, platforms dissolve in a self-corrupting economy. Erasing human error with the same fervor as removing the head to dispose of a blemish, only the dead have seen the totality of war. Romance with dislocation, refugees contracted to take residence in the cyclic tread-scars of this one national shout.

So goes the hell, so goes the pits of wrath, so goes the rest of it. I’ve made an absolute decree to myself and to the rest of this deaf world. I hate beauty in all it’s forms, I hate peace and I hate justice. I hate fairness and equality, and I hate smiles and I hate all things that I have been unable to attain all my life. Sixteen years too many, and in this vile attempt to create world that I can tolerate, I’ve put the chopping block six apparent inches, or at least, six when erect, too high. By denouncing life, I hath created. I despise all these earthly creations, and in my grave, I wish to take nothing with me but the tangible remnants of guilt that will, by then, have coagulated and become the very clots that have lead to my death. I collect these rotten fruits, and relentlessly I attempt to plant free lines of life. My open graves collect moths of regret and unhappiness. Where once, I have felt lied to and betrayed, I now hone my ax on the bony spine of conviction. The sparks that fall from this action collect and ignite a raging inferno that marks my territory with absolute, undying permanence.

Kick. A spineless coil of human synaptic thought, a noospheric tendril deeply rooted into the consciousness of mankind. A whip cuts through the source of sound, a crack repeats the process, entropy perfects paradox. Hysterically cackling vermin barge smashes through this frozen ocean of impulse. Wisps of gray snow like silt, like curled up black hair after being singed by butane flame. The scent permeates, the whirlwind of ash rushes and grips my teeth. A Boolean renaissance of this clamorous uncertainty, the simple aspect of not knowing. In this unending void, combative aldebaran. Virgil coin, hypnotic entropic. Misguided and blind, a cynic damn lies, real eyes to score this card. Pathetic insignificant rebellion, your useless colorless shade of gray is just making me smile when it all comes full circle. You can’t kill history, you can’t fight the system. I am the thing, and leather leashes won’t get your any closer to your orchard.

I’m not alone in being absolutely sickened.

This is where I stake my claim. Cutting off the head is a good start. Physical confrontations, violence, the dance of the brutes, I implore your savage engagement so that all three layers of my brain can be filled with the ichors of superiority. I’m reinforcing an insidious wall of hate, with all that this life has failed to deliver. I have a reason to cut down every tree and watch this world suffocate, to drain the rivers and let them flow with vomit and blood, and watch this puke bake on the streets in the summer heat. I have a reason to chain down all the goodniks brand them with the companies they secretly answer to.

I lead an army of buzzards, and I encourage this type of paranoid behavior.

There are a collection of bones that circle my corpse, of all the ignorant who have attempted to stave my way. Regardless of your incipit rebellion, the miraculous glow that hails from your cuts will fade when the new darkness dawns. History never dies, the strong must never accommodate the pathetic, and those who are gouged by law are the ones who write it, but even in this, my blood pools with HIV in it’s crimson tenacity. The absolute broiling furnace of human ignorance is my magma-churning gut, the most terrible war machine is my every innocent thought, bounds of molten steel make up my muscles, and my bones are obsidian girders that resonate with a whole new spectrum of sounds.

It is simple, and yet, so many refuse to understand. All that you have invested in affection will be bled to death, and it will turn to dust, before your very eyes. So flex what you’ve got, and I know that it is temporary. I’m the beating heart of this wounded dog. Self love will lead to self destruction. In short, get out of my way, before I have to make my presence known in a very severe manner.

MWNL.

W.

So I’ve had some seizures, unrelated to your drugs or to your history, I’m perplexed by what brought these on. I’m being physically asphyxiated, my wants and needs welded together and reamed apart. Wrapped up in this spiral of nostalgia and regret, I shovel a little more self out of the grave. Sickened, poisoned, the noose tightens. Forever in this awful hole, I descend only further.

To travel without motion. To speak and remain silent. A sentiment flows, like a razor slicing the darkness of human ignorance, our ideals press through like weathered gouges into supple flesh. Accepting the absolute, universal human debt, the unrelenting guilt and punishment in exchange for true exponential knowledge. The light that impedes progress, snuffed. Selfless, non-ritualistic. One moment passes, and the bodies meet a quantum junction. No tails, no trails, no path, no going back now. Two inhospitable locales enmeshed with life, like a creeping mold spawning upon a barbed wire coil. A martial siphoning of celestial bodies into a vacuous gullet, the godless organ grinder of stars and teeth. The mammalian brain obsolete, the reptilian brain deleted without recall. Bodies lost into this static gap, consciousness remains as a tortured wisp of tendency. Without a moment in the state of process, beyond hesitation, simply stimulus with instant reactions.

Awake, under the moist tongue of sleep, asleep, strung upon the dancing electric wires of consciousness. Out of body, a tremendous force crushes the windpipe, my face blue and swollen, tonguing the giftless gasp for oxide sustenance. My muscles battered from the inside, internal wounds open and furiously contorting obtuse shapes. Inhabiting my bilious lungs, rapidly dying tissue. A seizure overtakes human form, and the skull strikes the pavement. Circuits fried, now I’m up and awake. Legs disobey, but who gives it? I crawl, just like I’m trained and neutered, I pull my limp, useless body for each rung on this listless ladder of non-existent qualm. A sudden plummeting into sickness, an ictus of malevolent benediction. The stomach leaps from the pit of me, pools itself with blood and vomit. I drag every damning failure behind me; every piece of this collective oblivion slicks my downward slide.

Waging war on the living, cheating on the dead.

MWNL.

W.

Jaws unhinge like a tremendous blast furnace. Eyes smoldered shut; the psychic new me. Glitter and bile pound these withering veins, singed to the root; a hairless, scabrous scalp. Ribs of iron constrict forever tightening lungs. Mechanical bellows murmur from my concrete esophagus, a coarse exterior hides vile insides. From this world, I dedapt, from this plain, I escape. The infernally wound noose warbles a new hymnal of dematerialization. A machinist of entropy, an engineer of dead flesh, considering what man has done with the confines of earth, the earth does unto man. Unplugging and devolving, a revolution in thought. Releasing the untested chemicals into the mouth mainstream. My hate is thin and fragile, my love; sacrificial. Efforts to maintain a simple neural heart missive, I’m inwrought and retiming orderly fake bravado. I rebel from rebellion, a pink anarchy hawk, like some easy fatigued faggot on the menstrual cycles perch. Spellbound and in plaster cast, I’m easy to forget, I’m not me, I’m not special, not talented or original, a constant threat to myself. Undeniable self-erasure, bloodletting, mutilation, inward hatred. Investments in me are fleeting and selfish, no stocks can climb without realizing their shelf life. A practiced young novice, a whispering old crow, the cracks on my face are like the bones in my spine. Neither are seen, neither disturbed, just a forgotten past piece of me, another missing identity.

A mirror transcends and mocks with leather faces, a bishop moves diagonal as the rook is straightforward. Full forced with a stab wound, a calm thunderstorm approaches. I’m pragmatic against dogmas, synthetic with regulated carbombs. I entrust new faith into old lies and I’m ready to commit to any temporary goal. With scorched fingers, I drive my spire into the carrion hide of this dark earth. A million teeth vibrating like crystals in an old pocketwatch, yellowed enamel clashes against the pallid white of my fungal tongue. Inhuman autonomy breaks. Dust plumes as belts whip from their cogs. On the streets that once held undulating riots and protests, oil drips relentlessly. A coil of lethargic fervor forever winding around the neck and wrists of the body of life. My inhumanity groans and yields another fleshy crop. Like a tree that grows strangulated fruit, or a man spitting lead into the muzzle of a gun, death slate by momentary madness. A blooddriven rampage for control, the gates of unreality blown open. Consciousness subsides.

A thorazine rush. A sedated victim.
My ferocious appetite satisfied.

The unhinged jaw relaxes. The furnace cools.
Orphans of my mental gap erased.

This hunger staved for a few tenuous moments. This terrible debt temporarily repaid.
Infernal, obsessive desires resurrected.

I am the omega of the alpha.

MWNL.

W

A mouthless shout. It echoes through the basin. After years of sleeplessness and starvation, another decade awaits me. Lethargic and uninterested, an obtuse, fumbling shape rocking down a featureless hallway. An as-of-yet unnamed disease has eaten away most of my brain, and with it went my legs, arms, eyes, ears, and nose. My mouth is left a rotten shankwound on a head with infinite peaks and ridges from infinite surgeries and blunt object connexion. A quintessential form of utmost failure and rejection. A cumbersome image of defeat and neurotic euphoria. Consider those who talk in depth with gravestones, or mothers of dead children who keep fleshy collections of their shed blood.

Bewinged and beheaded, the top of the ending tower. Into transversal theories…I need help with getting out. I take the high from the high priest. I stick my skinny prick in the theory and I pull out a wind of intestines and a bulbous fact. In this…tenacity, interwoven with barbs and chains, another dreadful tock of the massive cogs. Machines made by nature, architects of the imposing unreality of fate. Greenlife curls inward and reveals a knotted, broken back. Blood humbly smiles with a core of disbelief. A big smoky mouth, looks like a calliope, ten ton heart lolled to the ground, arrythmically writhing to a thumping brainbeat. Hands numbed and parents dead, faceless and submerged, I’m serpentine with my tongue up the thigh. I’m writing this to you from inside my own head. Nothing special…just a sinking ship, like watching a beetle scuttle across the spines of a stove top burner. Love is God’s way of leading you astray, like bait on a fishhook, but more like the hook is through you and without struggling, submission is key.

Evolution is relative. I’ve adopted the worst traits from my counterparts and now there is this odd cocktail of inhuman parts, connected with fleshy boughs. A new face of a headless thing, the probe for concatenation, the link that suffocates and constrains. Again, it’s not the drugs; it’s the absence of drugs. Culled from the asteroid belt, still spinning with savagely pulsing thoughts, like buckshot sailing through a congregation of jellyfish. Muscular freeform, aperture departure. The me becoming viral.

This swirling, emotionless vortex of relations, where dark matter is replaced with the hypothetical ability to care, and dark energy is replaced by the illusion of trust and safety. With this sentiment, I have been forced to develop a sort of net to keep myself from plunging too deep back into the hole that you left. In this chalky absence, I’ve found nothing more repulsive than the fleeting efforts of tenderness, the vague plastic impressions of human kindness. The glow of affection and the warming feeling of mutual love reflects in upon itself, constantly rearranging distrust and sadness into a soulless, inhuman contraption. A contraption vast and complex, with a sledgehammer tongue and molten magma eyes. The fibrous tissue of my body becomes the meat it feeds on. Evolution is present, and I will adapt to an increasingly inhumane environment. After these miserable decades, my bones have nails hastily rewritten into their splines. My blood and plasma is now partly mercury and sawdust. From this relentlessly tightening noose, from this forever-concentrating poison, evolution exists and creates this unique blend of listlessness and suffering. Controlled impulses, the urge to forget is beseeched by the permanent vomitstain of regret. Self digested. Self loathing. Self mutilation, and eventually, self destruction.

Eyes fixed on that one central being, that point of absolute focus, so steadfast that they fail to notice the object is nothing of the original vessel. Everything has changed, and because I was so intent on things staying the same, I no longer have a history that I can wistfully recall. There are no better times for me to look back upon, nothing to regress to. I have erased my history and foolishly, I expected to feel anything other than nothing. Without a surface, all matter is voided. So goes my being.

Electropsychic supertrophe. Drowned, the klaxon strikes the death knell. Sourceless clicking machine relentlessly interrupting itself as it drives a barge through mental ice floes. Ignorant inventions. The disenchanted few. Floating parts collide and connect, steel amorphously absorbed into the human frame. The grin of the blindfold conceals ocular vats, an epidemic through frozen color. Ungenetic, ungenius, a terrible magnetic mouth that swallows graphite thoughts. Beyond the most massive of scales, beyond the gaps and voids. Humanity lost. One end of the wormhole is fed into the other, and in a single concussive implosion, a universal tendon is assimilated. This bilious cord vibrates, radiating a mist of infectious ichors. From these poisons, a new universe is compacted and set into motion, and following that, this awful story begins again.

Twitch, jerk, shout.

Perpetually ending, I signal the klaxon mord.

MWNL.

W.

I’m progressive in awkward satisfaction. I don’t need to give her some big write-up because she exists. What is a single drop compared to an ocean, when a prose on caked up love could be laid against arm-to-arm encounters. I’m not going to devalue her by comparing her to you. I’m not going to call my friends to some sort of pointless raid for my emotional rapture. I’m not going to write toothy letters and hope for some sort of outcome. She’s not a weight, and she’s not a fulcrum. She’s balance. From all the subtraction and division, from all the come and form all the go. It’s balance.

Euphoria is not peace. It’s just a split second of time. And this particular sensation…the one that is so…sensationalized? This is thrill, and truly, it’s nothing more. History is permanent. No apologies, no changing of dates or of data. This feeling is common, it’s a calm commotion, it’s surfacing, circular and serpentine.

I enjoy being this thing that I am. I revel in the hate mail, I sincerely adore this unrest and I go out of my way to provoke this kind of malevolent emotion. I’m not a demon, I’m not a god. I’m just a man, and with that, I am an undeniable, tremendous burden on you and your friends. You, for personal reasons, and your friends because they have to deal with you, dealing with my innate qualities. I enjoy being able to take people apart, I cut relationships in half, like stomach acid blasting through the gap between two front teeth. I enjoy causing this kind of dislocation and confusion. Wedges & Sledges. I enjoy being a part of the problem. The fact that a vast majority of the hurt I stir is in the hands of the inept and confused simply magnifies my amusement. The fact that all I have to do to bring about crying is to simply remain living, it’s one of the brightest dark lights in my life. It’s not a gimmick, it’s not a shtick. It’s an involuntary aspect of living. I’m just a ray of fucking sunshine, and I beat down extra hard to make cancer the thriving, superchaotic problem that it is today.

In other words, I’m not scary, but I’m glad people are scared.

Every single place on this planet is capable of being a nesting ground. Down here, I get can pull the strings and see up the skirts, down here I can climb up on the backs of the dead. From day one, I have been enjoying my suffering, my ecstasy is in agony. From the very beginning, I have employed manipulative theories for my own amusement.

Leaving the subject, of miserable will.
Mouth filled with bees, begging.
And she had turned blue. So blue.
The starkness of our lives.

Final
Use
Could
Keep
You
Off
Using

W

            Horrifying realization in shambles. This pinpointed logistical corpse withheld by my single universal lie, the greatest smothering of all life. Thriving hopelessly in a swirling coma of unhappiness and epileptic shock. A hand twists the neck; the neck drops limp and the eyes roll shut. In translucence backward, history proves itself a charred cortex of guilty thought. Chained down to this form, my lies are fluid and amorphous, everything with a spine is one spine more than I. Into hell, I shed the truth with a single dystrophic glance. The headless, the witless, the slithering whip as it arcs through the air. I made this shit existence, my mendacity echoes pointlessly.

            My magnetic hell.

This emotionless, self-welded juncture. Relentless encore of withering existence. In my efforts to describe my history, to write my autobiography, I have driven myself mad with guilt and sadness. Truly homeless and zeroed out, listless and lethargic. One hand covers the mouth, the other gouges the eyes. A national shout.

            Transcendent progressive internal progress. Light beam shines down upon itself. Reversal of thought, the teeth, themselves; ate. Inversion and pervjunction into crookedness and the bait, on the end of the string, attached to the stick, attached to the back of the slave, leads the infernal progress of human thought astray. Contortion of the bleach injects uncontrollable fits of inhuman motion. Dehumanization, remechanization. In my path to kill myself, I have refined and strengthened my immune system to the point that I cannot die. In a split second, flesh reinvents itself with a scorching magma core. Neurons belch spiteful acid into the shivering, frayed nerves. Touch descends, and light is welded to the neck of absence, carved from the terrible grid of colors and coordinates.

            Carved into an incandescent surface, a wondrously straight line, horribly wounded by infinite lines cast through it's never-ending head. Too look upon an object is to forever mar subject. The human eye curves, and therefore, all of our vision is bent. So goes the law of the spirit and the interpretation of will. The process undergone to create a vision, the invert the images that we receive, irreducibly complex fibers translate pulses of visceral imagery into blooming fits of color.

            A light shines. It blinds those who see it, so that they may never see darkness, but they always have their final vision in light bound substance. Those who divert their attention will have infinite vision, for infinite plains of existence. Partially removed, the body disintegrates into streams of code. Hexes and conscriptions, the orchestra of mental relapses conducted by a feverish transdynamic fit. Organs react and retract; the gears in an awful machine are worn down to feeble, awkwardly fumbling cogs in elliptical orbit. Half of the smashing contraption creates rubble; the other half of the crushing contraption destroys form.

The terrible constriction of fate. My all parts not ever forgot. Secrets withheld, they scald. No one has touched my contagion. With no one have I been truly honest. Deserving of nothing, infinitely smothered, directionlessly downward. Beheaded.

O U R E X O S K E L E T O N S

These chains interlock. They bind. The constant resonance of the ‘I’ in trying. Trying to preserve the pure essence of life at its very end, without disrupting the flow of death, into life. Two monogamous chemicals become bound and they are inseparable once they meet. An inalienable circumstantial decision held without jury or peers, in every ounce of transorganic form throughout all of history, and forever into the future.

The deist will look at the universe and ask himself, whence cometh creator? A skeptic looks at this question with a negotiable learned eye, and asks openly, what creates the unperceivable? The persistence of regulatable matter in this known universe is the cause of improbable citation of deism and undeism.

In a burst of dimensional irony, or for those of you out there who still scan the skies for chemtrails and pixie dust, this could be interpreted as a vital cluster of Godly humor: The only thing consistent in this universe is the sheer absence of consistency. Every planet, and every cell is different, and, as edumurican as it sounds, each snowflake will forever be unique in comparison to it's most likely candidate for the office of doppelganger. Erasing the commonly cited Christian god from our slates, we could establish a base of reason and good in a earthly war zone that is already damned by the efforts of scientists with bones to pick up. In retrospective overview, genetic solidarity and diversity spawning from two absolute clones who herald no navels and have a curious family tree, it's simply confounding. Such transmutations of literature and the natures of human belief are always astounding, and at that, exceedingly entertaining. Man's tawdry efforts to redistribute wealth, housing, and faith have died in manners that kings and dukes of the schadenfreude domain smile upon. To think that any given document, as the inalterable and perfect word of god could be handed down through war, conquest and through generations of murky illiteracy and stupefying superstition is, in essence, a great idea for a dreadful film about dragons and wizards. This tale is passed in the halls of schools, in temples and in laughably deteriorated military chapels stationed six clicks from Sam's Hill and two from Goddamned Nowhere. I’ve often thought about this concept, this vague idea of a book so perfect in its words and its message that it is the one and only undeniable word of the creator of all matter that exists, the architect of time itself. One would think that sitting near the book would increase your blood pressure, or that the book might levitate, or maybe even have a scarcely detectable glow with the trace odors of blooming flowers. A man can dream, and dream men have. This is a lovingly horrid concept in and of itself: There is no single word of God, and there is no undebateable source of knowledge. If you find one, I’ll be glad to debate it, because as long as there is someone who believes in angels, I’ll be the advocate of the devil.

And, on a more realistic note: if Moses, upon the mountain, was given these commandments by god in a firm and directing manner, where he chiseled them into slabs of, presumably limestone, would a surpassingly old man not mistake one word for another? What if it was sheer chance that he wrote down ‘Kill’ instead of it’s rhyming component ‘Mill?’ As in “Thou Shalt Not Mill.” Who is to say that this Christian god is deathly against loitering, or maybe god has moral oppositions to the pulverization of grains? You can’t say for sure, and if you do, I’ll cover your mouth. Fuck you, no you can’t.

So, outside of opposable thumbs, fossil forms, DNA polymorphisms, tonsils, domesticated animals, genetic sequences, male nipples, or, in the most hopeful and, for best cases, the decided values, one can’t quite disprove creation stories. If you want a clearer and, arguably holier-than-thou tone of argument, just take any biologist or physicist to any movie that features larger-than-normal bugs or insects or vicious animals. Undoubtedly, they will launch into a slick tirade on how bugs of that size could never exist because their exoskeletons//regular skeletons would never withhold such tremendous weight. This position is factual and correct, and thusly, it disproves the idea that this earth is balanced upon an unthinkably massive turtle. Beyond the creation story in Genesis, and this turtle nonsense, one encounters rumbling Jacuzzi of fermented dribble, secreted history’s most deified pseudophilosophers. While science can’t disprove any god entirely, it can disrupt any field of belief with ripples of pertinent questions that permeate all parts of the religious quandary. What creates the creator is a common question, and there is no true answer. The device that deists use to necessitate the existence of a creator is the idea that all parts of matter that exist, have before, not existed, and therefore, something occurred that brought them into existence. That is to say that a chicken egg must come from a chicken at some point in time, without regard to Frankensteinian supersciences that are capable of producing particle-perfect chicken duplicates. Without regards to said supersciences, the deist argument is fundamentally right in it’s way, as nearly all matter has a source, but not all sources can be found. Surprisingly, the deist will resist any science that uses tools that enhance human sight to see into outer space and beyond, and they’ve been cited as “unreliable, as their data able to be falsely collected.” This implies, yes, that interplanetary matter, or, stars that we cannot see without telescopes might not exist for the simple fact that we cannot see them. “Who knows?” this deist tomfoolery follows “who knows that scientist are not in league with one another, domineered by Satan, to disrupt and malfluence the minds of man, by supplanting stars in our supposed galaxy that do not immediately correlate with this here bible?”

Sometimes, I stay my suicide because it’s so much fun to watch this debate rattle on. One would never fully understand the true dynamics of this argument until they have tried to take a candy from a handicapped or mentally retarded child, a child who does not actually have any candy at all. In the beginning, the debate is clear and defined. “Give me your candy” you demand, to their milky, untraceable eyes, while their lulled mouth denies the presence of the candy in their possession. You will see, as you insist on your unchanging demand for sweets, their argument will…ahem…evolve and adapt to fit their environment. Soon, they’ll be demanding the candy that you had taken from them in the past tense, and after that, they’ll want candy that you gave to them, by taking it from yourself, past-future tense, which is about the point that someone detects a howling wheel-chair goon in need of aide, that you can inform the wailing goblin that they’ve already eaten the candy, and they sure loved it’s delicious goodness. Feeling victorious and rather sedate, they’ll disregard your escape; you can duck into some bushes to avoid chastisement for playing with a retard.

Maybe I’ve lost some of you by now, but cheers for those of you who’ve weathered on. Back to my previous argument of all matter needing a previous tense in non-existence, thereby giving them a tense of true existence. Have you ever heard that phrase that you can’t love someone until you’ve hated them? It’s kinda like that. Or maybe I got that backwards, I don’t know, but in essence, it’s the same. You need to see both sides of the argument before you can make your final decision. Following that, let’s look at their side of the argument. In consideration of an apple, that had to grow from an apple tree, or some freak mutant fruit tree, and that tree had to come from the seed of a fallen apple, or a wayward Johnny by the same name. As it goes, on and on, each object has a predecessor that brought the current object into existence, and, even though the past can never predict a perfect future, that object that exists currently, will likely fall apart and become something else. Iron ore is melted to become iron, and that is made into an Apple computer, which lasts for a month before it’s obsolete and useless, and it’s cast wayside, it’s refined down it base matter, and it’s turned into a Microsoft computer, which computes way fucking better than Apple. At each phase in this cycle, the objects had a phase independent of the next or latter, at no point did were they identical. By a scale of atoms, everything is always changing and being bumped around, and nothing stays the same, even for a split second. So, follow this like a terrifyingly sprawling family lineage, one could presumably trace our faithful Microsoft computer all the way back to the big bang. Take that, Applefag. I’ll bet your computer trace you back to the big suck.

Anyways, following that backwards, you’d find yourself at the beginning of matter, where the questions run into the non-existent brick wall: Why is there something instead of nothing? Past this big bang of sorts, lies what exists before anything existed, and, as paradoxical as it may seem, it’s a fine and right concept to ponder as long as you’re not getting free rides in a tax exempt political powerhouse to do so. The deist will follow this line, and, if he’s admitted the absolute sole truth that evolution is real, proven, and consistent, and that there never was an ark, the earth’s age is in the hundreds of billions of years old, and the rainbows didn’t spontaneously exist for a way of god telling man that he promises to never kill us all with a massive flood ever again, and there are no multiple-armed gods or goddesses, cows are not sacred, and there is no superturtle, he’d understand that there is something more astral and mind-bending at the beginning of time, something that no ancient document could even begin to explain without branching into an unending string of superlatives. Past this great barrier lies one of two things: Absolutely nothing at all, or what would be had of god. Or maybe a bowling alley, you can never be sure. If, past this wall, there is nothing of anything at all, one can rest assured that the infinitely asked question has finally been answered. If, past this, there is god, even in the most stupor inducing ray of pure goodness and grace that any vessel of pure good would radiate, one would have to ask who birthed this god? Who brought this particular fish into existence, assuming that this god, was, in fact a fish. This fish would have to have some sort of god above him, and therefore, he is not truly god at all, but a lackey used for gods tedium work. In this line of logic, god is in fact, an intern for his god, and so on and so forth, which gives us this terribly infinite string of gods and higher gods that we follow until we hit the point where we get lost in space, it’s time to eat, or we just get tired of asking each god if he has a super that we could talk to for a minute.

Considering this, we must look over to the first theoretical god that we encountered on our trip past the big bang. If this god, and I’ll say ‘He’ because I was raised in an agnostic household and educated in a catholic school, if this god was to say that he has no creator, he would cease to exist! God is necessitated on the fact that he needs to exist, to explain the fact that anything exists. So, if something exist without a predecessor, his role would be complete. By any roll of the transdimensional dice, one would assume that after creation of everything ever, he would recline and relax in a way that humans can’t even begin to understand. He’d probably void himself of existence, and recline from his terribly dull duties as a prayerhost for all of the universe’s whiniest believers. Maybe it’s the American side of me, always wanting to take the simplest and easiest way out, even if it’s going to ruin the entire project in itself. So, if there is god who is without mother, than what is it to think that we are actually on the aforementioned turtle, and god is that turtle, who totes us around the universe, like a man in an brand new hat walks around a marketplace, surrounded by people who do not care for this mans hat whatsoever. Or, following this, the universe was created by matter spontaneously coming into existence, without cause or reason, which, in truth follows the laws of random order perfectly down to the very most definite cause and purpose that they entail. Both ideas are perfectly equal in their rational, but one accepts proven scientific facts and the other openly denies them. Consider this like trying to solve a fake crime with phony tools. Nothing in your life is really as pertinent as it seems, but hey, if you’ve got a fake crime with phony tools, you might as well solve it while you’re here. It’d be a jerk thing to do for someone to just ignore the tools that we’ve got.

I don’t believe in god, in any form. Metaphysical, supernatural, natural, physical, monoplanar or diplanar. I just can’t bring myself to do it. Nor do I believe in any Christ Jesus, or any of his sayings or words. I deny all parts of every deistic faith, of every organized religion, and I am, and I strongly encourage all others to be extremely mistrustful of all people of power who are followers of faith, and in even broader terms, to distrust all organizations altogether. It’s been seen so far, that every politician is a liar, every religion is corrupt, and every believer is a scientifically irrational fool. Call me an extremist, but I’ve got to protect my blood and my head. I’m more than willing to hear their conversation, but I refuse to give them any slack on their positions against reason. If you’re a deist who firmly believes in evolution and astrophysics, great, you’re half way there. You just need to shed that monkey on your back, and then we can talk.

But, as for now, I think I’ll take my water and drink it. I’ll eat my bread, and I’ll eat my beef. I’ll look at the moon for what it is: A moon, which reflects the light from the sun. I’ll acknowledge that the entire New Testament is a primitive study of the stars motions through the night sky, and that the Old Testament was scribed to ward off superstitious pagans with an even more superstitious pagan plague. Everyone who’s been chased out of the mall with well over one hundred pounds of stolen merchandise knows this undeniable maxim: You’ve gotta lighten your load as much as you can, if you want to make it to Steve’s car with your sixty pairs of Diesel jeans. God is like the most rancid pair of jeans you’ve got, or even worse, god is that sexually questionable and even more terrifylingly unfashionable teal v-neck sweater vest that some dip stuck in with all the jeans. Fuck that thing, man. Life is short, it’s really goddamned short. If you spend your time praying and getting no where, good riddance. I’m going to be busy out here, with all of this amazing, evolving, fascinating life, living as much as I can until I either kill myself, or I’m shot while attempting to kill myself.

And on a final note, unlike religion, the non-believers are always ready to welcome you back in. If you leave, you’ve got a place in reason and logic. We won’t take you to hell for questioning us. We’ll reward you, we’ll praise you.

Call it culture shock.

MWNL.

W.

Before I dive into this update, I'm just going to detail a bit into this new shoot. I've been waiting to use her for a good long time, basically the day I met her, four years ago, I knew she'd be a model. Either for me, or someone else. She's accomplished both sides of that, and in the process, she's become one of the most hated people I know. Not surprisingly, she's unwavered by this attention. I've never met a person as shameless and stark as she is, and I mean that in the most perverse and positive way. None of my friends can stomach her, and that makes her even more enjoyable. I love people who can ruin another persons day, just by being in the same room. I've been that before, and I guess half my romance for discordance comes from her.

From my abstinence and my disconnection from this new shamerican partydrug couture, she's a shaved dramafuck that is, in essence, the exact polar opposite of myself, a non-smoking decelerator. Before I ruin her already black reputation of lies and dishonor, I think it's only right that I provide a disclaimer of sorts. She's ill-sober and no longer toking, but she's maintained a drift of enjoyable dismonotony that enables her to practice extravagance like it's a gross misrepresentation of zoloft. I got a chance to do a shoot with her, and what else would I do? I lunged at it like a broken ex-girlfriend lunges for a secret sack of painkillers. It didn't take any coaxing for her to let me strip her down, and splatter her in blood. What does that say about her? You can extrapolate your own way. I love her like a sister that I absolutely hate. She's a friend and the only companion of self-erasure. Her name is Chloe, and she's a fucking monster.

Her site is right here: [link]

So it starts here.

Into the veins. The terms of emotional abuse descend into the physical realm. Scars surface with their inseparable companion, the bruise. This is resistence. Blood boils and hair falls out in rancid, yet angrily perfumed knots. Wet with compassion. Hapless, young, vulnerable, and pessimistically optimistic, an entrepreneur of social disorder. Something breaks the jaw, and something mends the wound. Scum embezzled from some dumb bedsetter, like a fashion in macabre hearted chic. Bled between two legs, two necks. Her skin is like the bible, printed on the lipstick kissed back of an IOU with onion juice. Into the snow, into the depth of this promiscuous fog. I wake up to the disconcerting hum of halogen lights buzzing with neckless activity. I’ve spent the last two years picking up the bones from when the Mouth was burnt alive. Without bones, girders, bars, pins, or tendons, scruples or a reliable identity. The ripple shreds the insides. In out. Within. Erasher.

Airbags, parachutes and acid rain. Predilection towards narcoentropic selfcentrism. If you took your medication, you’d be able to handle your problems. If you took my medication, I wouldn’t have to deal with you breathing all of my air. A nervous gap between her here and my natal counterpart. I’m enhancing epilepsy in being a common disease carrier. With the crow, the rat and the body bag, it’s off to the shadows again. Ancient infections and decisions, without precision or revision, the fat, lazy finger is lifted so that vacuum may slip beneath it. The temperatures drop. Drop low like your head when you’re blazing the noun’s verb. The heartrate stops. Stop quick and with a little backthrust like when you’re blazing the noun’s verb. Me: inconvenient and held down. Pandemic suicidal romantic absence. Just barely awake, just half alive. I’m urbanized and whitewashed. Tugging these chains to give a little tickle to my collective leverage. Stick a finger in the eye of political capitol, and redact the new world’s order. The black collars turn brown, but with lipstick, it’s like an iced up blossom: Pretty for now, but it’ll reek in a week. The cross is subverted and skinstruck, by teen vagrants with messages in the double digits. Humanity and the contraptions of electricity are left by the wayside, leaving room for hypocrisy and leathery thighs. The deepest depths of personal hell are inwrought by one scared face, the image of space. The pure sentient image of decline and abandonment recklessly echoes through the deaf parts of me. Ingesting chaos like the theory is blue blood. I kick my skit across the mouth and shout. I’m in this relentlessly deepening gap. Suck this candle by the wet end, and hear the southward jags wake up to drag the northward swag. Through superpathic iradiowaves the plague has been reinvented for this Veterans Day parade.

I am in this shit existence.

Runners run. Slave masters’ whip. Priests pray. The collective inferiority of the commoner’s concatenation of affection, develops like a black tar Polaroid on the bottom of the tank, sucking down all the excrement and negligible thought like some superfluous supernova of inanity and besiegement. The camaraderie of the debtors. Bargained down from destroying your home and hearth, we walk our crooked-happy way through your city. Feet bleed and gouges gouge. Heart rates up. Temperatures up. Up like your noun’s verb, up like your head when you’ve done a good job. It’s not melanoma, it’s hyperthermia, and there are no more doctors because the hospitals got bombed. And there are no more blankets, because they’re ripe with smallpox. So you’re sick with the feeling, and I’m sure the rest of the world doesn’t care half as much as you do, but when everything stops and your world falls to shambles, it’ll just be as loving when we rearrange our fossils to make you the queen of the shitpile.

Just one consistently pointless statement. My love is in the basement. Guide your tonsils down the neck of the gun, and all you want is more teeth. Teeth to bite with, teeth to chew with, teeth that are carved out of their roots from blasts of hot acid from the gorge of your stomach. Showered in cold water, never smile or think of the consequences. You’ve let the symbols fall apart, and now there is just a little shred left to keep. Have it. It even smells like me.

Call it morbid curiosity, but a strong part of me wonders how far you’ll take this pretentious travesty, and how far it will extend past the borders of your comfort, just to reassure me how little your heart’s finality truly means. Part of me wants the whole thing to fall into nothing, in seconds flat, just like before. Then, part of me knows that the vile aspects of self-doubt and mutilation are already there, so, in no fewer words, the cake bakes itself. I trust the redundancy of nature to slowly, methodically crush the knuckles. I’ve seen the worst of it already, and I know that it will still persist, and the pains will grow, and you’ll find yourself homeless, betrayed and cold. Legs are like doors; if you open them too wide, you’ll find unwelcome visitors, and for the fact of it, fruit flies and June bugs. Now I stick my greased finger into the eyehole of history, just to test your welcome abilities. I bow, bend, and break my weak white shoulder blades. Giving backbones for the comatose, the testing values of a perverted future. Discoloration of the rebellious tendency, it wasn’t pondered as much as demanded, that you feed from the infinite basin of defeatism.

Call yourself a swinger, but I see a ring on your finger. Persistently in dilemma, a failure of the memory. Crashing and burning for everyone’s short attention. Skin splinters. Invest everything into a weak vein, pulsing temporary blood to an artic aorta. Only circuit in existence is pointed to ensure that the war never, ever stops. Since the game has no rules, it should only go as would be assumed that one liar should feel the sting of so many vulgar punishments. Only one truth, and even that has been misunderstood. Believe as much as you want, but you will never escape the animal farm. Deceleration. Inequality of efforts. Pollen derived from the husk of our breached connection. Walls downed, floors up. Easy for such prolove sentiments to be entangled and tied up in the deepest six possible, because your little statements of purity and fruition mean nothing when one eats the other. A swinging sick cell devours the piteous knowledge withheld.

My eyes weren’t even shut. What made you think I was asleep? You will reach, but your fingers will never touch the outermost edge. Beyond this, there is a simple white canvas of all the paints that have been so nobly escorted out. Like we’re muddying up the bomb threat to make it seem more non-existent, and in that, we’ve made it larger and more threatening. Here’s a short, but sharp drink to suicide, like it wasn’t already the most popular option. Ensheathed in elaborate falsehood, as if there was one single idea that would, in turn, throw you on your back, kicking and screaming like an overturned beetle. So slather on more concealer and hide the wound, absorb the running mascara with an unused tampon and cross your fingers that you will remain ignorant of the worlds’ prying eyes. Pray this letter conceited, but valued, as half the words spoken in this day are pure fabrications. Laying down knee after knee to different phallic gods, pretending to exist for a single second of self denial.

Before your death, I didn’t know what life was about. I was pointless, an ex-planet, a blank amputee with coffee stains for lips and knots of pig gristle for eyes. Shrug of tear gas. Just at the moment I began to believe in the soul, I felt it being sucked straight out of me. So I made this shit existence, but sometimes your persistence towards distance is what made this existence so consistently resistant. I digress, I deflower, I define. A vacuum of self awareness, a compellingly reliant sugargrinder that loves to rest it’s little head on my cold shoulder to test the limits of love and it’s atrophy.

Cut down. Sewn back together. Cut down, again. Sewn back together, again. The headless, the entrenched, the guilty. Knocked out. Knocked up. Strap on. Strip down. Come in. Come on. Shoot up. Shoot down. Shoot out. Shoot in. The camaraderie of debtors. An aging outfection. The new black is the new polio. Sexually trashed dance, the ethics of centrifuge. Pour your sores out through the skin. Genital contact, a congenial contract. In shuttles the meat. The united atomic disorder. Out counted, over drawn, inbound. The opera of the cultural demon, the brain desert of the heartless factory of pill. Only light. Slightly lethal. Drank. Hung. Shot. Plunged

I made lines. I erase lines.

I won’t waste another second on this catastrophe. I won’t spend another penny. You’re an expert at one thing: Pretending to glaze me with care. I’m not blind. I’m not deaf. I’m not dumb. Fuck you, and fuck yours.

MWNL.

W

Doubt for function, doubt for permanence. Had and I’m ad-libbing for the sake of our argument. I’ve given up on fighting the inevitable. I’m dumbed down and unjust and if I had any money left, I’d invite you to sue me. Every step I take is weighed down with a hidden cost. The cost of my love, my friendship, and, that impudent glimmer of soul and character that I had once nearly completely polished with dog shit. You can stay on cloud nine. I’m back here at square one. Someday, I hope we can meet again, but now, I guess it’s off to the salt mine with me. The greatest irony is the fact that I am the only one who notices the irony when I am GIVEN a pick-ax. I’m the one who makes the salt for your drinks and your dinner, I mine the salt that makes the ice melt away, I lug up the glorious veins of shimmering sodium to keep your fleshes fresh. I don’t get thanks, but I don’t really deserve them.

You just keep on eating and drinking. No guilt for you, and that’s just divine and right. No ice on your roads, but a spring in your step. A pan-utopia for everyone, but you especially. Do you like your new knees? Or that spine I gave you? I’ve got more where they came from, if you ever need a new one.

Probably not, though. You’ve got your own supply. Gotta cut out the middle man, I guess. And I know my place, I do.

I AM AN ERROR THAT NEEDS TO BE FIXED. I want to be in that Von Maur. I want to be in that jet plane. I want to be in your dreams at night. I want I want I want and I never get anything at all.

I’m just a lump of abhor. IF I HAD THE GUN YOU’D HAVE A GREAT SOB STORY.

I’ve refined this little trinket you gave me, this music box made from the salt of my earth. In cleaning it, I broke it, and now it no longer sings. It looks damn good, though. I guess that’s all it’s worth. Kinda ironic, again. Sometimes space is what is needed, and sometimes, when there is space, black holes form and devour everything, replacing it with sheer blackness and abandonment. Sometimes, space is good, though. I’m just wondering how long it will take before your little spatial entities will consume each other, though. That ought to be interesting. You win, but everyone else loses.

Honestly, I can’t believe I signed that contract. I can’t believe I trusted you, or anyone involved in this nonsense.

Forensic vomit. Not human, not alive, not worthy. We’re the lower half. I began this world half awake, and alone, AND ABSOLUTELY CHEATING TO WIN. And I will never be happy Regardless of spiritual or emotional cost, unworried by the unnoited vagueness of my animals as they are children. En. You. Dea. Ea. Ay. Dea. I left god behind and there is no truth, none whatsoever. I strike these keys randomly and without I am in chaos as it is so lethally described by my twin schizophrenic mother and fathers mother and father. There is no other truth; there is no oil in the dirt here. I am just a scribble on a napkin. Something gloats about her floating overhead, a great big lie living inside a blimps skeleton. SO YOU ARE DRINKING SO YOU ARE DRINKING NOW AND AGAIN? I am the I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND THAT THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL IS SIMPLY REFLECTED FROM WHAT YOU LEFT BEHIND.Love is the nature of this gamely grotesque promise. My veins push bells down staircases. I alarmist. I kisk natur’s Saturn. I’m for sale. Fear bought me this ticket for your little black dress. The wealthiest edge of the knife. Change me and you’ve bought yourself a money for your back. I HAVE BEEN USED UP AND HAD I AM THE RAPIDLY DECAYING PERFECTIONIST.

I am nothing, already.

The fingercrushable ribs that encage us like moths inside this tear steined limelite. I feel like I am a lowercase letter caught in the middle of a word. This outfilters your trenches, this creeps all up on your sleepers. The crouchwear is the dukes king queen joker jester peasant queen king duke king queen joker this is treason. I don’t have net to catch you in. I don’t have a shoe to drop. I don’t have a heart to hold you in. I don’t have a I to, don’t have anything that you ever wanted in me. Break me a half of your violin and I’ll just take the second half. Nil, like it, like me. The limitless punishment of the rich and famous. The unescapable doom of the loved and happy, the headlessness of the pretties whore on the chopping block. Let’s make a monster for all the things you have ruined. Let’s make a treasureable keepsake for everything that you think you’ve fixed. Let’s find you a dog to kick, a baby to choke with this impressionable cancer that you breathed down my BEST THROAT. MY SOPISTICATION IS MY SENTENCEMENT. THIS PRISON IS BUILT ON THE COURSE OF YOUR MENAGERIA DEATH. Vision is wireless and incapacitating. My smile is elastic but crooked and this dwarfing nature is justified by your incapability MOANING SO WET AND BROTHERED. I DROWN AND YOU SPIT INTO THE WATER.

I’d like to wear a heavy overcoat. I want to be unalive. I would never know pain if it wasn’t for you

And I will never be happy.

Will and compassion are important, but now they’re both gone. Every single word written will erase vital space and your brain will be remade as a everything I do is quick and meaningless. I am absolutely certain that you are perfectly happy without me, and you’re just going to forget me and when you’re reminded, you’ll pretend I never existed. Touch me and I will die for you kings are made when the queen dies from boredom. Absence of evidence is evidence of lucidity. Strangle me. This is the softest and most quiet gunshot. An ax with lipstick on the wet end it smokes a fat cigar. I jack my phone into your eyesocket and you will spend your entire life running, and getting absolutely nowhere. You will wipe your mascara off with my ear and you’ll shout your name so I cry now that I know you’re gone from me. You’re just another teardrop in a dense cloud of hateful, self mutilating memories. The kind that one inhales to overcompensate for a suicide. Two hands hot and cold waving me down. You used a pretty knife to cut me in the shape of a knife to cut that knife into someone else’s shape. This is a jagged edged clitoris, a cherrygrenade. The moment your happiness collapses will be the moment you tried to escape from it. Trial by promenade, this enclosure of legs and mind and heart will be glued shut by a fine fumigation of cobwebs. Your needs aren’t being met, you’re unhappy, and your knees are dirt. Your elbows look like they’re your little secrets. Have you ridden a pony? ARE YOUR THIGHS AS WHITE AS MINE? I sigh and glass shoots out of my throat. I hope there is no one after this. I’ve danced for two men already, and I don’t think that I can crow another line. Confusing hell built on a linear system of failure and open heart surgery.

1. Hold the rope in your left hand you and the end in your right hand.
2. Form a loop, crossing the end over the rope and forming an X. The end part of the rope should form did the part of the X running top-left to bottom-right.
3. Hold the this X with your left hand.
4. Wrap the end of the rope around behind the loop, above where you are holding the X. This forms a circle behind to the loop.
5. Poke the end of the rope down through the circle and pull the knot tight. The knot should stay in place while the loop remains me adjustable.

Pretty and narcotic and life threatening as it is, this is a religion against peace and my heart totes a gun that ejaculates piping white feminine venom on the child-demon that I have become. You are no longer alive. This is life outside of the iron lung. Physics and pan-mechanics are essential to the protosurvival of the worms that will worms that will infest your corpse. With this electricity dies. You are the chemist that had hands melted off by her his hissing own creations. I’d never focus my love on a burning man, but someone who’s just like you is perfect for me. I’m no longer awake. You are my dream and I just want to wake up with a pitchfork through my throat. My snake is a wire lied.

Love is absolutely temporary.
Love is absolutely temporary and it is never going to be enough.
Love is absolutely temporary and it is never going to be enough and I will never be happy.
And I will never be happy
And I will never be happy.
And I will never be happy.

Enough about that. There is salt to be mined. Rich threads of salt interweave beneath the very foundation of your heart and mind. The structures of your structure, the bones beneath your bones. You want more, and I’ll get you more. I’ll feed you, but you’ll never get fat. I’ll satiate your thirst, but you’ll never be completely quenched. So I’ll keep mining, until every last trace of salt has been excavated, until my back has been shredded raw from toting each wound of ore. Each drop of my sweat will be dried, and it’s salt will be collected too. The most worthless gem of them all, in the end. And when everything is done, and there is no more salt for me to mine, and I’m no longer needed, I’ll go. I’ll leave and watch the very core of your home implode, and the dust of your more fertile fermentations will be dragged down into my living tomb, into the mine.

I’m not a collector, not a mouth that needs feeding, I’m the supplier of this culture, and I’d be damned to hell without my sweeter half-- the consumer. That’s right; a posh existence makes this intolerable lagoon of a life possible. And this isn’t make-up, it’s real age.

All in all, I’m glad you’ve found your way. Enjoy it, but when you’re dead, I’ll know. Someone will retrace your footsteps, and I’ll meet them face to face when it all comes back to me. When you were a shell, I gave you a shotgun. I gave you an inch, and now you’ve switched over to metric.

YOU WILL NEVER BE FREE FROM THE DUES YOU MUST PAY.

THESE SHACKLES WEAR YOU WELL.

Erasing everything,

MWNL.

W.

I’m all pins and needles and I feel the dead weight slip out. I’m uncomfortable in this state and my stomach is digesting itself. I give up more than I can stand losing, but this is what it feels like to have nothing. In my head, I’ve rejected everything. I would kill myself just to erase my past. I have surrendered to you. You win. Now I just wish that I could forget everything. I can’t beat the memories out. I tried submerging myself in snow, I tried drinking bleach and I tried overdosing, but it seems that my blood is too well prepared for my destructive advances.

Skin. Eyes. That velvet voice. Just writing that makes my heart race.

It’s all I ever dream about. Being had, being erased and forgotten. My wildest nightmares come true in the fruition of my empty hands. I’ve not been replaced, I’ve been removed and a newer, better module has been installed. One to fix my wrongs, one to rebuild what I had destroyed.

In this irreverence. In this acid bath. I just wish I could reach and touch that frail little dream, that insignificant kiss, that stupid ministry, and crush it. I feel more violent and outspoken now than ever before. I’ve begun to mutilate in newer and more virulent ways. The pig blood I was doused with, that I consumed, was not cleaned. It was pure and infectious. I ingest more poisons as the days go by, and I’m always disappointed with the persistence of my pulse. I’m a man whose hand is caught in a horribly grinding machine. While one hand is being pulverized and erased, the other is frantically pawing the control panel, hoping to find a termination switch. The process is too far gone already. The unbloom has set in, the rot has begun its terrible stitching.

Stupid. Ungrateful. I was wrong, I was lying in my previous words, yet I tell the truth. Confusing, I’ll admit, but it’s resolute in an undeniable manner. I hate myself more than I hate you for being happy. The frustration compounds. I’ve begged and pleaded every bitter night for over a year now. A dark and unimaginably miserable year has been fruitlessly passed, because of one single mistake I’ve made. In true paradoxical form, I have tried to move on, sew seeds to an unwanting, infertile soil.

Once, we were equal. Now, we’re not. I grovel to an empty chest of rings and cut-outs. I convulse and weep uncontrollably at a simple thought. I’m below the earth, I’m in this mendacity.

I was hardly a man before, and half of that is what I present today. This is the Defoliation process. The process by which a tree loses it’s leaves. A flower wilts. Plants rendered bare and exposed. This winter has been brutal and unforgiving, as the best would expect, but I can only see blacker tides in this coming spring. So odd the haps of love and life, where snow birds sing, some snakes hibernate forever.

I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t like people who do. I don’t believe in spirits either, or in anything I can’t see or interact with directly. Even with this, I somehow know that my time is up, or that it’s rapidly winding down to it’s quick conclusion. I don’t believe in authoritative powers, but one should never disobey the third person omniscient voice. That uncontrollable drive. It’s behind every single act of self destruction that I’ve undergone. The single unstoppable architect of my failure. Unchartable, infinitely compounding and humiliating, mocking all my efforts in it’s carnal tour of my id.

I realize I write about myself and the I and Me extensively, but understandably, it’s a very open and diverse concept that tortures me with every turn of it’s many faces. I write simply to voice my misgivings and miscomprehension, my faults and failures. If you’re here for it, so be it.

Untrustworthy. Backstabbing. I was so close to finding my peace. My real volition, my true self. It’s all gone now. I kicked myself into this torturous redundancy, every moment repeating a previously gutted paradigm.

I made this shit existence. My teeth are worn down past the enamel. I coughed it up.

I’m the tree without leaves. I’m the garden without flowers. I’m in the air you breathe.

MWNL.

W

Foreground updated with shots from Bitter Extremist. Work on Transelastic done. Blood spilled.

Before I jump into this update, I feel it’s time to announce another formal project that I’ve been working on. My close friend Steve and I decided to assemble our friends and start a band. So far, I’m on vocals, mixing, and synth, Steve and Matt are on lead guitars, Ray is our drummer [who is blind, by the way.], Dakota is our bassist, and Bob will be our Tuba player. We’re going to make the tuba deadly. Trust in me.

We’re called Transelastic. An elastic substance, traveling, will keep its bond with its original point, while it touches down on another. This relates back to the interconnectedness of all things, and in many ways, forth dimensional physics.

I’ve been working on lyrics for the first songs. The first assembly of lyrics is tentatively titled Lug.

Enough of that bullshit. We’ve hit the Entrenchment.

Pale and naked, gesturing a new birth to a dreary old world. My birthmarks cover my pupils and I know now how blinded I am. A prisoner sees the lock on his cell door as the focus of his confinement, while he ignores the fact that it is his own skin in which he dwells that truly confines him. I’m porous and addicted to sentiment; I will unjust occurrences and bad nuisances to happen for the fact that I’ve found myself relying on anger and frustration to get me through. There is a part of me that wants to be cheated, that wants to be mislead and lied to. I want the ability to, in one impossible way or another, go back in time and live in that half second of safety that I had so long ago. I don’t want to leave those that surround me, but I want to change them back to what they were before I found this network of deception that entangles me. I’ve found myself unwilling to cooperate with the undeniable presence of ill-will, and the nature of this volatile cancer that consumes my every waking footstep. I have reached the end of this known universe, at the transdimensional bridge that binds this form of being to another realm of comprehension. I’m no more wise or strong, no more pretty or clever than a common dormouse. I understand that, if I were to get my old friends and loved ones back to what they were before the shift, they’d no longer know me, they’d insist that I had changed and ruined what was once so jovial and kind. In a way, that could have already happened. They may have found their own ways of changing, after I became the monster that I know myself as today, and they’ve found me to be just the same in the future and past tense. My entire existence predicates on the redundancy of my nature, my unwillingness to learn and adapt, my selfishness and arrogance that invades every possible nuance of the self.

One half cradle, one half coffin. That’s the hole. I’ve never really been able to define it in a perfect tense, but in a way, that’s as close as I can get. One half cradle, the sustaining, but unpredictable and spiteful wing. The other, the coffin, the grave. It’s just as nurturing as one would assume, but in this context, it’s a little more subversive. The only promise I have yet to see die in mid air is resting in concrete fervor, in that wicked black cavity of being. The promise that guides death through it’s every resolve, the unrelenting mendacity that is the basis and consistence of all human nature. Everything that has ever lived, has died, and everything that is living now, will die. Like confusion, disappointment and disease, death is consistent and everlasting. The Hole is the embodiment of this oath, and in the end, the cradle and coffin metaphor doesn’t even stand up to full scrutiny. The only way to define the hole is to look at myself, and to see what I have become from its influence. Its metaphysics are radioactive and potent, its face is bland and without notable points, it can only be withheld into what literally holds it. The Hole is held within another Hole, and consequently, that pattern continues forever. Within the first hole, is the second Hole, and with that, I am. I’ve found myself, in a sense that I’ve found what I used to be, and now understand what I no longer am in relation to what I see today. I’m the third part, the final egocentric component, I am the Hole. I’m not Winslow, nor am I War, nor am I MWNL. I’m nothing of these dainty shreds of pretentious habit.

I’m the gap. The unknown space between two gluons. The smallest electromagnetic leap, joining a pair of diodes.

I stretch my bones and break my muscles. Every moment I awake into sleep, following a hardened line that guides down the mobius. The yawning half of boredom and impotence, the incomprehensible haunt that permeates every earthly interaction, the echoes of thought. I’ve got this knife in my back that I can’t seem to shake off. Can get this image out of my head. Kept from sleep and from function, I can feel every little stimulus change into something unworthy and empty. A shift towards the unhappy side of this equation.

You managed to bring out the very worst in me. It’s incredible, the thing you’ve made me into. I honestly don’t know why I keep you around.

I had my heart entrenched in you
I know this isn’t healthy or wise.
Watch you lie and sneak away.
Your vested interests are your disguise.

A butterfly flaps its wings.
And the pocketwatch is returned.
Keep your drip, shed the real.
This union pathetic; now adjourned.

In cold leather, we’re trudging through this brisk marshland, heading towards the entrenchment. Transelastic, contorted, malformed. Scattered.

Assimilate or die.

MWNL.

W.

Not now. But sometime. Remember my words? It looks like I'll be the one who lives up to them, as you seem to have forgotten me.

It's unfortunate for me, but it means nothing to everyone else, but I have finally realized the end of my jurisdiction. I've hit that limit, that maximum capacity to overload my weakened frame. I'm a joke, a rusted rebel, a shadow of my former self. I've only ever felt at home in a single spot, and that spot got eaten up. Now I’m freeform, translucent and bitter. I look to the beginning of my life, my love, my romance, and I see such a dreadful sight: a starting parenthesis. I look towards my future, and I see the ending parenthesis. I'm just a fleeting thought, a brief, momentary image.

I'm temporary, nothing notable, nothing worth while.

Nothing to bother over, nothing to lose.

I feel something, something brief and only slightly notable. I feel like a warped illusion of Schrödinger and Freud in some sort of dynamic transient blend of brains. My friends are so much more than I am, and I get jealous, but sometimes, I'm maddened by the simplicity of the events and their environments that they are found in.

"This is a sad picture. How do you feel when you look at this picture?"
"Oh! I feel so sad. I do."

"This is a happy picture, see! How do you feel now?"
"Oh! I feel happy now!"

"This picture has nothing on it. How do you feel now?"
"I..."

And then constancy is found. That's what this is about. I can display direct ideas, and I find the exact reactions predicted. It's been taken as an inherently bad idea for me to harm myself, and I understand the concern, but it is treated like it's purely text on screen, and not an actual concept that deserves, not pity, but speculation. I'm not engaged in the selfish gag of razors and narcotics, but I do push my body to physical extremes and I engage in excruciating and painful endeavors. When I'm gone, you'll do exactly what I'll be doing. Nothing. Nothing will be different, nothing will change. I am unwavering in my resolution. I've become the very utmost point of relaxed thought.

I'm just a faded memory, a phase. You'll forget me, and it’ll be easier from then on out. I promise.

Yeah, so you can lie down, but I don't think anything will happen. You won't fall back in love, you won't fall asleep. But you can lie there, if you want. I can't control myself. I hate you. I hate you, I hate you. I hate you because you CAN sleep at night. I hate you because you're happy, because you're better than me, and because you've found a way out.

I hate you because you've found someone who's better than me. I hate me because I'm not good enough for you. I hate you because you're prettier and you're not weak enough to need me around. I'm busy dealing my zeros into contortion.

I'm stupid, and hate is the only quick response that I've got. If I spent it any other way, I'd probably have a great deal of cuts to show for myself. Hate is easy for an angst guzzling teen like myself. It's simple and it feels good. I wish I was smarter so I could handle other feelings, but I'm not.

And to clarify, for the purposes of some of these shots, I was exposed to the numbing cold in nothing but a pair of thin brown slacks and a wifebeater, soaked in pig’s blood. That’s the same mixture that is on the face mask. Recovering from the chill was one of the most painful moments in my entire life.

I think this year, I'll try to kick the habit. Failing that, I'll aim for the bucket.

Drenched and shivering,

MWNL.

W.

Your insecurities breathe. You can't build your castle in the cracks of another. Step down, stapletongue, and lug your dumbed up title from here to hell. grease and nails woven into the flesh. Might pours furious and degenerate radiation into the fold.

The clasp makes a swastika, because I'm the cotton on your back.

I'm rubbing the rough edges of my second tongue against the cross of your hips, with a bookmark on my favorite page. Skin weeps and the white base devolves into nothing but a glimmering sentiment of our rapturous glow. Take everything off and get in bed. I'm a Nazi, a white power skinhead with a fleshy bone to pick, but in reality, I'm not. I'm just a pandemic of self. I'm a gun with a trigger, and only now can I feel my safety click off. With the us that we've made, I feel spectral and deceiving. But in a good way. I'm the light of the candle, the warmth of the blood, the nervous clasp of integrity ruined by an instantaneous grasp at chance.

But it's fine. It's better than fine, actually. It's like we've become something more galactic and freeform than anything before. True entropy. Selflessness, egolessness. Now I can contort into this odd little ball and feel truly universal and shapeless. Now I'm placed and understood, kept warm and inches away from total strangulation. Only at the edge of the mouth, only at the brim of the mind. The circus reels and the mind collapses inward. I'm placed now. I'm satisfied. I'm drunk, but stone’s-salt sober. I'm awake and being sourcelessly and voicelessly electrocuted.

But it's fine.

Sometimes you have to burn some bridges to find the middle way.

Let’s ride.

MWNL.

W.

My apologies. My internet has been behaving erratically, and I've barely had a chance to check my messages. Here's an update to keep you coasting.

Knotted burgeon suffering encephalopathy. Filth remade into cackling new form. Existences had and feathered away, the particles reversed by forgetful young things. Shedding grace and foreskin for the sake of self erasure. End upon end, in odious neurotic ambulance. Isolated, oxygenized fear had. Keeping with the tides of war, the company of smokestacks and knuckles. Decalciated, the bones bend. Uncertainty modernized by criminal guilt, the church and the state seamless blend into one embodiment of wrath. Enabling nuclear capabilities and shaking down the poor for another dirty dime, we’re cutting the tails off our cats and hoping they’ll walk upright. All so useless and eaten up, the fermentation of Man and his crippled sidearm. Muscular dystrophy entropic hysteria, one finger on the trigger, another finger slides to the uvula’s dangle. All of the worlds simplest creatures caught up in a gaseous vortex, beyond conflict and war, beyond the most fundamental flaws of man, festers the simple redundancy of life. The sole beauty in the circular method is desensitized and made useless. The foolishness of aggression is negligible, the warlords, the reverends and the prophets can all be pushed aside for the most basic forms of life. Cellular violence. Anger misguided and had embittered by spiteful strains of ignorance. Science believes in its own atomic god.

Untouching and inbound, caught up and let down. File smut plague embedded and weak, had unalive and upside down, chiseling bytes for the terablock to form datacrippling nanoformitives. The only form of solitude is the sense of non-solution results. No more me, no more her, no more of anything. just make the programs work and run properly and peace is had. But to hell with peace, the purpose of machinery is to spread discontent and torture. Hotwire grounded and downloaded into orthogonal space. No shapes for the shameless, no love for the deprogrammed. Rewriting. Kiddie porn for script kiddies, nailing the softest hands to the hardest law. No one is a harder heave than the rule makers. Pessimal minimal thick pedophile. The tongue infinitely laps up the fluids.

COME.

Lightning strikes, heat ripples. My skin sheds off in thick, moist curls. Hung upside down in hell, with all the other liars and fools. Super diluted, deluded, dilated. Wide awake, half dead, caught up in an entanglement of barbed wires, eyes reddened from tear gas, muscles hopeless gyrating. Vivid sexual degenerations of the self. I imagine my beloved entrenched with another man, constantly and endlessly, I create this mental abuse warfare of paranoia and deceit. I tremble and shake when I look into those hollow eyes. I see the lies and the sex pouring out of every crack in the skin, I see every account of irreverence and cruelty shot before me. My eyes stuck to the mirrors fast reflection. I spilt black thinking ink on the greasy canvas of my pubescent skin. I’ve donated my heart to a thoughtless, loveless charity, and with it went my mind. Pitiful little shrewd gesture of self, it was, but one not really worth fighting for in the beginning.

Bloodletting rewritten.
Neutron Ash inhaled.
Cells spread.

MWNL.

W.

SELF: THE TRANSPARENTHETICAL

The inner unsane body, the transpathetic humanoid superfailure incarcerated within a glass cage. Spit and suck for all to see. Losing ground constantly, burning away the biorhythmic. Fear and bloodlust twirling together into a barrage of unknowable suffering. I’m parenthetical. Legs and arms uncrossed. Bent, broken. Think, destroy. Hurt little things, tear down walls. Little girls, like little leaves, the pure androgynous sentiments of rapture, the secretions of uncomfort and unhappiness. I bathe in this. I revel in this. I break my heart with my massive, swollen knuckles and I wash my machine gun with the humors of the self. Inpoxed, the tremors of the awakening holocaust. Centrifugal force bloodlet, heartstoppingly smashed inbound, chained down, X-rayed and unbelievably toxic. Here’s a drink to the solids, here’s a breath of the liquids.

I’m in this mendacity; I’m a swimmer in the short circuit. I run laps around the graveyard because my heroes are all dead. My heart throbs, chugging tar through my mechanical supersonic pipeline. Something other than human, I’m ungoing, outrospective and ensickened by the frailties of human nature. Now I’ve become brain damaged and stupid, pulling the shortest straw from a stack of needles. Sew my futility, now gusts of arrogance suck the riverbed dry to quench my crackling skin. I’m the someone who you’d never expect, but I’m profiled like the shooter with style. Nothing happening, crass and girly, I’m cast out by the incasted outgroup and now I’m just another immaterial thing tossed around like an empty suit. I throw my hat into the ring, and I throw my towel. Shut up by lovey-dovey corporate law, hunted down by frenetic sociopathic psychics looking to pump their theories into my dust bowl of a skull. Immensely powerful, viciously fed and still I’m preaching from this bone pit like I’m underloved and not appreciated. I’ve got wedding wings on an electric phallus that I aim at the temple of any one person who declares me unlovable. I’m here to be feared, but at the same time, I find a way into this new world oblivion of superpsychotic order to declare myself the most having and the most needing. I kick start the jabberwocky and flex muscles that don’t exist. Love is lost, but love doesn’t know it quite yet. Here for the disease ridden faceless empirical megalomaniacs, I’d slit my throat and juggle my four stomachs. I sleep wet and perturbed on a bed of nails.

Phantasms spread impudence. Surrealist anti-biological sex grenades employed by loves’ crippling vixens with force and style. Glits and glamour, clits and clamor. For the asphalt chuggers’ teeth, for the scumsuckers tongue: I’m the pastor’s masturbation, a blood sacrifice and underage hypertrophic bone licking. I embed the perfuse, the neovascular ultranabolic extremist length training. Introsexual misbehavior and unbelieving, subnormal stroboscopic seizure inducing meiotic cum shooting. Collapsing, epileptic shiver shock, furiously twitching and weeping. Into the clouded uncapture. Porn star, the pseudoreligious nanoparadigm. I am part of the sky, my headache gyrates wildly to the beat of the ultrasound. THE HEAD. To the new world of Judas, I descend on the whipped back of the pistolchrist. Belching obscurancies, the shuddering, thundering billows of malgangrenous unvolutionary gas. Puke cytoplasm requiem. Switch choke, guzzle and spew forth hot hateful magma. Kept slumbering and out of synthesis, disillusioned and unexcited. The little charred parts floating in a dense fog of uncertainty.

I’m the lickable dirigible.

I’m so disconnected, so vulgar and disambiguated. Unsure of my destiny and unsure of my religious connotations. My sexual motives are clouded and unclear. My love is trite and draining, I’ve become ready and willing to accept whatever comes my way and I’ve found myself absent. Self-abandonment, the rewriting of the I. Unaligned, no solar, no lunar, no emotive and no cerebral. I practiced blood sacrifice, flesh sacrifice, soul sacrifice and self-elimination. I have been open and shut, alive and dead, awake and asleep, in and out, dumb and intelligent, and I’ve found myself outcasted by the outcasts themselves. Subversal transitive. The common law is within the holding of the self, in other words, to be able to interact with something with certain intent, you must first acknowledge the existence of the object in question. It is this same law that binds me to life, where I do not feel a connection between my actions and my well-being, my attempts and self erasure have been in vain, as I have not truly realized the state of my waking being. I’ve been good and kind, crass and malevolent, I’ve visited every contemporary and newfound state of mind that can be recognized.

I, on the very edge of the vacuum, and here I become the obscene. Facing the continuum of space and self, I descend into a place uncharted. Unhappy but not sad, dead, but not unloving. Without all transitive parts, without all connections. I believe in nothing and I touch nothing. Freefloating, outside of friction, independent of gravity and form. True gaseous nature, true stagnancy. No way out, and somehow, no way in.

To first believe in simultaneous existence, one must believe in common existence.

Afraid and loathing the outcome of being awake and listening, pan-dynamic and overloading. POUND THESE VEINS. One great big hand sweeping the throatless congregation from view. The subterranean tests of macroradiation remind us all that infections rise, and the cancer rates skyrocket. Every waking second is spent in a tremendous blast furnace, in chemical, biological, and retroactive scorching. The skin melts and peels off in sheets, the eyes dilate and fuse. Beauty is in exaggerated numbers. My mind’s eye is in the stomach’s mouth. Behold the beheaded; the common bullets rain down upon my frail paper face. I stir the dead from their graves with a common human gesture of trust. With the voluptuously ascending plume of nuclear disgust, the artificial life is unplugged and the gurney rocks as humanity rides it’s last ride on the erect cadaver of the universe. Upon a table, rest’s it bleating, twitching head. Feet restrained. The mouth. The head. The hands. The unmappable thrash of labyrinthine tubes and cords of flesh. Id acting gunshot, throttled, blackened and prolific. Entering the vulgarsphere, the harrowing gaze extends for miles uncharted.

The cherry tree blooms. I pick the blossoms. The smell is so sweet. The setting so tranquil. The cracks of my leathery hands brush against the youthful stern of the tree. The sun set’s gently on the cloudless horizon.

And if the medication doesn’t work, I’ll invert and kill that cancer myself. Blood, tears, jeans and a wifebeater. I’m something else, now. Something sociopathic and unsafe. I don’t need or want anything. I run myself to death, for fear of being alive.

Laugh. I snip and I shout. Laugh again. I drag the hammer to the very furthest extent. Into my vein, it begins. Down, the hammer plunges. Eyes shut. Mind collapses. Self lost. Form had.

It’s snowing outside, and only now to i realize how much i miss you. i've been in touch with the extent of my longingness for a great span of time, but now it has become uncomfortably anxious and, in a way, moved me to the realm of the lethargic inattentive. but it's not about me now, it's about you. you were the first, and by god, i'll be here until the end. We were the first to find obstacles, and the first to overcome them. The first at arms, the first at peace. A promise made so long ago, that i'd take you out into the snow, and we could spend this time together. Now, I still want to, but I don't know where you are. Are you in a hospital, or in a home?

I; Egouge. Self: THE TRANSPARENTHETICAL.

MWNL

ASSIMILATE OR DIE.

W.

Some Spanish churches are built to outline the body of Christ. The tabernacle is at the front, the head of Christ, and the right side, the right hand of Christ, the hand of creation, is where the earlier incantations occur, such as baptism, confirmation, and life blessings. The other side, the left hand of Christ, the hand of destruction, is the more funereal half, where the dead are kept before services, where prayer candles are lit for the most unwell of the parishioners. I wonder, sometimes, what I would resemble if a structure were to be built in my image. I stop upon the lighthouse. I believe I act as a sort of warning for others that are taking the same route as I have, to tell them where I have failed, where I have gone wrong, and what is it that I have brought about, leaving me, somehow, both imprisoned, and exposed to the roughest elements; I am without shelter.

HAD

I found Zen, wedged between a pair of concrete sarcophagi, bedecked in glittering pink enamel, like giant crooked teeth jutting up from the gangrenous gums of the basin. I found this Zen with a neatly woven rope in my hand, dangling it from an imaginary bar to create a picturesque portrait of self-erasure. Ah, the final exhalation of life, to finally be released from torture, it tantalizes me, like a starving man spies his brother, ripe for cannibalization. The ponds are thick with acidic phlegm, barren of life, and creating a heavy light paradox. One source belches fluid into the right half of the skull, sarcophagus the first, it collects and pukes itself about, spinning and gyrating, then exiting to the basin. In the basin, the substance is collected and unmoving, it isn't a river; widening, it isn't a lake; deepening. Across the way, on the opposite end of the Hole, finds the Cage, where more water flows forth, in direct opposition of the first. Imagine two mouths spitting spit into a similar point, and even though the point is the nexus of this aqueous activity, it remains dry. I remain confused and, in spite of the past note, utterly soaked in this grimy filth.

I'm had, held, and throttled to within an inch of gravitational tolerance. I've met the last point of sight, to look past one edge of the self-digesting universe and to see the reverse of my bare skull; within my universal stomach. With clubs of bone, bedecked with iced intestines as gilding about the subsacrosanct fierceness of mental violence, I am beaten into submission. I swim about, eyes gouged with hot tongues of flame, I am blinded. With me, always, the hypocrites who love themselves and are emotionally vacant to the point that they promote the unhealthy nature of saying one thing, and doing another. Who, amongst you, is the one pure cause of my suffering? Is it just one? How does that not ring of selfishness, and, in its own way entirely, disrespect the bond we share? I demand nothing but the simple act of mutuality, where I give thirty; I only expect three in return. Sometimes I am left with the bill.

I see you people every day. I look you square in the eyes and I can tell that you are not to be trusted. That smile so vain and cosmetically enhanced, the teeth in your one, massive mouth, are spaced so far apart that lies slip through them without touching bone. The mechanics of your machine is really beautiful, in reality. Anything that could move so fluidly, so undetected and strike with such ferocity and thoughtlessness, it’s almost to be envied, it is. It is such a travesty that the skills of deceit and cruelty are abused in this manner, to simply stir up general drama about me and my closer associates. I’m sure you know your place, but I’m not so certain that you know to stay seated for the duration of my oratory.

Unity promotes discontent. I slip into the motionless. Self begotten in friction, a wake spun of murmuring rest. Fluid and solemn, shot into hell without being told to brace myself. I blend in. For the heartless, the headless, and the weak and stupid, I am. A gut gutted, an illusion disproved and still accepted, for all dislocation and longing, I am. Amongst the ignorant and feeble, I blend in. Feel freedom in the same way that middle link on a length of chain does; freedom to avoid comprehension, freedom from responsibility or thought.

I know when I’ve been selected; I know when I’ve been found out. It’s a simple, albeit boring game, unsuccessfully spun up by a twist of arrogance and greed. All of what I have is nothing, it’s worth no money, no sentiment and it has no value. Being loved and loving, in the same line as hating, or any other feeling felt, it's all so easily canceled. Spent, had, used up and over. What can be done with what we already have? I am not suggesting that he who has the most money when he dies wins, in fact, it’s oft found to be the contrary. I simply acknowledge the limited longevity of what is had on an emotional level. Of all sorry, I’ll conceived shapes I have formed, and the few good things I absorbed, I can only be one true thing. Of all that I have, of all that I am, above all my names, all my work, all my effort, and the squared sum of all the relations that I have held in my time, I am but on still object. I’m simply a beacon of impermanence. A symbol of what is purely temporary, just a single moment of time. I’m a single fruit fly. I’m a cornered lamb; I’m a goat, gouged with a great pike, slowly sliding down to the floor, bleating out what is left of my punctured lungs.

So nothing is regulated. I can tell that the brief moment that my little resting place was restful is over, the quiet is shouting and all is swirling and chaotic, the pink wears away. Now we're back to square one, where everything is balanced on the head of a pin. Simple, chaotic, and the system made is dedicated to exposure and self destruction. You can lay bricks until the sky is blotted out, but dead promises don't ever seem to stack up.

I, in my physical form, will not last.

Everything that makes me what I am, is taken from the elements that ensure my temporal state.

Into the Reichstag,

MWNL.

W.

Nipple/bottle/pills/muzzle in my mouth.
kick you the fuck out.
i've done the fucking math.
fuck you fuck you being helpless.
i'm stupid for making this make sense.
you're an angel for making years into minutes.
so suck the triviality, so fuck being the first, and get ready for the fucking last.
My whole life is in freefall, in heartbreak, panic, and unhappiness.
You signed a contract in a dumb little note.

I'm not going to photograph you naked.
In fact, I don't really want you naked at all.
I'm not going to get you drunk or high.
I'm not going to try to get you to do something you don't want to.

You're trying to fix it?
give it all you've got.
And you ain't got a lot.
Unless you bet it all on something consistent.
Thanks to you, i'm unstable and unreliable.
But I guess you've gotta let things change.
Eat your fucking heart out, you already got to mine.
When I heard your voice, I was actually surprised at what you said.
You decided to not forget me, for an hour, but you ate your words.

I got my sketches of you. I've got my photos.
I've got my notes you gave me i hid them from myself.
And I put away all the trinkets and everything i've been given.
I cut your face out from the photograph.
and i light it up.
Don't suck, don't swallow, don't drag, don't bleed.
What the fuck did you gamble?
What the fuck did you lose?

If you loved, I'd know by now.
If you cared, you'd have shown your heart.
If you knew, you'd have cut the cord.
You are etherized, sedated and woundless.
Just a comatose plaything, ready for abuse.

You'll wake up soon enough.
Look around, act lonely, be bored.
And have anything be your anything, just like that.
And you know it won't last, you know it won't last.
Because you don't learn.

Wear my funeral wreath like it's your crown.
So proud that you drove me to this.
And you'll find yourself asleep on the bed of flowers, just six feet above me.
And you won't know a god damn thing.

Real.

MWNL.

W.

G i A a R m G i L n E i R

Shudder cutter I’m a blood letter gouging my eyes out so I can ignore the consequences. Pick me up and throw me down. I’m rag doll and stupid, I don't eat and I don't sleep, I’m unclean perverted unhappy and the subject of so many hilarious tales of sexual abuse and torture, Christians try to put stickers on my face. My eyes don't dilate, but everything on my body shrinks to fit my massive pupils. I puke blood and cry urine. I hate myself and I commit suicide with little frameless villains in my head. I’m all caught up. I make hell into a friendly thorny playground, I push myself off the edge, I break my skull on the concrete.

Disambiguated unanimated. Just a shaved ape, I’m useless but such a tool, a mime in a man suit. I'm only semi-attached, just half dead, but for every one part I'm seeing, I've got a clone in blindness. Just part awake. In twilight. One entire universe with a stark absence of motion. Every conceivable edge frozen in place. No gravity, no center, no concept of time. Within a massive zero, a single perpetually strained infinitely filtered stretch of life. Coiling and weaving through the celestial body, warped and distorted, not circular, not linear, not without interconnectivity.

No leaders. No love, no culture, no government, no justice, and no peace. I’m all for nothing, I’m the naught; I’m the unbalanced isotope furiously whirling and ready to split. A bloodless foolish killing machine, made ugly by eons of war and conflict, just holes where I used to have feelings. Everyone I have ever loved is dead from shrapnel. I'm eager to hurt, a sadist disguised as nothing other than death itself. I unhinge my jaw and eat an entire pig just to see a family starve. I'm the hand that unplugs the breathing apparatus; I’m the obsidian chip at the end of the scalpel, vibrating and ready for a fatal mistake. An uncontrollable vacuum of misguided angst and hate, sucking up and spitting out all human affection like a slug of steel caught in my mouth.

I exhale asbestos and breathe in all the clean air. I'm the scarecrow without a heart. I’m a mistake turned into a chaotic hurricane of tragedy and ill will, I am godless and I am without scruples. I spit sperm like a HIV fountain; I'm a black hole greedily warping up all of life's loveable things into my puke choked belly. When I snap my fingers, wars are waged. I'm what man picture when he first wrote of unkindness, misery, and suppression. You can't just vote me out, you can't shoot me down or ignore me, the schizophrenic, the brain-dead, and the delusional all recognize me. I can't be concealed or hidden, i can't be dematerialized, I can't be erased or forgotten, I’m present in all dimensions, i am the concept of simultaneous existence.

I punish the victim and empower the criminal. The very core of brutalization and inhumanity, I am what makes the crosses burn so bright, I am what makes the ropes that connect the feet of a faggot to the fender of the pick-up truck so durable. I am the underhanded, the witless and slow, the cancer cells eating away.