memetic mnemonic phenomena

Gladiolus

2011-07-17T04:39:00.003-04:00

There is a moment in time where the flower comes. Our flowers have bloomed; they are thirsty.

It has struggled through it's many phases. It has rooted. It has sprouted. It has grown tall. It has budded.

Then it is gone.

There are those on the deck that are concerned with names. Its name is gladiolus. In Latin it means sword flower.

But I was often puzzled by the names they drew forth. These names meant next to nothing. We might as well have been talking in first names.

"Phillip's work is the perfect example of expressionism."

"Matthew's is the founder of restrained drawing."

These examples of art by names makes me think of paint by numbers.

I think back to the morning.

A child dances with the uncontrolled gait of the morning. He rolls his foot slightly too much, then not enough. His eyes still encrusted with the remnants of dream, but still skipping about his day. A feat I'd be willing to relearn and pay dearly for its rite. A splash of the heckler hitting water, as a teenager hits a target near a tank filled. The boy skips and sings about nothing that makes sense to rigid old minds.

I watch a small girl's satisfaction of blinking awake into the sun, clutching her fathers khakis. The father's iced latte suddenly spills and splashes the pavement. Afterwards, the bees will sing his praises in his own ear, which he will dismiss with a shake of his fist. The girl will sit near the puddle and watch them dance about and wonder upon the structures and patterns of wings.

This is, of course, our brightest Saturday. The children dance and take us with us. There's so much to learn in every moment. A world not yet of Rothko and Barney. There are always miracles.

And flowers and bees.

Breath

2011-04-19T03:25:00.005-04:00

Cities breathe. We lie in the dark. We wait for the dawn, then toil on machines of oil and dust. At dusk, the new day is over. Dusty children play hopscotch in the soot and ash of yet another sunset. Our sun setting, the muted light filters gently through our selfish maze of exhaust and rebar. Stars vanish under the low, yellow hum of sodium. We lie still; waiting for ourselves to be made right by the progress of yet another gadget. The robots will save us, we proclaim. Yet, our rising sun will never break.

Upon a faint and distant dawn, the solemn bells of our forefathers, peel. It awakens some to another day washed in the incense of putrescence. Others lie in bed waiting for life to consume, them, us. We still light our ways with metal and ash. Their acids digest and seep and bother no one in our immediate future; until, skin melts. Our brown wastes stretching autumn leaves into summer. Out of sight out of mind. We can't know, refuse to think, what our ancestors would think of our machines of gloom.

One day our children will condemn us to our fate. Our scales always balanced in our sight. Yet, distance proves our eyes askew.

“But,” we say in unison, “we recycled.”

How fucking noble?

departure

2011-04-09T16:01:00.000-04:00

I'm trying to put the words right.
I don't know if I can.

You have set my world alight.
I want you to understand.

Turmoil lies beneath a surface, calm.
As if I were a summer sea.

On roads our tires become a psalm.
They sing of you to me.

Yet of the dark,
in my heart past,
there is another tale.

Inside it's marked,
shattered glass,
from my sullen trail.

Sometimes it's the road that takes,
our smile from our lips.

When time is ours it's me you slake.
I wonder where it slips.

waiting...

2011-04-07T21:30:00.007-04:00

A hand rests lightly on the bottom of the leather wrapped steering wheel. Reclined in a bucket seat, he sits waiting, sunglasses at night covering half-closed lids. The soft but persistent sound of rain, washes out the sounds of the city. He waits with the radio turned down, loud enough only to mark the passage of time. His cock, the only thing not torpid. It strains against the zipper of his jeans. Slowly and painfully his stiffening shaft bends sharply back upon it self. He reaches beneath his boxers and corrects his course.

Relaxed again, he half-dreams of the woman for whom he waits. His cock swells with every reminisce. Kissing the freckles on her back. The curve of her shoulder into neck. The smell of her pussy, moistening. The firm but gentle stroke of her hand on his tumescence. Her smile as they fall asleep.

A pair of bright red shoes appears on the stairs in the distance. Stalking clad legs appear with the next step. A red dress and then a soft face appear from the stairwell in the near-distance, with the next steps. He draws a breath sharply with recognition. He tenses slightly, at the sight of her. His cock, jerks up above the waist of his jeans, fully aroused.

His pulse speeds. Desire clouds his vision.

He draws a breath, then exhales slowly. He starts the car and pulls forward. A sly smile creeps upon his lips. He can smell her, already.

I, harbinger.

2011-04-06T14:01:00.001-04:00

I am the pac-man of the soul,
I come hungry, ready... ready to devour,
I cannot be stopped by the mere mortals of shape,
I will not be doomed to stupid destiny of space,

I have found the reason to destroy,
I am not only the thought,
I have only action,
I, harbinger.

---
Written and emailed, as a response to this insane thing: http://www.hypnoid.com/psytest2.html

My Diagnosis:

You need to help others and to be thought of as a generous and kind individual. Often you are taken advantage of and regarded as simply part of the scenery. You work best when handling the work yourself; you do not appreciate a managerial role and tend to be uncomfortable in that position. Friendship is important to you, but it is generated on a personal basis, rarely a professional one. Consequently, family life is very important to you, and is often the most important aspect. Because of a strong sense of propriety however, you will sometimes consider the eccentric behavior of your friends and family as a personal affront. Often you find it difficult to speak up about personal anguish or pain, feeling instead that it is something an individual should bear in silence. Tradition is important to you, and you feel a sense of belonging when operating within the constraints of a predictable routine.

Something something... don't mind if I do.

2011-03-25T01:15:00.001-04:00

To wit, it comes.

The ground shakes as I scrawl the letters backward in the dirt. Starting the incantation in reverse, is something new. It might draw up 'The All-Knowledge'. It's something like a piece of the greater, infinite, intelligence of the universe. It was lost to us in the primordial soup, of the galaxy's formation.

This is not even a gamble. I die today. Either I will become insane and then explode or I will be fundamentally changed. If this works, my guess is that I will be absorbed into the fabric of space time; to become pan-dimensional.

Overhead the stars swirl. I know that this is it.

I think of blue sky; first bulbs of April; red leaves on a breeze; the day after a long, deep, snow; a girl from childhood; a long-lost companion... -Sigh- *

140 CHARACTERS AND GOOD TASTE BE DAMNED!

2011-02-01T18:07:00.002-05:00

gently washing the rain falls as sludge into the crevice of an unwashed mind it stops looks around entertains the thought of checking out...
decides to stay a while there is no certainty of anything other than self which is why solipsism is so sexy to this fellah and wants to ....
ignore it most of the time as he'd never get anything done other than think about how far this conspiracy goes how deep my own mind plans...
it's own paranoia and then he remembers sex and these feelings go out the window along with parts of religious dogma and rambling...........
incoherently into the night and out the window.

Kismet is not Orange, But you do look marvelous in it...

2010-10-25T00:05:00.001-04:00

Along the corner he traced his step, backward into the marginal silence of the night.
Clanging bottles. Bursts of laughter. A car horn. A siren.
And there was a silhouette, walking in a gliding, dance.
She turned and became a burst of shocking color.
A night-blooming flower, graceful and succulent.
And there he stood a flash of laughter, and 200 proof energy.
They paused briefly, for each to warm the other.
A crossing brief, tender, and light.

walk

2010-09-16T13:16:00.001-04:00

along the virgin rock,

~~no highways have come to be,~~

patient schist lays dreaming,

centuries per second.

THEN,

at once awakened,

set aflight, then...

falling, falling.

Now,

metamorphoses of sand,

dust,

starstuff,

dream,

a second in a day.

AmplitudeAnteMeridianModulation

2010-05-09T05:01:00.002-04:00

There is a station in the distance that only broadcasts pain. I follow it's broad highways into the wee hours of the mourning. Who hurt you DJ? Why do you keep playing 'One Headlight?'

But, that's not what you are really playing. You make pain seem like it has only brushed up against you, like the wind, silently in the night.

You smell like vanilla, a bruised and broken open fruit. What the masses call 'plain.' There is no truth in the hive, only propaganda. In truth, vanilla is the only edible orchid. A rare sustenance amongst pure desire.

But, that is where I hide; in cold trivia. I often ignore the warmth that I feel. Now to reach and confidently pluck. There I could, finally, separate myself from the vine.

Somewhere... maybe there.

2009-12-29T05:27:00.005-05:00

Downstairs lies hope. In the dream of space and the final of my frontiers I look down. Solitude is hopeful, loneliness a curse. There is an edge so sharp and fickle, I must stand on it, baiting the ground to swallow me.
-"Fucking chickenshit earth!"
It doesn't take my dare.
I walk back to the stately hallows of my manor and sleep until my eyes are sandpaper.
Then, I drink, until I cannot walk.
Then, I furiously masturbate, until the seed stains every wall.
Yep, here's to the end of the world.
It was such a big one.

my thoughts on a lady who just crossed my thoughts and who has been, for quite a while

2009-03-29T08:42:00.005-04:00

So, ha; you have bought into it.

My perversion of wrapping my mind around you thoughts, to keep you arguing, specifically with me. To see you arguing with anyone else brings me low. As I suspect that their wits do not match up well against yours (lalala, they be dumbkopfs), but I still see you letting them win. It's obvious to me. I can't stand it.

I once had poetry to describe you. This is what is left: poetry, (as I am not quite sure what will or might change). We disagree so closely.

Realizes that October is a long time ago and that the rain has started to come down.

2009-03-29T03:58:00.009-04:00

October is gone and so are the leaves of a year, the pages also turned and spent. They are now dirt striding under the heels of boots, gone adventuring into spring.

I wonder about the spring and its dawn, now that its dawn is here, now.

Before, 'twas just its hope, and now it's the reality of the alchemical reactions of composting, the nitty-gritty of nature; although today I thought even deeper, folding space-time into itself.

This maybe as much reality as I am willing to unleash unto the world.

I'm in a box of mine own and of natures making.

Give thanks.

2008-11-30T23:59:00.009-05:00

She stood behind the fire's light as it itself into the unknowing void of ashes. Her face lit dimly. The glow of embers casting weird shadows up to her forehead. It didn't not suit her. But then there was nothing I could think of that didn't suit her.

~~Yeah, I guess you'd be right in assuming I was in love. It 'twas weird stuff, to be such. I still can't say it with ease. But there it is.~~

And then she turned away. The glow turning her white slip colors; a rosy twilight. Twilight suited her. Wither it be, morning or evening.

She turned to look behind her. She turned to look beside her. She turned and found my eyes and gripped them with hers. And she smiled, the mischief rising from her heart to breasts to shoulders to neck to chin to lips to tongue to nose to cheeks to eyelids to eyes to forehead and fell down her back as she released her hair to the wild.

Now with her hands she reached her shoulders, a bit of goose flesh following in her finger's wake. She plucked the thin straps of her white silk slip gently between her thumbs and fingers. She guided them with slow diligence, like an admiral positioning her ships, she laid them to rest on her upper arms. Her nipples began to appear under the silken fabric, springing from silk as tulips do when the earth livens from frost.

Her majesty, darling of my heart, leaned over, carefully avoiding flinging her long hair into the fire pit. The tops of her breasts being lit gently by the remaining glow. Her pulled her arms free of the straps and crossed her arms quickly over the slowly descending garment, halting its progress. My id booed. My ego cheered. My erection grew.

She stood up straight, and shook her hips. She slowly approached, alternately popping each hip with a step.

A few steps more, and all that covered her smallish breasts, were her slight arms. The garment now only being held up by her hips. A shimmy or two and nothing would keep it from the ground. With each frolicking step, she caused my cock a smallish seizure. I reached forward hoping she would had finally stepped inside the boundary. She was close. By straining against the ropes holding me fast, I somehow manage, with my big toe, to pull her petticoat over the ledge of her hips.

She quickly stepped back, removing her right arm from her left breast, she scolds me by shaking her finger and giving me a stern look. Her expression could not keep up with her left nipple. As her breast jiggled with the shaking of her finger, her nipple was the conductor of my orchestra, keeping time with my cock's pulsations, my balls vibrating, my heart pounding.

She laughs and her arms fall down to her side, now tugging at the waist of her white lace topped, silk panties. I watch as a spry little love hair rises over the waistband, and then I am hit with the smell of her sex.

I try to stand, my eyes widen, my cock surges, the hunger hits me. I want her, NOW! But the ropes hold me fast and prevent me from standing.

She has seen my erection grow and laughs at my struggles. She pulls down her waistband a teeny bit more. A flock of black hairs comes tumbling out and gets pressed against her pubis as she lets go the waistband, and another wave of her scent.

She laughs again as I go through the same motions again.

Post-Feminist Masculinity

2008-10-23T04:43:00.003-04:00

FUCK!

Here it comes.

There you go.

Another project left undone.

Another job gone.

I blame society.

I blame you.

You're a fucking bitch.

I'm fucking perfect.

I lie.

You burden me with truth.

Some sorta post-post-modern-ancient-future tale of changing and things.

2008-10-23T03:41:00.006-04:00

I lie awake at night and think about the spore that created me.

How did it come to pass this transformation into otherness?

Why am I under this Voodoo?

Who will know the things I have seen, feel, smell, when all is done?

What is the nature of consciousness; will mine become lost?

When it is done, will the pain end?

One day I awoke a bit stuffy and pale. It was approximately noon, a bit early for me to rise. Jumping out of bed, I noticed the tile floor under my feet was a bit squishier than usual. Having gone drinking the night before, I at first chalked it up to yet another hangover. I climbed the stairs to the bathroom across from the basement door. Every step was curiously, softer.

I relieved myself, and started the descent towards the solace of my bed. Then something clicked in my brain. I rushed back to the bathroom mirror I had passed. I looked. I stared. I tried to slap myself in the face. It didn't have the same impact as usual. I went back to gazing.

I was a mushroom.

Well, an anthropomorphic mushroom. I still had features of a human: legs, eyes, arm, mouth, all in the right places. Everything seemed intact. Yet, I now had gills growing in my neck and was puffy.

My thoughts instantly raced back to the night before. Did someone slip Acid in a drink? Am I still drunk? What the fuck?

I decided to return to sleep, as this had to be a hallucination.

I returned to the basement in which I dwell, to the room below the parental units.

I fall asleep.

I have slept so much recently.

Nobody will wake me. The parents are gone on vacation. No one's home, except me. If someone does come by, I ignore them.

Eventually, everyone goes away.

My roots are growing deep into the mattress, on which I lay.

The puddle of piss and shit grows. It hurts too much now to uproot myself. Fortunately, I no longer eat or drink, get hungry or thirsty. But the smell is terrible. That's the worst part.

My sight is almost gone and hearing is dampened. Though I still feel, it has changed. Unfortunately, scent will not abandon me. I smell perfectly the sewer which, what I hope, is my deathbed.

Let me slip away.

dream of: dreaming the dreamer

2008-10-08T04:24:00.003-04:00

So... there I stood at the precipice of dawn, wondering where the sleep had gone.

No dreams in the night will wake me from slumber during the day, of course. Already I am the bleeding heart of my nightmares, a succulent cross between an orange and doom.

When it comes, it comes down like a freight train on an all-night haul, and diffracts into many dimensions, not just light.

Then, when it 'tis over, a shivering mass of flesh rejects itself and finds the stargate home.

hunter

2008-09-18T05:15:00.002-04:00

fantastic and rough i follow the road ever running down the stream of breath and life and the scent of blood, I am tracking now, I seek the flesh of those wild, my instinct leads me off the beaten game trail, into the scraggy, dense, undergrowth.

close, wounded, and frightened my prey is near, slowing now as blood loss brings them surely toward the end, I want the meat fresh though, I want the last beat of the heart in my teeth, capturing their strength and soul.

I hear a shuffling in the branches, I wait gently sniffing the air for the strong metallic scent of blood on the breeze, as I slowly turn my head back towards my origin, that heady smell comes my way, and then a low rustle,

instantly my muscle contract and release and I am airborne sharp teeth ready for the kill and revel in the moment.

outsider

2008-09-08T04:16:00.003-04:00

And here I am, blind in the soul of magic; struggling desperately for some kind of hold on the mystic arts they claimed everyone could use. Everyone but me.

My sister at the age of two could cast fire from her fingers. I would die to produce one spark.

Mother prattles over me, saying it will be okay, some just blossom later than others. I am not some stupid flower.

Father is ashamed even to look at me. I tend to avoid him now.

In school girls giggle as I pass, the boys torture me with the same three pranks; they can't even think of something original, and I'm the one who can't cast.

I have one friend, my pet frog, Charlie.

When I fall to sleep weeping, as I do often, I curse the name of the Magus.

time outta mind

2008-08-24T05:49:00.003-04:00

He darted between walls, keeping his cover. It was night now, much easier to maneuver and remain undetected by anyone. To him this should have been his Birthday. Being dislocated in time made it unclear. This distant future, was a bit of a sticky place to have a birthday party. Having no friends here made it even harder. He would be hunted here by many, if discovered.

Keeping his mind in the moment he came to a sticky crossing. A wide avenue separated him from his destination. Carefully he lurked in the nearest shadow studying the layout and patterns of what appeared to be motorized vehicles. A sudden bizarre fantasy occurred to him; what the DMV was like here.

Quickly he shook off his daydreaming. It was nigh the time for woolgathering.
Resuming his survey, he noticed a lengthening in the shadows from the far corner wall of the alley, where he lurked. He carefully backpedaled himself into the full cover of alley.

A strange creature slowly crossed the alley's gap. It strolled on two legs, slightly swinging its arms in opposition as it continued forward in its gait. Yet, the strangest thing was that the only fur visible was a tiny patch atop this creature's head. And then the creature passed out of his sight.

He crouched low, careful to keep his weight balanced among his legs and carefully crept forward back into view of the street. As he approached the street he noticed that all traffic had disappeared. The only thing he was able to see was the lone figure continuing away from him.

Now. He stood up straight locking his top knees, and sprinted across the open avenue, into another alley and onward to the safety of the abandoned building where he kept his nest.

One more week, one more hunt, he would be heading home.

singularly punctuated dream theory

2008-07-10T19:30:00.001-04:00

the sounds from the dark places of heart and head give me pause to think about joy and silence and longing for the comfort of an embrace and the feel of flesh and warmth the blindness of sleep and dreams in sepia in color in gray-scales of memory and regret and finally in the sound of breath escaping slowly a river of thought to be punctuated by slowed beats of life and the staccato rhythms shared by machines and beast and woman and man all seeking this place the quiet after all the noise and pollution and dust and motion to dwell in our buried desires and cemeteries of old wounds and older passions and new ideas and newer possibilities an eye drifts frantically around seeking nothing only solace.

Hera's Embrace

2008-06-24T23:18:00.009-04:00

As winter leaves the earth, she melted through nests of roots, rocks, earth, fire.

As summer's heavy breath, she was burned, boiled, absorbed, exhaled.

As with autumn's arrival, all of her was reaped, all of her was free.

Renewed, but not wholly formed, she floated up the long road towards heaven. She was free of mortal time. A season was as a day, a day as long as season. She drifted as clouds slowly gathering mass for the storm.

All that she was, no longer interesting. Her wretched husband, who gave to her two tender minutes, for a lifetime of suffering; the great pain and small joys vanishing as if belonging to someone else.

When the coalescence was complete Oenone stood in view of Olympus. Fantastic gates of rarest metals and gems dominated her view, larger than mountains, wrapping the peak shrouded in cloud; as she approached, those gates swung out to welcome her.

As Oenone entered, a womanly figure appeared. Terrible and beautiful, her arms outstretched, to greet the former nymph, now made godly. As Hera's strong arms cradled Oenone and Oenone embraced the Queen in turn.

"Welcome home, my dear." Hera's voice proclaimed sweetly, deceptively.

Oenone's heart glowed for the welcome; yet she knew, this place of light would never comfort her.

Her memories had left their tint on her heart; her home would belong to darkness.

The raspberry question answered...

2008-06-17T19:46:00.002-04:00

There was time, when the world was young, that the Greenie faeries ruled. It was known to the rulers that the oppressed fae resented their masters.

One day in the early part of spring in the northwestern hemisphere. A Blue faerie was picking berries as was his slave job, his chains jingling with every step, he came across a new berry patch he had never seen before.

This patch had seemingly grown up overnight. It was a type of berry this faerie had never seen before; a beautiful blue and bubbly berry.

Cautiously he tried one. Delicious.

Along came an overseer Greenie.

'What are you doing there, Blue?', the Greenie yelled viciously.

A remarkable thing happened, when the Blue began to speak. Instead of his normally craven speaking voice, his voice changed and became deeper.

'None of your business!', the Blue exclaimed vigorously.

The Greenie was taken aback, never had a Blue spoken to Greenie so fiercely. He was frightened so he ran.

The berries had made the Blue brave. But there was a side effect. The Blue started getting bigger and bigger, smarter and smarter and then turned a lovely shade of brilliant red.

So he became the first red faerie. Up until now, no Blue had been given a name. They didn't realize that they needed one. When the first red got smart enough he asked himself, if all the Greenies have names, why shouldn't I?

So he listened. He shackles had burst but where still hanging off his legs. As he walked they made a small sound.
-RaspRasp- with one step.
-Rasp- with another.
He decided his name was Rasp.

After freeing his former brothers, Rasp became King of all faeries. His first decree was to make his berries slightly less powerful, Rasp being a wise man now, didn't want the berries to fall into the wrong hands.

When the magic was woven, the berries became smaller and sweeter and red.

Since then magicians throughout time has tried in vain to restore the power of Rasp's Berry, failing every time but producing many delicious fruit flavors, all of which are blue.

A dream of Persephone

2008-06-16T15:28:00.006-04:00

Demeter's child lost to the catacombs of darkness, arises to find the world a green place. The humming of life new-borne, new-found, startles her awake.

One woman cannot wait to leave the misery that is spring. She the true consort and love of the most feared of Olympians. Her name is Oenone and death has transformed her.

Born a nymph, the spirit of wine, she lived a woman scorned by her husband for fair but vapid Helen, her death a sacrifice to her own remorse.

In the flames of the pyre, fueled by her dead husband's corpse, she prayed for forgiveness; she could have saved the man who burned beneath her. Her spite, for his wrongs, she could not forgive for herself.

Hera, mother, lover, spurned woman, heard Oenone's final prayer.

-- That bitch Aphrodite, she really caused a shit storm in the world, for her own vanity, Hera mused. I can mend one heart and get revenge upon that selfish brat.

And as the plot took shape in her breast, she snatched Oenone from the brink of Thanatos's grasp, restoring her and elevating her to the halls of Olympus.

She would live, immortal.

Once again I return to the scene of the crime.

2008-06-13T02:10:00.003-04:00

There I was turning my car around, in the middle of Main Street wondering how her hold over me was so strong that I would even consider what I was going to do. I HAD to do it. She insisted in her way. With her eyes.

A week ago I was mostly fine, albeit my life was pretty dull. In this small town, I had arrived in my dying Cadillac, even though I was not what you would consider wealthy I was by no means a destitute drifter. I was on a break from life.

The corporate hive in New York I left months ago had started to become a fading memory. I purchased a camera, a beat up old Caddy and hit the road, alone. 60 rolls of film later, I was saner (or crazier, depending on where your coming from). Life would not pass me by in a mindless drone anymore. No interstates for me.

As I pulled into this town, the sky went from brightest blue to a blur of the sun and clouds. I slowed my car to a crawl gazing around town for a diner, truck stop, a place to rest. While I was scanning the storefronts, my eyes did come across the vision of beauty that would lead to my destruction.

Skin so smooth that it gleamed like satin in candlelight. Hair darkest black, bound up in a red ribbon. She could have been a body double for Snow White, if it weren't for the glint of lust, that flashed from her eyes when she wanted something. One apple be damned, she wanted the orchard.

Her eyes locked mine when I gazed her way, I have been under her spell since. I could not look away, until.

KERSMASH!

I drove right into a parked car. Putting the Caddy in park, I looked up to in time to glimpse her gliding into the town Diner, bells jingling as she entered.

--End part 1

There was a man...

2008-05-02T19:55:00.003-04:00

"We didn't win World War II, the Nazi's moved to Washington," as he passed the joint he spoke these words.

We were sitting in my cousin's vintage Minibus. It was 30 years old with only the slightest trace of rust. A vehicle that was older than either of us. At this point my cousin had already gone on his weeklong fast, during which he got an incredible amount of shit done; including building a folding bed in the back of the van, which at this time was folded and stowed.

As the sun with curious Californian intensity reflects off my cousin's windshield, I inhale.

"Yeah man… that explains a lot." I reply as smoke forms a cloud around my head.

<ian::cough>

Across the horizon

2008-05-01T12:08:00.010-04:00

Here on trains:
I have loved
and lost,

learned to:
love again,
my country,

my soul again:
of motion,
here,

Appassionato.
again.

<ian::froop>

Blahhhh

2008-04-30T13:18:00.004-04:00

Blueberries and robin's eggs share the same color, in a world without intensity.

<ian::#cccccc>

4:34AM

2008-04-29T04:34:00.004-04:00

There is no time like the present to do anything, except when my time has past and I am left standing in rain.

Sometimes water runs dry. Mostly it flows, following, no, creating it own landscape leaving its slow wave of mutilation as scars on our parents.

Were you a child left standing in class, in school, at times when you should have been playing at fool? Did you became dependent on the thoughts of others?

I am glad I found my fool, for it took a far too long.

<ian::meep>

127.0.0.1

2008-04-28T14:09:00.003-04:00

The door opens. 'Who is it' he asks silently, almost creeping up the stairs like this wasn't his own house. The gentle sound of breathing is the only reply he receives. His ears perk up and quite gracefully he sneaks up the last remaining stairs.

Treading softly on his soft forest green carpet he makes not a sound. Then with a step, -creak- and the game is over. She pounces from behind him, and he has lost this round.

<ian::meep>

Soma__

2008-04-27T04:46:00.004-04:00

Sleep that's where I'm a Viking! Really? No, but sometimes I dream of being a detective.

I am Hunting. Down the scofflaws of society, with roguish intensity, and a cheap suit; all to pay for my alcohol and methadone problem, yet finding the air of righteousness in a otherwise cruel and banal world. I am hypocrisy in the flesh, then finally, united with the one.

I am floating in the ether now, drifting towards; I don't know a thing about dreams cause I am ~~always~~ often floating in the other realm of loneliness and futility.

Hmmm... darkness before sleep how comforting.

<ian::meep>

Thoughts on Being Awake.

2008-04-26T14:45:00.004-04:00

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck a duck

Aw, cumber buns!

<ian::meep>

wondering pondering...

2008-04-26T02:12:00.000-04:00

I am often struck by words. Why do words mean what they mean? Who thought of the rules. I know they evolved from shit such as environmental factors, but I wonder how chaos plays into it, like the first one who thought of the word for mother.

Ma is easy, we make the sound without really trying, so i guess I'm wondering wasn't that mother a little presumptuous?

Maybe that infant was looking up at something cool like the aliens.

<ian::meep>

maybe not so much...

2008-04-25T22:12:00.000-04:00

finding a good place to land a helicopter in traffic can be a challenge to the mango eating powers of a madmen. because, and this is the essential point, what does a mango have to do with flying a helicopter and why should i land in traffic and not on the roof where i'm supposed to?

<ian::meep>

menomena

2008-04-25T17:07:00.000-04:00

Doo doo.. do do do...

from swedish porn to... 'The Muppet Show'.

Damn! It's stuck in my head now.

<ian::meep>