Saturday, February 26, 2011
Here it is,
Every single fucking woman
I could
possibly need
giving all the men I'll never
be
everything i yearn for.
Love him like a worn cloth,
Facades of nostalgia don't decay.
He's beautiful where he curves,
Instruct him to make your bleeding late.
Put some other man's dick in your mouth,
it'll give you strong bones.
Fuck em til you and he hurt,
it'll make you live long.
I could
possibly need
giving all the men I'll never
be
everything i yearn for.
Love him like a worn cloth,
Facades of nostalgia don't decay.
He's beautiful where he curves,
Instruct him to make your bleeding late.
Put some other man's dick in your mouth,
it'll give you strong bones.
Fuck em til you and he hurt,
it'll make you live long.
About a year of knowing her and
last night i had my first dream about her.
She came to my house out of nowhere and we started hanging out in my room. Talking led to kissing which led to frolicking and eventually I'm above her and she says "lets have sex." I am reluctant because this seems rather impulsive and unfettered. Eventually we do so and once we finish...it comes to me asking her, before she leaves, if I can see her the next day or soon at all. In my mind, I'm asking this because I believe she's on vacation or isn't going to be around my area for long. She basically says she doesn't thin we're gonna see each other again and then I spend the rest of my dream crying.
I think this is also the first time I've really cried so much...in a dream.he
She came to my house out of nowhere and we started hanging out in my room. Talking led to kissing which led to frolicking and eventually I'm above her and she says "lets have sex." I am reluctant because this seems rather impulsive and unfettered. Eventually we do so and once we finish...it comes to me asking her, before she leaves, if I can see her the next day or soon at all. In my mind, I'm asking this because I believe she's on vacation or isn't going to be around my area for long. She basically says she doesn't thin we're gonna see each other again and then I spend the rest of my dream crying.
I think this is also the first time I've really cried so much...in a dream.he
Friday, February 25, 2011
The very fact that all actions in our lives are now predicated upon the possible euphoria some tasks may produce should be clearly recognized as indication of how pitifully we feel inside. Entertainment is a form of sedation, and experiencing it is the only goal we have. If it were not the ideal way to spend time, we wouldn’t associate boredom with depression - at least not so predominantly. There’s no room even for a voice that calls for the quieting of cheer. I haven’t read Noam Chomsky’s Manufacturing Consent, but I feel a point similar to this would have to be made in it; for a govnerment or wealth class to be able to manipulate people, they have to first at least establish a sense of decentralized power not emblematic of a democracy, and then they have to continuously project images and ideas fawning about the American dream and how good it is to be happy.
I have to say: if all our joys and hope and optimism and love for living were entirely constructed on our own, we wouldn’t be such a dissonant amalgamation of sufferers competing over paychecks and opportunities; we would be up in arms demanding peace and an understandable, practical regimen for living in America. One has to - absolutely must - take at least a gander at this fact. The disparity between our own lives and the commercials that inspire us, Christ, what the fuck. Is anyone still under the impression that all of that is even possible? We are being misled. A toll on our integrity and communal affection has been taken. Our passion hindered. Cowering in fear that our next may be our last breath, we don’t trust each other but we all believe we’re supporting the perfect lifestyle.
I have to say: if all our joys and hope and optimism and love for living were entirely constructed on our own, we wouldn’t be such a dissonant amalgamation of sufferers competing over paychecks and opportunities; we would be up in arms demanding peace and an understandable, practical regimen for living in America. One has to - absolutely must - take at least a gander at this fact. The disparity between our own lives and the commercials that inspire us, Christ, what the fuck. Is anyone still under the impression that all of that is even possible? We are being misled. A toll on our integrity and communal affection has been taken. Our passion hindered. Cowering in fear that our next may be our last breath, we don’t trust each other but we all believe we’re supporting the perfect lifestyle.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Thoughts for the day:
Cant have culture and passion without anguish, hence america's utter lack of meaningful art and beliefs that go any deeper than ''smile'' or some aphorism about enjoying your life endlessly. Apropos: america has only trampled cultures that are now sold, have been sold, or will be sold. I once said on facebook that american has no cultures, only businesses. People weren't feeling that.
Christ, i just remembered a girl i had a crush on in elementary school who, if memory serves right, believed me to be some weirdo. i woke up oje morning after recently graduating from the school and even then as a boy no older than like 11 i was distraught over the reality of never seeing her again. good lord it is difficult to care. nostalgia degenerates the soul.
Christ, i just remembered a girl i had a crush on in elementary school who, if memory serves right, believed me to be some weirdo. i woke up oje morning after recently graduating from the school and even then as a boy no older than like 11 i was distraught over the reality of never seeing her again. good lord it is difficult to care. nostalgia degenerates the soul.
The Occupants
This house
is full
of age.
These walls are wrinkling
behind my back.
I can hear them,
as I rest,
cry like passengers
on falling flight.
Somewhere a window is opened,
elsewhere a room collapses.
Beds everywhere, cushions
soft enough for no one to rest upon.
Bad idea here, regrettable memory there.
irascible youth,
primitive scars,
quintessential unimportance -
staining the carpet.
Baby vomit on my skin,
I tore a piece
of my mother's vagina
off when I was thrown
into this world.
I am paying back
for the pain since,
since,
and since.
And I am breathing,
and that is the catapult
from which joy is launched
somewhere down the street.
I can hear,
i can make out,
i can see
it all
from the tearing screen
of my room's window.
And it is hard to recall
that you are merely an occupant.
It is hell to know.
It is a house full of age,
a spine outstretched - widened - by woe.
It is a house full of age.
Surely the finest of
agony
thanks this disconcerted abode for
its being.
is full
of age.
These walls are wrinkling
behind my back.
I can hear them,
as I rest,
cry like passengers
on falling flight.
Somewhere a window is opened,
elsewhere a room collapses.
Beds everywhere, cushions
soft enough for no one to rest upon.
Bad idea here, regrettable memory there.
irascible youth,
primitive scars,
quintessential unimportance -
staining the carpet.
Baby vomit on my skin,
I tore a piece
of my mother's vagina
off when I was thrown
into this world.
I am paying back
for the pain since,
since,
and since.
And I am breathing,
and that is the catapult
from which joy is launched
somewhere down the street.
I can hear,
i can make out,
i can see
it all
from the tearing screen
of my room's window.
And it is hard to recall
that you are merely an occupant.
It is hell to know.
It is a house full of age,
a spine outstretched - widened - by woe.
It is a house full of age.
Surely the finest of
agony
thanks this disconcerted abode for
its being.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
“I feel tremendous guilt for any sexual feelings I have. So I end up spending my entire life feeling sorry for fancying somebody. Even in school I thought girls were so wonderful that I was scared to death of them.”
— Thom Yorke
I cannot, and I will not say it any better. Ever. Its like a step pass Morrissey's depravity, into the realm of intent to interact but a crippling fear debilitates any movement. A crippling adoration, rather.
— Thom Yorke
I cannot, and I will not say it any better. Ever. Its like a step pass Morrissey's depravity, into the realm of intent to interact but a crippling fear debilitates any movement. A crippling adoration, rather.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
my dissent for modern hip hop
First of all: erratic fluctuations in audibility and pitch aren't necessarily displays of emotion. And that is precisely what most rappers do. And it is false, false, false, and false and farce. How much of the emotions are real when the average rapper is talking about how much they love themselves? Why would the realness of emotions within the context of primarily self-referential rappers even be suspected to exist? And more importantly, why the fuck would those emotions have any pertinence for you, the listener, not living the life of the narcissistic rapper?
Rap fans are the most obvious spectators in the history of music. Prior to them, I'm sure people would imagine they were rich and successful, but that wasn't the dominant subject matter in any music genre. People would be more likely to imagine they had the flawless love pop stars of old and new have sung about. Now hip hop fans get their shits and giggles listening to motherfuckers speak of being able to replace anything they own with ease, because they're so fucking rich and detached from everything (because it all has either a monetary or otherwise artificial value), and the money to buy anything they want.
And what this all should reveal sooner than that I am another heretic of some sort, is that somewhere deeper down inside, beneath the desire to dance to the undulations of bass, beneath the love for, albeit falsely, relating to joys of joyous rapper, we are sad and horrified by the immensity of woe in our lives. So it becomes an escape to listen to popular idiots. Yet, if questioned, one would say that the point of life is to enjoy it. Music is a fairly common conduit for entertainment and enjoyment, thus people will identify with people they aren't. This contradicts starkly what is the common goal of most lives; if the only most abundant source of enjoyment you get in life stems from listening and experiencing art made by people you wish you were, then you are not really enjoying your life. You're enjoying their life.
I am certain that in some subconscious form this has manifested in the minds of all corporations who have raped hip hop for what its worth. We've been the recipients of marketable dreams for decades now, and hip hop came out of the ghetto in a sort of new age tale-of-the-underdog folk way. And eventually the predominant star in the genre was the one who could sell the most. Who would sell more than someone that doesn't appear to have came up rich as fuck and happy all the time? (Ha, another hint of how sad we are: we're still coming up, trying to get out of that perpetual slump). It is worth noting that this was the trend occurring in the 90's and has progressed into a phase where people don't even love the underdog as much as they love the clearly successful guy/gal. THe self-obsessed queer at soul who doesn't fucking care about much other than the monuments they can build to attest for their affluence. Sure, the idea that maybe they weren't always rich is there, but its unconsciously motivating fans to love the music. It is presumed, now, that no one's had it easy growing up and trying to become successful, so joy and relativity is a reflex when listening to their music.
But whatever. I'm a pessimist and can't comprehend a good time, or some shit.
Rap fans are the most obvious spectators in the history of music. Prior to them, I'm sure people would imagine they were rich and successful, but that wasn't the dominant subject matter in any music genre. People would be more likely to imagine they had the flawless love pop stars of old and new have sung about. Now hip hop fans get their shits and giggles listening to motherfuckers speak of being able to replace anything they own with ease, because they're so fucking rich and detached from everything (because it all has either a monetary or otherwise artificial value), and the money to buy anything they want.
And what this all should reveal sooner than that I am another heretic of some sort, is that somewhere deeper down inside, beneath the desire to dance to the undulations of bass, beneath the love for, albeit falsely, relating to joys of joyous rapper, we are sad and horrified by the immensity of woe in our lives. So it becomes an escape to listen to popular idiots. Yet, if questioned, one would say that the point of life is to enjoy it. Music is a fairly common conduit for entertainment and enjoyment, thus people will identify with people they aren't. This contradicts starkly what is the common goal of most lives; if the only most abundant source of enjoyment you get in life stems from listening and experiencing art made by people you wish you were, then you are not really enjoying your life. You're enjoying their life.
I am certain that in some subconscious form this has manifested in the minds of all corporations who have raped hip hop for what its worth. We've been the recipients of marketable dreams for decades now, and hip hop came out of the ghetto in a sort of new age tale-of-the-underdog folk way. And eventually the predominant star in the genre was the one who could sell the most. Who would sell more than someone that doesn't appear to have came up rich as fuck and happy all the time? (Ha, another hint of how sad we are: we're still coming up, trying to get out of that perpetual slump). It is worth noting that this was the trend occurring in the 90's and has progressed into a phase where people don't even love the underdog as much as they love the clearly successful guy/gal. THe self-obsessed queer at soul who doesn't fucking care about much other than the monuments they can build to attest for their affluence. Sure, the idea that maybe they weren't always rich is there, but its unconsciously motivating fans to love the music. It is presumed, now, that no one's had it easy growing up and trying to become successful, so joy and relativity is a reflex when listening to their music.
But whatever. I'm a pessimist and can't comprehend a good time, or some shit.
Listening to bright eyes, I say, I say,
I say I think we fail to judge the things we love. Sight be only applied to the attractive parts.
I say, I say, I say this because this motherfucker sounds like such a kid. Its not depressing music, and its not entirely happy - but its not right in the middle; its not just acceptance filled music. I don't know if I can listen to this feller. I remember the last time I talked to her she was listening to bright eyes and something clicked. He must be nebulous enough to submit to either side of our emotions' continuum. That is not to say there aren't moments that he stands firmly on either side, but I don't think his music if for me. But I'll give I'm WIde Awake, Its morning and some other album of his a try.
I say, I say, I say this because this motherfucker sounds like such a kid. Its not depressing music, and its not entirely happy - but its not right in the middle; its not just acceptance filled music. I don't know if I can listen to this feller. I remember the last time I talked to her she was listening to bright eyes and something clicked. He must be nebulous enough to submit to either side of our emotions' continuum. That is not to say there aren't moments that he stands firmly on either side, but I don't think his music if for me. But I'll give I'm WIde Awake, Its morning and some other album of his a try.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
True love lay far too uncut - Doseone
At least I think thats the line from the opening of Ethereal Downtime. I'm not sure.
Anyway, if love is unanimously believed to be natural and reflexive, then it will reflect not the tragedy of its time it could subvert or the truest, deepest yearning of an individual. Something meant to last, such as love, cannot exist without effort. If it lay untouched and misjudged - or not judged at all- then it will never be experienced. What will be experienced is some tickling away, for a moment, the fear and misery beset in us. ANd that is such a vague reaction, one can easily produce a similar reaction with drugs or adrenaline.
If we do attempt to define and understand love, then we will know for certain if one specific individual is worth being with, or if they're just passing by through one's life. If we do not comprehend love, we will drown in regret, proffer our unrequited affection and forever be uncertain about who to pursue, and whether we even know someone valuable enough to remain indebted to for life.
Long retort (to nothing) short: love is worthless if we do not firstly grasp a definite idea of its purpose as well as its manifestation, tangible or not.
Anyway, if love is unanimously believed to be natural and reflexive, then it will reflect not the tragedy of its time it could subvert or the truest, deepest yearning of an individual. Something meant to last, such as love, cannot exist without effort. If it lay untouched and misjudged - or not judged at all- then it will never be experienced. What will be experienced is some tickling away, for a moment, the fear and misery beset in us. ANd that is such a vague reaction, one can easily produce a similar reaction with drugs or adrenaline.
If we do attempt to define and understand love, then we will know for certain if one specific individual is worth being with, or if they're just passing by through one's life. If we do not comprehend love, we will drown in regret, proffer our unrequited affection and forever be uncertain about who to pursue, and whether we even know someone valuable enough to remain indebted to for life.
Long retort (to nothing) short: love is worthless if we do not firstly grasp a definite idea of its purpose as well as its manifestation, tangible or not.
Monday, February 7, 2011
With the first
she was probably disinterested from the start, but spending hours driving around and talking would purport otherwise to the logical. Turns out, I was avoiding this truth from the beginning and hoping to become much like her, she was a bubbly optimist, full of cheer and normalcy. How the fuck could I love someone like that?
The second, most recent, the lovelier of the two, the brooding bigot who held opinion steady and safely flush against my own, she is now just, as I see her and I cannot help but hope I am wrong, a confused girl growing into a common woman. Afraid of so many things, she's unsure even about what she concludes after much rumination. And I understand this and I know it is absolutely true of her. How the fuck could I love someone like that? In the stark of now, I admit she was not like that. Not last summer when she verbally shunned existentialism because she didn't want to become someone who "lives in the now" like the rest of this generation. When she suddenly broke out in a facebook chat and showed me a poem about her former love, or object of torrential intrigue. And the word entropy stuck out like the palest of bodies laid in a row of the still living. And we spent an entire day together, and while under blanket - a thin agent of warmth separating our bodies from the moon - she, not me, SHE grabbed my hand and struck me at a place so deep I forgot I even had the depth to feel like that. And all the perfect, and all the peace, and all the love and life in the world was felt right fucking there. So how the fuck couldn't I love a girl like that? And we loved so many of the same artists because the unspoken agony we shared.
Well nevermind it all. She was a beautiful woman I must forget.
The second, most recent, the lovelier of the two, the brooding bigot who held opinion steady and safely flush against my own, she is now just, as I see her and I cannot help but hope I am wrong, a confused girl growing into a common woman. Afraid of so many things, she's unsure even about what she concludes after much rumination. And I understand this and I know it is absolutely true of her. How the fuck could I love someone like that? In the stark of now, I admit she was not like that. Not last summer when she verbally shunned existentialism because she didn't want to become someone who "lives in the now" like the rest of this generation. When she suddenly broke out in a facebook chat and showed me a poem about her former love, or object of torrential intrigue. And the word entropy stuck out like the palest of bodies laid in a row of the still living. And we spent an entire day together, and while under blanket - a thin agent of warmth separating our bodies from the moon - she, not me, SHE grabbed my hand and struck me at a place so deep I forgot I even had the depth to feel like that. And all the perfect, and all the peace, and all the love and life in the world was felt right fucking there. So how the fuck couldn't I love a girl like that? And we loved so many of the same artists because the unspoken agony we shared.
Well nevermind it all. She was a beautiful woman I must forget.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
No Famous Death (The Sads) - Pregnancy Scare
I hope the band members, should they discover this or not, are not offended by me uploading it. Its just no where to get this music but apple, and forgive the anti-established, pissed off, juvenile-of-heart inside me, but I just do not fucking want to support apple in more ways than downloading itunes for free and using it to play music I have 'pirated' and still aspire to purchase. I can't even delete the apple account I had to fucking create to download this. What kind of bullshit is that man.
ANy motherfucking ways, I'm listening to this shit now and I absolutely love it. Its like slowcore meets folk, Horse Feathers and Mogwai got together and said, lets play like everyday is a sunday and its always 2:36pm in the afternoon of our lives and the grass blows over and back and the sky is a pale canvas you fingerpaint on with invisible paint and your lad or lady is there and you guys are all like reminiscing about agonies of the past and yet to come. Man, whatever, I suck at reviews but this shit is gold. I discovered them within the last hour, and actually spent all my time from then to now looking on the internet for a download link. I only found them because I came up with the idea to make a band and give it the moniker 'The Sads'. So I googled this shit, and then found that depressing ass website thesads.com .
No Famous Death / The Sads - Pregnancy Scare.
ANy motherfucking ways, I'm listening to this shit now and I absolutely love it. Its like slowcore meets folk, Horse Feathers and Mogwai got together and said, lets play like everyday is a sunday and its always 2:36pm in the afternoon of our lives and the grass blows over and back and the sky is a pale canvas you fingerpaint on with invisible paint and your lad or lady is there and you guys are all like reminiscing about agonies of the past and yet to come. Man, whatever, I suck at reviews but this shit is gold. I discovered them within the last hour, and actually spent all my time from then to now looking on the internet for a download link. I only found them because I came up with the idea to make a band and give it the moniker 'The Sads'. So I googled this shit, and then found that depressing ass website thesads.com .
No Famous Death / The Sads - Pregnancy Scare.
She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.She was a beautiful woman. Ok, forget it.
To elaborate upon the popping of that bubble
that i distilled with my poem "A Ladies Man:", a ladies man essentially treats no new woman with wonderment. He knows her already, he's been with so many that he doesn't have to explore your body to please you and thus, one can say, he is not nearly as affectionate or interested as a guy who hasn't had so many opportunities to please a woman. Though a nice gy, a plain guy, whatever, may fail or not appease a woman as often, he is trying desperately to learn how to...and he is doing so with the woman of his eye, the apple of his heart. It is this distinction that I feel women overlook when they take an interest in the opposite sex. ANd I fear we gentlemen will have no way to fight it. But that is that. I won't change the way I love or approach a relationship just because I am unsuccessful when trying to court females that would much rather be led and persuaded than courted.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Superstitions of the Sky - Absolutely Nothing
I've resisted listening to these guys for too long. Interesting song compositions that aren't the standard folk-esque structures you'll hear. I believe these fellers were in Neil Perry, so that would likely explain why they're so fucking awesome. Could be wrong. NOnetheless, this is good music. Really easy going, honest music about heartbreak and the visibility of the past. Remnants, remnants, remnants. ALl we have. Let me cease now, before I begin to weep.
"Its so hard to look past those eyes, when its all I'm ever looking for." - Oh, those Eyes
Absolutely Nothing ( mediafire )
"Its so hard to look past those eyes, when its all I'm ever looking for." - Oh, those Eyes
Absolutely Nothing ( mediafire )
Getting tired of porn
so very tired. just knowing all these people are fucking for money, making a living by performing an act that is most wonderful when nothing about it is performed and also desensitizing the youth to the act. Man fuck all that. There's better fucking porn in my head.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
To briefly propone monogamy
Be it naivety of my youth, or my general lack of experience with long term relationships, but I genuinely wish to spend the rest of my life with a single soul that too wishes to spend her lifetime with me. Every day we become less of what we once were, and only hold onto it or remain stuck in the past when we cannot accept that time is proceeding with little regard to our nostalgia. Every experience changes us, every new wrinkle she would acquire would be an artifact and a monument of her beauty. Semblance of change. Unavoidable marking of continuity, of life. And I find that alone to be beautiful. Sincerely. Because so many things remain as awful as they were to begin with, few things are even susceptible to your will. So why wouldn't one infinitely, ceaselessly developing lover be less than adequate as a compliment of my very own soul?
Good grief, I should hope I am not alone in this desire. I am so terrified by what this generation appears to believe is cathartic when it comes to romance. And all this technology only seems to make us more impulsive and irresolutely applicable to our surroundings.
Good grief, I should hope I am not alone in this desire. I am so terrified by what this generation appears to believe is cathartic when it comes to romance. And all this technology only seems to make us more impulsive and irresolutely applicable to our surroundings.
Every single fucking woman I could
possibly need
giving all the men i'll never
be
everything i yearn for.
giving all the men i'll never
be
everything i yearn for.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
These days, or perhaps it has been this way forever,
dancing is an act of intimacy between strangers. Clothed strangers. People who would otherwise flirt on cue or make casual conversation. FUck all that, I'd rather dance with myself.
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