ATTN SUICIDE GIRLS: When and where are there any suicide girl events?? I need cocktails. I need the capacity to schmooze. I need another layer of privileged decadence. And I need beautiful girls with colorful tattoos and brazen piercings as the backdrop. Someone keep me posted!
p.s. Whoever said "money can't buy happiness" never got a 900$-an-hour Ukrainian hooker who will blow you with a mouth full of wasabi mustard
p.s. Whoever said "money can't buy happiness" never got a 900$-an-hour Ukrainian hooker who will blow you with a mouth full of wasabi mustard
Before the exploration of space, of the moon and of the planets, man held that the heavens were the home and province of powerful gods, who controlled not just the vast firmerment but the earthly fate of man himself. And that the pantheon of powerful warring dieties was the cause and reason for the human condition, for the past and the future and for which great monuments would be created, on earth as in heaven. But in time man replaced these gods with new gods and new religions that provided no more certain answers than those worshipped by his Greek or Roman or Egyptian ancestors. And while we've chosen now our monolithic and benevolent gods, and found our certainties in science, believers all, we wait for a sign, a revelation. Our eyes turn skyward ready to accept the truly incredible, to find our destiny written in the stars. But how do we best look to see? With new eyes or old?
Diane,
i've found a cozy hiding spot, and i'm not comin' out until this book gets finished being written. the curtains are a vibrant red and there's always pretty music in the air. the midget in the red suit only speaks backwards but his language is often cryptic anyway, so i ignore him. atleast the black sofas are worth the trouble. i've seen david bowie slip in and out of the curtains, his shoes squeak on the cold, hard black and white checkered floor. he's been to one of our meetings, and he desperately does not want to stay. just another weird and creepy void. i'm not coming out until i finish this damn book. but enough about me. how's beach life treatin' ya? say hi to the palm trees and raw silk for me
i've found a cozy hiding spot, and i'm not comin' out until this book gets finished being written. the curtains are a vibrant red and there's always pretty music in the air. the midget in the red suit only speaks backwards but his language is often cryptic anyway, so i ignore him. atleast the black sofas are worth the trouble. i've seen david bowie slip in and out of the curtains, his shoes squeak on the cold, hard black and white checkered floor. he's been to one of our meetings, and he desperately does not want to stay. just another weird and creepy void. i'm not coming out until i finish this damn book. but enough about me. how's beach life treatin' ya? say hi to the palm trees and raw silk for me
It was on the deathbed of night when the acid was working its heavy magic, and the panicked howls of the innocent echoed through the drunken, dirty streets in a sour summer night in Nevada.
That was when the Dangerous American revealed itself to me. Walking down the colorful street of lit-up and false fantasies I began to see their true expressions that they had hid well all their life behind a flesh mask of heavy makeup and vain vibrations. Dozens of them would pass by me, coins or expensive alcohol or jaded-driven hookers in hand, when their human shells would warp and deform into grotesque demon faces with distorted flames for eyes and dripping candle wax for skin. Their intensions were clear and their nature was obvious.
Holy shit. The wrong drug for the wrong town. I felt like Alice in some sort of contorted, rape-ridden American corporate wonderland. Now knowing the true nature of the reality of this culture I saw it as time to delve deeper into the beast, arming myself like a ruthless hoplite of Ancient Greece. Not in the sense of weapons, of course, thats mostly the game of those out there running the country. Rather, Ill regroup with the armies of Socrates, Hume, Thoreau, Nietzsche, and Thompson.
The only way to function among the creeps around us in this day and age is to deny sobriety in every form and to counter their unjustified arrogance with reason, abstraction, and completely shoving aside the morals and values of this country. The U.S. has been misshaped over the past forty or fifty years. Drifted off onto some kind of unexpected alternate tangent caused by our apathy and gullibility after Kennedy was shot. The poison of the Dangerous American is that of strict religions and their strife for Salvation, a lifestyle of consumerism, and falling into the fatal routine when attempting to attain the very much departed American Dream.
The real salvation here, never to be realized by most, is that of Philosophy and the embracement, not denial, of our human condition. Indeed, its time for infiltration. To see what happens when I act to blend within the nucleus of these people and still try to keep my sanity.
That was when the Dangerous American revealed itself to me. Walking down the colorful street of lit-up and false fantasies I began to see their true expressions that they had hid well all their life behind a flesh mask of heavy makeup and vain vibrations. Dozens of them would pass by me, coins or expensive alcohol or jaded-driven hookers in hand, when their human shells would warp and deform into grotesque demon faces with distorted flames for eyes and dripping candle wax for skin. Their intensions were clear and their nature was obvious.
Holy shit. The wrong drug for the wrong town. I felt like Alice in some sort of contorted, rape-ridden American corporate wonderland. Now knowing the true nature of the reality of this culture I saw it as time to delve deeper into the beast, arming myself like a ruthless hoplite of Ancient Greece. Not in the sense of weapons, of course, thats mostly the game of those out there running the country. Rather, Ill regroup with the armies of Socrates, Hume, Thoreau, Nietzsche, and Thompson.
The only way to function among the creeps around us in this day and age is to deny sobriety in every form and to counter their unjustified arrogance with reason, abstraction, and completely shoving aside the morals and values of this country. The U.S. has been misshaped over the past forty or fifty years. Drifted off onto some kind of unexpected alternate tangent caused by our apathy and gullibility after Kennedy was shot. The poison of the Dangerous American is that of strict religions and their strife for Salvation, a lifestyle of consumerism, and falling into the fatal routine when attempting to attain the very much departed American Dream.
The real salvation here, never to be realized by most, is that of Philosophy and the embracement, not denial, of our human condition. Indeed, its time for infiltration. To see what happens when I act to blend within the nucleus of these people and still try to keep my sanity.
London Thoughts--don't listen to me, you're the curious 3 year old and I'm the bleach under the kitchen sink.
Too many of these long nights and murky early mornings. How far will I go? How long will I last? I wonder if old age is necessary; if a young death is transcendent. I wish not to be a martyr either. Old age could be fun and wild in its exploration. To be the old and grey and lonely and wise man everyone is curious about and calls 'strange' with a smile on their faces. To be old and tired and weary and sharp from a lifetime of living this and many other human experiences. I am not yet refined enough to journey the realm beyond without repeating myself over and over. I am humbled, even now, sipping on a pint of beer in this aged pub in the middle of London.
Just last week I was drifting in the streets of Paris, among the ghosts of great writers who sought the same path. Sleeping in a crypt wouldn't be the answer now. Not now. There has to be that cool and funny and mystical medium. The place where so few of us wish to walk: the thin and blurred line between here and the liquid realm. A fantastic intersection of atavistic energy.
So, do I expect an early death? No. A long life? Not really. It all doesn't matter much now. It's the journey that should seduce us. I wouldn't allow myself to perish in the near future anyhow. I haven't accomplished what I have set out to. What I have come back to his meager planet to accomplish. The world needs more unique and insane and blended minds. Especially now. This mind is the writer. novelist. poet. whatever else I can get my grimey hands on. I want people to seek me out. To look at me with a sort of strange awe and to seek the path to their answers within me.
LEAVE YOUR COMFORTS AT THE TWISTED DOOR. HERE I WILL SHOW YOU THE GARDENS OF ARTFORM AND WE'LL SAVAGELY FUCK ON THE WARM GLASS OVER LOOKING REALITY. OUR WORDS WILL SET FIRE TO IT ALL. DANCE NAKED IN THE RAINFALL OF MY PASSION AND YOU WILL FINALLY CRY YOURSELF INTO SOMEONE NEW AND DESIRED. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN SO OUT OF YOUR MIND YOU COULDN'T HOLD A PRIMITIVE CONVERSATION WITH GOOD COMPANY ADMIST HUNDREDS OF LOUD STRANGERS? INTERACT WITH THE 30 PEOPLE MINGLING AROUND INSIDE OF YOUR HEAD YOU HADN'T ACKNOWLEDGED YOUR ENTIRE LIFE? MUCH LESS COMPLETELY FORGET YOU EVEN HAD A BODY, THAT SEEMS TO BE TREMBLING AND SWEATING ALL OVER ITSELF? YOU WOULD KNOW IF YOU DID. THAT'S WHAT I WOULD CALL INSANITY. OR MAYBE JUST A GOOD BATCH OF SHROOMS. MAYBE THAT'S THE KEY: TO CONSTANTLY TEST THE BOUNDS OF REALITY. HOW ELSE WOULD YOU KNOW YOU WERE ALIVE? NEVER SETTLE FOR ANYTHING LESS. FOR THAT'S WHEN A PERSON GROWS NUMB, AND NUMB IS DANGEROUS. AND NOT THE GOOD DANGEROUS WHERE YOU'VE BEEN UP ALL NIGHT WITH A HALF DOZEN STRIPPERS, CHEAP ALCOHOL IN YOUR STOMACH, TONGUES CARESSING YOUR BODY, AND PILLS DOING THEIR DANCE IN YOUR HEAD TO WAKE UP UNDER THE SUN ON A ROOFTOP OF SOME STRANGE AND STICKY BUILDING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE VALLEY. I'M TALKING ABOUT THE KIND OF DANGEROUS MAKING PEOPLE THINK IT'S OKAY TO VOTE FOR TEXAS CHRISTIANS OR TO SELL CORPORATE PRODUCTS ON T.V. WHEN THEY SHOULD BE WORKING ON THEIR NEXT ALBUM. REMEMBER, DRUNKS AND ADDICTS CAN BE FUN, BUT NOBODY LIKES A JUNKY. EVEN MONEY IS A NARCOTIC.
Too many of these long nights and murky early mornings. How far will I go? How long will I last? I wonder if old age is necessary; if a young death is transcendent. I wish not to be a martyr either. Old age could be fun and wild in its exploration. To be the old and grey and lonely and wise man everyone is curious about and calls 'strange' with a smile on their faces. To be old and tired and weary and sharp from a lifetime of living this and many other human experiences. I am not yet refined enough to journey the realm beyond without repeating myself over and over. I am humbled, even now, sipping on a pint of beer in this aged pub in the middle of London.
Just last week I was drifting in the streets of Paris, among the ghosts of great writers who sought the same path. Sleeping in a crypt wouldn't be the answer now. Not now. There has to be that cool and funny and mystical medium. The place where so few of us wish to walk: the thin and blurred line between here and the liquid realm. A fantastic intersection of atavistic energy.
So, do I expect an early death? No. A long life? Not really. It all doesn't matter much now. It's the journey that should seduce us. I wouldn't allow myself to perish in the near future anyhow. I haven't accomplished what I have set out to. What I have come back to his meager planet to accomplish. The world needs more unique and insane and blended minds. Especially now. This mind is the writer. novelist. poet. whatever else I can get my grimey hands on. I want people to seek me out. To look at me with a sort of strange awe and to seek the path to their answers within me.
LEAVE YOUR COMFORTS AT THE TWISTED DOOR. HERE I WILL SHOW YOU THE GARDENS OF ARTFORM AND WE'LL SAVAGELY FUCK ON THE WARM GLASS OVER LOOKING REALITY. OUR WORDS WILL SET FIRE TO IT ALL. DANCE NAKED IN THE RAINFALL OF MY PASSION AND YOU WILL FINALLY CRY YOURSELF INTO SOMEONE NEW AND DESIRED. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN SO OUT OF YOUR MIND YOU COULDN'T HOLD A PRIMITIVE CONVERSATION WITH GOOD COMPANY ADMIST HUNDREDS OF LOUD STRANGERS? INTERACT WITH THE 30 PEOPLE MINGLING AROUND INSIDE OF YOUR HEAD YOU HADN'T ACKNOWLEDGED YOUR ENTIRE LIFE? MUCH LESS COMPLETELY FORGET YOU EVEN HAD A BODY, THAT SEEMS TO BE TREMBLING AND SWEATING ALL OVER ITSELF? YOU WOULD KNOW IF YOU DID. THAT'S WHAT I WOULD CALL INSANITY. OR MAYBE JUST A GOOD BATCH OF SHROOMS. MAYBE THAT'S THE KEY: TO CONSTANTLY TEST THE BOUNDS OF REALITY. HOW ELSE WOULD YOU KNOW YOU WERE ALIVE? NEVER SETTLE FOR ANYTHING LESS. FOR THAT'S WHEN A PERSON GROWS NUMB, AND NUMB IS DANGEROUS. AND NOT THE GOOD DANGEROUS WHERE YOU'VE BEEN UP ALL NIGHT WITH A HALF DOZEN STRIPPERS, CHEAP ALCOHOL IN YOUR STOMACH, TONGUES CARESSING YOUR BODY, AND PILLS DOING THEIR DANCE IN YOUR HEAD TO WAKE UP UNDER THE SUN ON A ROOFTOP OF SOME STRANGE AND STICKY BUILDING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE VALLEY. I'M TALKING ABOUT THE KIND OF DANGEROUS MAKING PEOPLE THINK IT'S OKAY TO VOTE FOR TEXAS CHRISTIANS OR TO SELL CORPORATE PRODUCTS ON T.V. WHEN THEY SHOULD BE WORKING ON THEIR NEXT ALBUM. REMEMBER, DRUNKS AND ADDICTS CAN BE FUN, BUT NOBODY LIKES A JUNKY. EVEN MONEY IS A NARCOTIC.
Your Friends in the Dark
Unsilenced madness, countless insanity
A night with the homicidal suicides, one pill too many
Aurora shimmers and the skin trickles
Come out of your graves and dance with the truly dead,
Death with his sickle
Limbo unleashed and clouds carry black fate
All chained to agoraphobic office work ants, teased by empty
pearl gates
Skeleton hands and hallow eyes
You can trust me, child. Come crawl the path where the wise
and evil keenly lie
A dark, lonely room of female poetry. Melted gravestones for
neighbors
Watch the slouched black shrouds mourning for the lost as
they dodge death with labor
So live with sly smirks and careful wisdom of anti-fear
For we are coming, and you will surely know the
darkness...maybe we are already here.
Unsilenced madness, countless insanity
A night with the homicidal suicides, one pill too many
Aurora shimmers and the skin trickles
Come out of your graves and dance with the truly dead,
Death with his sickle
Limbo unleashed and clouds carry black fate
All chained to agoraphobic office work ants, teased by empty
pearl gates
Skeleton hands and hallow eyes
You can trust me, child. Come crawl the path where the wise
and evil keenly lie
A dark, lonely room of female poetry. Melted gravestones for
neighbors
Watch the slouched black shrouds mourning for the lost as
they dodge death with labor
So live with sly smirks and careful wisdom of anti-fear
For we are coming, and you will surely know the
darkness...maybe we are already here.
i've decided to write more in this itching journal here. what the fuck, why not. it's apparent no one will come to read these entries so why not spill the soul and puke on heaven's door.
very good thing speed is not a physical addiction, or else i'd be in bad fucking trouble. but i've bent too much of my mind and paranoid nights trying not to wake up the roommates on uppers and motor drugs. i haven't had some good acid or even ecstasy in a very long time.
this country is zombie. turn on your overused t.v. if you haven't already chucked it out of a third story window and killed some OC brat carrying her sick little rat-mutant dog. nothing but country music rednecks, christian babble, and fat old coporate moths gobbling and slurping up the free speech of young people. make a buck. kill not fuck.
the drip has just hit me. what gross chemicals. i ignore it by throwing my attention at the t.v. I don't watch cable anymore. my monitor shows nothing but old movies made by an America that people believed in once. Easy Rider is now showing. what a fantastic piece of cinema. crash across the country...live on your chopper...dennis hopper is your best friend...jack nicholson knows all...let the acid warp your mind and fuck two prostitutes in a graveyard...mardi gras shrouds no truth...it will all end by the stroke of a redneck's 12 gauge. where have the heroes gone?
sleep well.
very good thing speed is not a physical addiction, or else i'd be in bad fucking trouble. but i've bent too much of my mind and paranoid nights trying not to wake up the roommates on uppers and motor drugs. i haven't had some good acid or even ecstasy in a very long time.
this country is zombie. turn on your overused t.v. if you haven't already chucked it out of a third story window and killed some OC brat carrying her sick little rat-mutant dog. nothing but country music rednecks, christian babble, and fat old coporate moths gobbling and slurping up the free speech of young people. make a buck. kill not fuck.
the drip has just hit me. what gross chemicals. i ignore it by throwing my attention at the t.v. I don't watch cable anymore. my monitor shows nothing but old movies made by an America that people believed in once. Easy Rider is now showing. what a fantastic piece of cinema. crash across the country...live on your chopper...dennis hopper is your best friend...jack nicholson knows all...let the acid warp your mind and fuck two prostitutes in a graveyard...mardi gras shrouds no truth...it will all end by the stroke of a redneck's 12 gauge. where have the heroes gone?
sleep well.
Not to touch the earth
Not to see the sun
Nothing left to do, but
Run, run, run
Let's run
Let's run
House upon the hill
Moon is lying still
Shadows of the trees
Witnessing the wild breeze
C'mon baby run with me
Let's run
Run with me
Run with me
Run with me
Let's run
The mansion is warm, at the top of the hill
Rich are the rooms and the comforts there
Red are the arms of luxuriant chairs
And you won't know a thing till you get inside
Dead president's corpse in the driver's car
The engine runs on glue and tar
Come on along, not goin' very far
To the East to meet the Czar
Run with me
Run with me
Run with me
Let's run
Some outlaws lived by the side of a lake
The minister's daughter's in love with the snake
Who lives in a well by the side of the road
Wake up, girl, we're almost home
We should see the gates by mornin'
We should be inside by the evenin'
Sun, sun, sun
Burn, burn, burn
Soon, soon, soon
Moon, moon, moon
I will get you
Soon!, Soon!, Soon!
I am the Lizard King
I can do anything
Not to see the sun
Nothing left to do, but
Run, run, run
Let's run
Let's run
House upon the hill
Moon is lying still
Shadows of the trees
Witnessing the wild breeze
C'mon baby run with me
Let's run
Run with me
Run with me
Run with me
Let's run
The mansion is warm, at the top of the hill
Rich are the rooms and the comforts there
Red are the arms of luxuriant chairs
And you won't know a thing till you get inside
Dead president's corpse in the driver's car
The engine runs on glue and tar
Come on along, not goin' very far
To the East to meet the Czar
Run with me
Run with me
Run with me
Let's run
Some outlaws lived by the side of a lake
The minister's daughter's in love with the snake
Who lives in a well by the side of the road
Wake up, girl, we're almost home
We should see the gates by mornin'
We should be inside by the evenin'
Sun, sun, sun
Burn, burn, burn
Soon, soon, soon
Moon, moon, moon
I will get you
Soon!, Soon!, Soon!
I am the Lizard King
I can do anything
RIP Hunter S. Thompson
what will happen now? times are warped. bad craziness. the only man with something worth saying in this country has put a gun to his head. what should that tell us? if God is indeed "in the White House" getting rich with the rest of the Texans, then who will open the doors for all the church-goers in the red states on Sunday? the weather hasn't helped either. lonely thoughts and grim skys. it's time to get weird. i must finish my higher education hurriedly and with much fear and haste. before they lock me in and make me run wild with bandits wearing tattoos of the cross and patriotic elephants, all of them bearing arms with no qualms about killing anyone who makes them feel uncomfortable. and especially before they send me off to a country i've never heard of to fight enemies who aren't mine. I must pack up and head East, through this wastland of a country that was finished once Jefferson took over, and into the cradle of western civilization, a place where no man would ever elect a Texan. no sympathy for the devil, keep that in mind. Rest well Mr. Thompson.
what will happen now? times are warped. bad craziness. the only man with something worth saying in this country has put a gun to his head. what should that tell us? if God is indeed "in the White House" getting rich with the rest of the Texans, then who will open the doors for all the church-goers in the red states on Sunday? the weather hasn't helped either. lonely thoughts and grim skys. it's time to get weird. i must finish my higher education hurriedly and with much fear and haste. before they lock me in and make me run wild with bandits wearing tattoos of the cross and patriotic elephants, all of them bearing arms with no qualms about killing anyone who makes them feel uncomfortable. and especially before they send me off to a country i've never heard of to fight enemies who aren't mine. I must pack up and head East, through this wastland of a country that was finished once Jefferson took over, and into the cradle of western civilization, a place where no man would ever elect a Texan. no sympathy for the devil, keep that in mind. Rest well Mr. Thompson.
Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child, my sweet one.
Choose the day and choose the sign of your day
The day's divinity
First thing you see.
A vast radiant beach in a cool jeweled moon
Couples naked race down by its quiet side
And we laugh like soft, mad children
Smug in the woolly cotton brains on infancy.
The music and voices are all around us.
Choose, they croon, the Ancient Ones
The time has come again.
Choose now, they croon
Beneath the moon
Beside an ancient lake.
Enter again the sweet forest,
Enter the hot dream,
Come with us,
Everything is broken up and dances.
My pretty child, my sweet one.
Choose the day and choose the sign of your day
The day's divinity
First thing you see.
A vast radiant beach in a cool jeweled moon
Couples naked race down by its quiet side
And we laugh like soft, mad children
Smug in the woolly cotton brains on infancy.
The music and voices are all around us.
Choose, they croon, the Ancient Ones
The time has come again.
Choose now, they croon
Beneath the moon
Beside an ancient lake.
Enter again the sweet forest,
Enter the hot dream,
Come with us,
Everything is broken up and dances.
SEPTEMBER 2010
AUGUST 2010
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