Hounds. Hounds. Hounds.

Crying to Kate Bush's Hounds of Love at 4 am cuz that's what catharsis looks like tonight. David Gray told me not to freeze how not to freeze how to and the big sky is so hard to look at arms left untucked by my woobie letting the vents siren scream their its frigid breath and I always cycle back to breath. Cold air. Goldy god like feelings that dont make any sense, at least they arent as stinging as the rest. Not yet. 

First heard this songs alone in a dorm same dorm I'm sure roomie saw me Jack it into my jockies worried into frightening places while Kate got her voice all squeaks and I felt like something more than the gaping place where someone might be-- bog witch coffin hole. Shattering scattering. 80s bass. 

Cross legged in a chair as best I could 

Same spot, same circumstance 

That i got into Grace Jones and Frat X vids. Cacooned in the comfort of my ancient blanket, tucked right under my nose, (the same blanket I freaked and weeped under when Tod died, (writing shit smear poetry to post on facebook) same one I use to wipe my loads on back in those early teen days when i was too hormy to be anything but disgusting) staring at a screen with I guess the album art on it who could remember. I just remember the light. 

And the dark

All around me infinite and thick as rabid slobbering gods tickling strings on a mistuned lyre. 

Dont we all deserve less? or better? 

It's getting harder to tell them apart these days. Just saying it could even make it happen. Tumbling over the body over and everywhere in the sheet masking, peering at empty walls and needing... something. Can you see that little light out there? Where? Just there. Just there. 

Cant forget the synth over the real world strings. Or the filtered vocals heavy as sins and their pounds of flesh. Just like Operattack. The happy, upbeat songs are destructively sad to me, and the slower somber tracks are all too romantic. Most days, love songs make me cry and I dont really have a reason why. Sputtering vocals, CD skip or vinyl scratching. 

Overall a dark love a weird love a love like staring at cityscapes in the dead of night from a power broker's window while he sleeps, pleased with his vacant nut sack, while you she me chainsmokes indoors wondering just how high up this place she's at really is. 

Lockney or Leary, i forget which

Cutting my arms with mirror shards shit diaper gods, frothing discontent uttering the mantras you hardly had time to memorize--Improvised corrections a new verse for you to revel in--but you already knew that didnt you? 

Angels inside me, i’m/he’s truer, truer than thou and holy
As a papal rimjob, as the rosary up my cunt during mass
The eucharist on thin tinsel
Dancing forward like the cock
A necklace of toeheaded manhood.


Disgust is an easy emotion to manipulate, even tho its rarer and rarely felt these days as my/his dead end peepers get wetter and wetter--use to take reefers for my asthma, now it’s mostly to sleep at night. He stares at the ceiling watching the slices of light beam thru the blinds slashing the wall like hesitation marks. In early dawn mornings they’re red. So very, fucking red.

a short piece, topiccal

You ever get hit with such a bout of nostalgia it makes you light headed? Im not talking about revisiting Yu-Gi-Oh for the thirty time or singing Disney songs till your thought gets sore or drawing parallels between Harry Potter characters and political pundits or getting off to weird porn based around whatever intellectual property you ended up sexuallizing later on in life (or even the ones that you kinkshame yourself for getting off too) or even the shows and movies you make younger generations watch (with or without a critical eye) so you can vicariously relive the magic of those childhood fantasies. No. I’m talking about the nostalgia that comes up opout of you like repressed trauma. Some obscura for the depths of your memories so far back that they’ve not only become an element of your psyche but they turn out to be so fundamentally ingrained into you that they’ve somehow formed an imperfect piece to the puzzle of your mind. For me, that’s Card Captor Sakura.

Sure, that’s an excessively grandiose way of thinking, but hey, sometimes a show from your childhood shows up on netflix and you gotta grapple with the wave of “Oh god that thing” that threatens to drown the next few days in utter self-indulgence.

Stare into the monolith and the monolith stares back into you.
Rotting away what was once a promising mind, and now
In the battle field for every John, Jane, and Jeanybody’s creations to war
With the feeble spirits that make you up.


That’s still disgustingly excessive.
The world is burning.

Yesterday was the largest civil rights protest in the history of the world. In the capital of every state and in eighteen other countries. And I spent it watching anime and wirefu cinema. Too broke to buy supplies, wakin up at 7 pm and too much of a pussy to drive out so close to the curfew, and too white to do more than wallow in the rage and fear that’s slowly enlarging the tumors of my depression. And everybody loves to hear a white male het passing loser bitch about his feelings, right? (/s). Gotta monetize these shitty feelings somehow.

That’s the classic transmutation, isnt? Turn your pain into beauty, Art, expression merchandise any and every kind of profitable media, right cuz that lends some kind of purpose to it doesnt it? Makes it all somehow seem worth it through the validation of another’s dollar. But what if you cant make art? What if you cant find the magic circle to translate that anguish into something more than that more than. Civil service? Duty? Community?

And the pigs are stomping around.
Hoof prints on the neck of protesters, the true law of the land trampled into rags.
What happened to the good ole fascist punching america? Is it so hard to believe the badge obscures a perverted swastika?

There’s a world outside while you fester alive, great raging flames, the kids force the picket line while you lie awake worrying at night. They’re worrying too, they bare bruises broken bones the blood soaked roots of revolution tanglin in their minds and you watch clips online of their tragedy, enraged you find chambers to scream in yet at best you scrawl slogans on sidewalks in rock chalk cuz you’re too broke to even get the dollar store shit. Scribble BLM on your plague mask in sharpie so you’re mildly huffin at the grocery store gettin looks for your effort but no one really talks to you. No one ever really talks to you.

We cant resurrect people. We can bring back the selves we once were, once wanted to be, want to be.

Bloodshot eyes just another hour or so. Gettin tired of magical princesses then move on to Yu-Gi-Oh learn about friendship and deus ex pecto or shuffle on thru to Beetle Borgs anything to get that wrought iron monkey breathing down your neck to take half a break and let the sun come up it doesnt make any difference everything’s the same and constantly changing how many do we have left how many are there to get going and what’s there across the sky weeping again and none of it matters really you get the few inches you fought for for all of it to slide back in feet there’s something so evil brewing and that’s gotta be stopped so you burn burn burn like fireworks across the stark raving mad words by white guys whallowin in their eggshell world cuz that’s safe and relatable but you cant keep that going you cant sustain a suspect world already decades dead instead try to find dawn the new horizons for all of us to brave. Wounds get filled with scar tissue./ You’re sneezing out metaphoric bandages that only seem to help yourself. What can be done when everything is suspect?

The rumble ups beneath the street,
The shifting bones ground into powder to thicken the concrete.
We can always build new courthouses.

Room 22

Why go outside? With so much to fear, with so much horror finely ingrained into the everything outside, why slip from shield you've erected, the wall's so painstakingly fortified? Music for one. Drugs are another. I suppose there are more reasons, better reasons, but they're all as wish-washy and what really does any of that mean, ig you can keep trying since there's nothing better to really do before you're dead. Sex, love, ok choices to exist for, but soon the science will reach the impossible dreams and you'll be able to print hookers from an 3D escort site; you'll download coke straight from the screen and directly into your nostrils. Until then you'll have to be content with the shitty world you've been dealt. So you file away your fear in the emotional/metaphysical file cabinet, in the drawer with the lock, where you keep the kinks you refuse to talk about and the memories you like to pretend are dreams. What is it you fear? People? The Unknown? or the Darkness that you will never escape? Outside there are the endless possibilities of fear, and inside there is the unending fretting that fetters you to what you find soothing, what you found to hush the voices and keep the Darkness from finding you.

Room 22: Triple Set

There was Pike Matton who was in somesortof band with somekind of sound to them. He played guitar, of course -- what the fuck else would he play? The strings were plucked strummed slammed ripped by his prying, frenzied fingers that traced up and down the neck like wringing out a chicken neck. It was dirty. Nasty. Their first track had a tan tshirt feel to it. He had an air about him, one that said a lot, said he wasnt into you unless you drank cheap beer and were a Dragonfly fan. The kind of guy I wanted to fuck but he’d rather beat the living shit out of me for even thinking of getting between the sheets with him, in all honesty that turned me on more than anything that the guy couldve provided in the bed room. There was a half-empty bottle of local shit they call beer that he kicked mid-solo out into the audience -- it hit the lip of the bar and shattered into oblivion spreading it contents all over bystanders who wooooed at the display.  The guy next to me pissed his pants: Im not too sure of the cause, couldve been the bottle and he just happened to be the biggest pussy in all the city or it might be the fact that I threatened to slice off his nuts if he so much thought about washing away all that I had been building up in him since dinner three hours ago -- either way it didnt matter I got what I wanted: a piss soaked stud who’d shit in my hat if I wanted; we rushed back to the special guest bathroom and I fucked him in the stall while he cried, disgraced by the state that he’s in. His weeping sounded like a Sun O))) cover of a Chelsea Wolfe cover of a Black Sabbath song that was being played from a tape found in a dead half-mexican runaway from the Valley who’d been on Peyote as the song jostled girlish in the soon-to-cadaver-mule’s bowels during his death thralls. Oh yeah and whatever fucking band Matton was in was playing some shitty neo-Punk song or whatever the fuck it’s called. I came and went back to band; I never saw the guy again. What was I talking about? O yeah, Matton -- he was hot, literally, Dave Grohl couldnt sweat like this fucker. I wonder what his underwear smells like. About around having that thought or just before it or just before the set was over, I completely lost all interest in him sexually. He was dried meat, now, left out in the sun and coated in flies, wasp, dead fairies. The band was okay, I’d hear better, still ok tho, but for a free show it wasnt half bad. With the last song Pike switched guitar for mic. Half the place cleared, which still makes no fucking sense to me. Whatever. Besides, what I came for was the drummer. He was a coworker of a friend and I at least had a shot with him -- true he was straight and taken but I’ve sweet talked married men into my bed before so why the hell should he be difficult? Plus he had an ass built for my cock: round, fat yet small enough to pack in the trunk of my car. That man had a tight hole, let me tell you. We talked, two weeks later Im fucking him at some party were they’re playing this bands’ cds and as I coat whatever-the-fuck-this-guy’s-name-is’s face with my load the very same song that Im listening to right now live is playing through the thin walls and it occurs to me that the only thing that me and this guy who’s now sucking my dick both in the past’s future and the current past, the latter of course in my mind, have in common is this band. I remember there was this cute couple of fags on the couch Harry got for this place a few years back: one of them kept rubbing the other’s back lovingly and it was distracting as hell -- I just kept staring. . . . . So. . .um, yeah, the band, yeah the band played about six songs I think, I dont know, in all honesty I dont give a flying fuck about this band's history, what it is or what it was or even their songs really, they’re something like a punk grunge garage band that made like chicken clucks with the vocalist jumping around during the song, which we all walked in on. There’s too much shit in the system to tell what’s going on. People I went with: if you’re reading this Im not really sorry, about, like any of that night. Also Im not paying you back. And dude, what’s your face, guy I fucked, the one who smoked a bowl with the Volta, yeah you, um sorry I guess? if you’re reading this, which you’re not, but yeah, like, I’d fuck your guitarist and I’d fuck you again if yer up for it, so I guess...call me? sure yeah, call me if you wanna hook up again. Whatever.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: The Last Day (44) "The Stadium"

know what it is that you dont know. and know you'll know it. -- Run, stand still, run again, go nowhere go everywhere all places are the same, since all places are places. -- 'You'll change, it's inevitable.' I know. 'How you ending it?' -- From a Review: It's shit, no one survives (spoilers), or....or maybe they do? Fuck if I know, it's shit, that's all you need to know. -- I guess, we'll never know.: from another. -- 'So, how?' -- with Silence, I think.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 43 "Secret Observations on the Goat-Girl"

Scribble all the thoughts you have in a journal -- Where did all the people go? -- otherwise it'll all be lost -- 80-90 percent chance Jamie's dead. Deadsies. -- sadly, no one can read the thoughts written out -- El. doesnt mourn anything, atleast today. Today shes out shopping in Rococo, the Pecan Flavored City. -- on the wall you painted -- So many come to Rococo, few rarely leave, and if they do, they always come back. -- behind your hole-in-the-head corpse -- I have, and always will be worthless. -- No amount of New Wave beats will shake the shadow from your root. Yer fucked, accept it, move on, deal. -- She's looking for a gift, this was the best place to look for it. There's so much to find in the dark corner's of Rococian stores. Antique malls that smell of old dissipating cologne and dead grandparents. She took a big whiff when she walked in. It gave her the slightest head rush. -- 'Oh it's beautiful! Beautiful!' -- Nothing says happy birthday like a dead 70-y/o's jewelry hocked by her great-grandkids. -- Jesus. Jesus. ...Jesus...... -- Up stairs, 'This place has an up-stairs?', 'I know, right!', it's cozy. Mostly furniture, an old couch, bunch of chairs, a quite nice poker table. There was a window laced with spider web cracks. It over looked the street. El. took a look (nothing in the attic-up-stairs appealed to her shopping list). There was hobo down there, or a man who just looked like a hobo (you can never tell here), sitting on the curb drinking....something. He had a huge puff of hair coated in dirt, grim, sweat, filth; a leather shirt that was baggy, his pants were dark with stain. He was looking across the street as he drank, staring at the park. His hands were callus, or so she thought. They seem like why should be. I wonder what his face looks like, she thought. She wanted him to turn around, too look up at her, and smile. She wanted to see his round face, to see those sharp eyes hidden in the hollows of his head, that broad flat nose, that toothy smile. She wanted nothing more to catch a glance at the man's beautiful face. 'Ooo! El look! They have some old books,' called Mel. El ignored her. She rushed down stairs, 'I'll be right back,' 'K!,' and out the door. But the man was gone. Gone.