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Monday, April 14, 2008
Broke but never stolen
Seems the bricks led back... the circumference here is defined in terms of necessity, not Absolut(s). At least not entirely. Regardless, they certainly weren't yellow. Fancy that.
Tick tick tick tick. Impulse beat. Deathrattles and shoestrings. Don't miss.
Can't blink without dreaming. Split second silver screens. Too many distractions contraptions calculations interpretations salutations sensations rain. If you break it they will cum: on queue and with dignity. The only thing constant is consumption, the only thing relevant is the lack thereof. Completion is a fragmented figment, perpetrated because of inability. Your desperation is your addiction, your mind your cancer.
There is a horizon, but it lacks the crimson most would assume present. The answer is whitewall, not bloodbath. The urgency is in the order. As plain as possible, and without puns of anecdotes: scream.
Because no one can fucking hear you.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
1233 45678930
There are brains in the breadbox; a parallax in the parallel; a synthesizer in the synthesis. It comes down to Daft Punk and Beethoven. Or a dis+function. More likely the latter. It's hands that control these fabrications, not electrosynthetic pulses. It's nonsensical and irrational. There are no footnotes or legends in this transcript, only inebriation and infatuation.
BUT WITH WHAT.
Question of the century, riddle of the millennium. We're doomed to misinterpretation. It comes down to absurdity and abstinence. Or is there a pattern to it all. Can this be figuredcalculateddeciphered? You tell me tell you tell me. Fuck it all, lets go dancing.
The knack is lost, if it was ever there. Bygones.
.annie-dog
Monday, November 14, 2005
Substitute
A return to consciousness is in order! Prepare a banquet of powdered daggers for our parched tongues. The skin has been punctured by a thousand needles in the past hours, but where the inks start and the metal spoon concoctions end is difficult to tell, the only evidence is a tender crook.
Styrofoam nightmares filter in and out of colandered squishy matter and gutteral chants in the forms of Rag, Na, and Rok are the only things decipherable, but they sure do make for a good show.
The mind is a shotgun shell and nothing is clear. Glass cylinders with sharpened counterparts transform chaos to clarity. This return has been only temporary.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Salvia divinorum
Slotted spoons and carameled cubes give way to lucid dreams of dead end highways and bicycle shoestrings. Leather-bound volumes of masochistic pleasures are my confidantes in this sickening haze of groggy discontent, but morning brings new light to soon forgotten turmoil. The eyelids are forced but continue to dip in slow succession despite the idle threats laid out by yours truley. The brain is numbed and the bellow grows louder; each wave sharper than the last. Soon our drums will be cut and bled. Earplugs are megaphonic microphones in disguise.
FLASH a flame. Deep breath. Hold. The countdown until downtime beings five seconds ago. Twenty five until we die, six hundred until rezrazzurrection. The placenta is lodged in our throats, but now is not the time for trivia. Seven seconds left. Death begins with a slight drumming on the skull, a spinal tap, and overabundant salivation. Absythesizers reverse the wave and we are left with sluggish heartbeats and dialated pupils. Breathing slows, glazzies roll, and we all fall down.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Sound Check
Step one one two three I am betrothed to a cinderblock king. Self evolution goes only as far as the next dip in the patterned extinction. We will get to that meteor when it gets here.
flickclicksnapsnip is the sound of the progression of unplanned plans. It reverberates within the auditoriuskull as dancing flashes of steel and flesh mold as one in a perverse performance deemed inappropriate by most and unnecessary by all. Reddened knuckles speak the scriptures of the future in monotone understatements. Bleedloudersir.
Clocked work rides the night mare once again and fog slips in through abacus skin. There is only time for rhymes and stiletto mannequins. The veins make mother cry and babies die and poison flows through them. It is a self-inflicted affliction of addiction and there is nothing but an ever-increasing glazzylash to blame. Processes are stuttered. I am late night radio. Insert blank tape.
Reverberations. Sound check.
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