Sour Somethings - by SickBoy

Broke but never stolen

2008-04-14T20:57:00.000-07:00

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.

1233 45678930

2007-10-07T00:11:00.000-07:00

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

Substitute

2005-11-14T15:39:00.000-08:00

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.

Salvia divinorum

2005-11-04T22:01:00.000-08:00

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.

Sound Check

2005-11-03T18:56:00.000-08:00

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.

dniweR

2005-11-02T18:35:00.000-08:00

The lashes grow with each passing moment. The mailwoman supplies ingredients for a disaster we have not planned, but are guaranteed to follow through on.

dniweRyalPlay

This is the cul de sac of adolescent boundaries in which we cannot break free. With each round the crack our knees scab on becomes larger. It's only a matter of time until it swallows us whole.

P..a..u..s..e

Is it preventable? Although the frontal lobe (and its surrounding comrades in brainery) don't believe in fate or bearded men with puppet strings, there is always the inevitable. There are Certains and this is one of them. It will happen, it must happen. Whenwherewhywho?

Play|Record

Consider this! tools motives angst ANGER hatred time past present future lies rinse e x p a n d repeat. Warning sirens are muffled and distorted by salty tears stored and saved. A Rainy Day is soon and checks have been written. A plan is a plan is a plan. Follow observe OBEY. The bones are not metallic gears, but they follow the same pattern. It is out of anyone's control.

Sickyboy has kaleidascope eyes with disproportionate hands and razorblade nails. Studded lids flicker in rapid succession as the images flash onto the screen, but he sees nothing but diamond skies. The film repeats and he is none the wiser. It is a lesson never learned and a pattern always repeated. This is the end of all times.

dniweR

STOP

Statement of Intent

2005-11-02T13:22:00.000-08:00

Enter Herr Doktor.

Is there an echo in here?

There seems to be confusion over my intentions in this quibble. But what isn't seen nor understood nor even assumed is that it is the provocation of emotion and distant recognition that this seemingly nonsensical diatribe is grasping for. These words aren't meant to be digested as-is or even is-as, but rather they exist in their current state in order to bring about an undefinable regonition deep within the bowels of the observant minstrels who happen to stumple upon them.

The purpose then is merely to evoke reactions without the use of cleared up and dumbed down directions. A kind of internal torment designed to be just obscure enough to leave the victim in a shell-shocked thought process. The result is a sense of unreasonable paranoia, insecurity, and emptiness. Self-doubt coagulates and chokes the arteries: Ego homicide.

The flow and word choice is sugar-coated in vague soliloquy so as not to allow the pure venom, which would normally spew from this Narrator's chords, eat holes in your stockings.

Telephonic Roulette

2005-11-01T18:56:00.000-08:00

Hold the phone! HOLD IT! The time has come for telephonic roulette. Antennae first. Thankyousir.

Ring.

Hark! What be this glorious day of downpoured melancholy? It's raining silver spoons I tell you. Babies are drowning in a sea of metallic utensils and there is nary an arm floatie to spare. But I digress, onward towards the horizon my stuttering steed!

The fog continues to creep up on me each night like some sort of clocked work. Syringe in tote, it scales the back of my swirly chair and plunges me directly in the juglular. Truely a horrific event if you've ever witnessed it. But of course you haven't, for the clocked work is never seen, only assumed. Like cottage cheese. I seem to have slipped into the fathom of incoherence. I am well aware that a decrypto ring is required for digestion of this data, so search your local cereal boxes and super heroes.

Ring.

My mind is currently stuck in a groteque bout of ring-a-round and there's no sign of stopping. Small children, disguised as hopes and hallucinations, push it along at an alarming rate. It is no longer in my control so the only question left is what will this accomplish. My tongue has become forked and it bleeds white blood. Futile? Perhaps. Deserved? Certainly. What is the goal? There is no goal. There is only a cycle of defeat devised purposely for that reason. Slavery is freedom. War is peace. Shove a stick in my spokes and tell me you love me.

The hands are dirty; the boots muddy; and now it is time for sleep. The sides are slick and there's a flood coming. We shouldn't have made the chains so tight.

Click.

Ultra Violence

2005-10-31T18:43:00.000-08:00

There's a common misconception in my razrezzing in which it is assumed that I am an inherently violent individual. Although this may be the case in a large number of situations, I don't feel as though I'm left without a choice in my actions; in effect, a clockwork orange. Far from it in fact. My misdeeds are merely a product of a productless mind; a sum of boredom and lingering adolescent ideology. The choice I make isn't in whether to destroy or to create, but which one will come first. For to destroy is to create and to create is to destroy. Each is a symptom of the other's disease. A beautiful chaos or a kroovy perfection is where the yellow brick goes, and a milk plus dream is our only guide; where knives dance upon our tongues and pierce through our glazzies. A wonderful life indeed, as long as one keeps his rookers clean.

This Humble Narrator, although an imitation and a poor one at that, has had a few too many sharpenings and there's sleep to be had. Apologies and RSVPS will be sent in the morning.

gninnigeB weN

2005-10-28T17:29:00.000-07:00

Apologies for the absence, things have been amiss. Amuck, even. Partially due to my fixation with deadly, illegal weapons, and partially because I got lost in the internet. It happens to the best of us.

So where was I? Hello sir.

My mind is in the gutter and the gutter is in the ditch that mother told us not to play in. I've got needles in my teeth and grime in my skin, but I'm complacent in my apathy and the blood streaming out of my face is merely a side effect of the rampant narcissism.

And the mirror mirror whispered back, "not you".

Apart from a temporary departure this air-balloning alley cat has gone on his intended path, albeit one of eventual aneurisms and boxer's fractures. I've spent my leisure time talking to walls and seducing doorknobs, but otherwise it has been a fruitful experience of self exploration and ventilation.

Oh I'm sorry. I've just answered your question with another question.

fin