his one is on the nasty side of things........Love and hate, both are bullshit. Oh yea and it's day 11

11.24.10

Sitting on the bed, computer in lap, drink in hand, wondering when the end of the world is coming, cause I’m still at the starting line.

Chewing on figs,chocolate and my pride.

Confusion and frustration, sauces in the mix of salty and acid sweet.

Exhaling smoke, my noodle cooks you in the microwave.

Watching eyeballs explode, I feed my resentment towards you.

Sweeter then sex I mentally mutilate you over and over again.

While you plead, I piss in your face of who you are and not what you pretend to be.

How I hate you.

My sex in you.

Hate and love, both are bullshit, opposite spectrums of violence.

Both end in blood.

Slasher movies are for pussies who can’t handle life.

You calling, expect to find me hiding from you my frustration and rage.

There is some kind of dark humor in all of this.

You head fucking me, and me fucking off.

Me forgetting about you, you seeing me, remembering, then wondering.

If you and me could go again.

Yea maybe, you on the rack me pulling the chains, pulleys stretching your ego thin.

Twisting your head back and forth you scream through the gag called denial.

How I hate and resent what you represent.

Sorry I’m not interested in boys.

Treating me like shit, or some used utility belt around your insecurities.

What did you think I would say.

Hey!

Great to see you, fuck you very much for the humiliation.

Convincing yourself of evil deeds, far from done, re-enforce your moat.

Convince your army the enemy is here, very real.

In your head.

Then you need to convince me.

What a conundrum when I didn’t take the bait.

What a shock when I stood on your ground, stared you in the eye, and didn’t back down.

Identifying what you are.

Watching you run, like a deer before the bullet hits her in the ass.

Not killing her, just laming her.

The hunter’s not in it for the meat, just the game.

Like you.

Your queen is exposed.

Is your ego so huge, you figured you’d never lose your face inside an Iron Maiden?

Or is your delusion so grand, your transparency blinds you.

Long distance drama over the phone, complaints of synthetic aches and pains.

Self inflicted, cause you can’t handle something called reality.

Instead you steal into 

some kind of self manufactured lie, you believe about yourself.

Wow such a bad ass of a guy.

Sorry baby, you don’t have it you.

Your a pussy like the rest of us.

Bound by the laws of the living and dead.

I have danced with your fantasy.

Just, addictions, suspicions, beatings, glocks, semis, amour piercing bullets and imprisonment, where rape in thought of as first base.

Slasher movies are for pussies who can’t handle life.

Do you think so highly of yourself, you think women are waiting around for you.

Bitches in your life use you, manipulate you, posses you.

Your transparency blinds you.

A good thing kicked you in the balls.

How a hate what you represent.

Your donkey is over loaded, why don’t your carry your luggage for the rest of the way.

Don’t have it in you.

Do you.

Love and hate,  are bullshit and both end in bloodshed.

Day 10 War, Geology and Stale Pastries... hey if any one else would like me to butcher their term paper. Send me a page or two.

11.17.10

Do you ever have days where your teeth hurt?

For shit’s n giggles, gonna change the formula, my teeth hurt, curt I twirl on a pencil tip, dancing with animal flies. Corn and peas in my rice, spiced

wtih tumeric and ginger.’

Finger green vegan jello.

Is there such a thing as vegan green jello?

Donno.

Don’t care, wouldn’t share it with you,

any way.

Maybe my teeth wouldn’t hurt so much if I didn’t eat

so much chocolate.

Don’t look at me like that, it’s a fact, I

don’t get laid much.

Well not at all.

Whos fault,

is it any way?

Me not getting laid, and sore teeth.

Could be the grinding I do at night, 

despite all the relaxtion and meditation, I do.

Don’t seem to

do much to reduce smooth surfaced back molars.

Heritiary?

Maybe.

Hillary?

Naw, she’s some crazy bitch dressed in a nice suted for the Xfiles.

Mulder and Scully... funny,

at the Pantagon, mad for pink puddles, tie dyed camoflased kaki under shirts.

Yellow head phoning Russian for some Vodka.

Potato juice, fuck Beetle Juice, he was just an asshole.

Hey yea know

 my brain don’t hurt, but my teeth do.

Things seem to be smoothing finely ground pieces slipping through,

my fingers smelling like ginger.

The past week has been a sneak into what I should expect when I get old.

Cold and stupid, wearing diapers, fencing with windshield wipers.

Gonna need them when it hits the fan, in an iron pan.

Gas stove left on, exploding apple, and pears, I can’t hear.

Cause I’m deaf.

But a debate on who fault it is I was born, with corn in my peas and rice.

Dice with stupid tiny, microscopic dots, I’m supposed to be able to read.

Took some speed, hitting a stop sign at mach four, world tour around, a frozen pond.

Sing song, sucking on king kong right index finger nail, which is lodged in the middle of a peaches pit.

Leaking cyanide and peace signs, along highway sixty nine.

My brain doesn’t hurts so much today, strange the past four days, where painful.

Fits and starts, self doubt, about this project, of writing, not biting into shallow pools in.

Twisted consciousness.

Tough it is to write every day, and keep it interesting, even for me.

Pity the sucker, who reads this shit, I’d rather jump ship in the 

middle of the Pacific, and hit a dolphins on it’s left fin, a garbage bin.

Full of eye ball peels, onion skin paper with scripted text for day time drama, actors.

Dip sticks and shit line the walls of the asylum, bend over backward into apple sauce, guitar wizards cast spelling bees.

Stinging points penetrate, frustrate, people politics, involved with in internal biopsies, wearing biceps,thick glasses miopic civic vision.

Division with in red and grey stripped shirts, white collars, basemented fruit cellars.

What a fella to have ignored my advancement into worlds of  mathematical..... gawd I’m repeating myself.

Fuck.

This is like a long term relationship, sinking ship.

Going to indulge in plagiarism donated by Thunder Bat.

this is to make you rethink using my terrible paper:

The geology of Mt. McKay has developed a mesa comprised of two diaries. Big and small, thick and thin silly with a layer of grey-black, iron rich shale chaps. Known as the gunflint formation or ass slapping chafting but crack while thrusting into a great void called pink granite.

Or was it corn?

Scorn, for lorn, born, storm?

What where we talking about?

The geology of Mt. McKay has developed a mesa comprised by sporting bras, safety words to ensure every element of two diaries, black and blue, you, me will not be harmed.  Sills with a layer of grey-black, some times pleather with iron rich studs, bitches and pimps pushing shale known as the gunflint or semi automatic gunfire. Military formation, between each sill can really suck, unless the person knows what he or she is doing, hitting right spot at the right time with the right amount of pressure. Land mines are much worse, exploding masses full of yesterdays cold oatmeal can be disgusting. All though for some it can be quit a turn on, depending on the environment, weather conditions, and geographical location. Diaries of this nature are rare and hard to find. Keep in mind an iron-rich igneous rock, which erodes,oil worshippers much more slowly when no lube is used. Make sure you do cause the surrounding strata will give way to resistance. Allowing for more deviant behavior to persist creating an atmosphere where  toe curling orgasms are nonexistent for the rest of your life. 

Subsequent layers of rock were eroded, which in some schools of thought,  it wasn’t all that bad because it exposed the sports bra which repressed forms in the mountain better know as a really good set of tits. Communities located on the lower sill are founded on thick, rich soil that has been able to develop, rather than percolate between rock and a hard place or hard on, as it does in the gunflint shale,  gun fire, and or shrapnel. The flush community, richly labeled as pubic crabs, which Mr. Important science guy has detailed, due multiple infections. (He should have known better, fucking sheep after sun set is a sure fire way to get them. Every one knows fucking sheep at high noon is the safest time, due to such perversity prefers darkness and chameleons ) is located on a sill, while the north-facing talus site is on a gunflint slope, bombards the village of the south with jelly filled donuts, stale cookies and poorly made mac and cheese.

You can imagine the irritation of the community below experiencing under cooked marconi and cold coagulated cheese as some what inconvenient and unnecessary. In retaliation, it is believed they had many town council meetings, spent countless tax dollars to study their assailant physiological state of mind in order to understand and reason with them. Maybe draw up a peace treaty, even though the southerners had no idea why the northerners would chuck such culinary insults at them. This went on for at least a year or two, the streets where clogged , every window in every building was broken and stained shit loads of stale jelly filled donuts torpedoed through the atmosphere, propelled by a catapult. As one can understand  was a complete piss off.

Granite aint got nothing on stale chocolate chip cookies, those fuckers cut through concrete like a hot knife through frozen horse shit.

The town was in shambles.

Now here is where things got really interesting.

Even though, the town was in the shitter, the northerners where deviants and perverts, not to mention, psychologically fucked. This is an assumption due to the southerners have sent intelligence agents, known as S.S.P. Southern Smarty Pants. Never came back or if they did they where permanently damaged or obsessed with masturbation.

Of course this just reenforced the southern paranoia to the point of hysteria.

Money started to be funneled from the social system, (which was world known for it’s universal health care, education for all, affordable housing, food and clothing and day care assistance) toward weapon development to fling the crap the insane northerners where chucking at them.

Now here is where it get very exciting, the window repair guys and gals where loving the  incessant down pour of stale pastries. Business was booming, never before had a window repair person or cleaner afford a high end strap on with a built in surround sound high definition camcorder for those intimate and special moments (brought to you by Porno Electronics)

Every scientist, philosopher, engineer had a job, and a damm good paying one at that.

The media was loving it, there was always something to report, with color, flourish and patriotism. Citizens of the south ate it up like fancy expensive mac and cheese that came in much smaller boxes at twice the price.

Two years went by and the south shot back.

Dried up used condoms, rolls of the roughest toilet paper, yesterday’s underpants and the most unfortunate set of salt and pepper shakers any one could imagine.

The north was stunned, shocked and confused.

They had no idea what the south’s problem was.

They stopped their assault of stale pastries.

In the silence, over a blown amp, a northerner asked

What the fuck?

In reply the south shot the idiot in the head with an over cooked ham roast.

Well holy fuck if the north wasn’t pissed. Every one knows ham roasts are always chucked with candied apples.

Millions of dollars later, and millions of pounds of stale pastries, condoms, ruff toilet paper and over cooked ham roasts. The two countries continue their self indulgent food fight for no other reason for the fact it gives them something to do.

Makes them money and keeps life interesting.

So there hows that for a botching of a once well written, term paper that

you dared me to use Miss Thunder Bat.

Stick with me and you’ll go far.

Seriously.

Day 9, this one could be offensive, read at your own risk.

11.16.10

I feel restless, and distressed.

Deep in my belly, something is missing, no it’s not ice-cream.

Got something to say, question the wisdom.

Buried deep in my bosom.

There’s a dead deer head in my back alley.

Dead deer.

Dead dear.

Mommy dearest dead, head, end of sentence, executioner's hood.

To hid his face from me as he kicks the chair out from beneath me.

Decapitated dear head in my back alley.

Dead deer ripped out rib cages, freeing enslaved red hearts, tearing it apart, to engorge upon, swollen bullies.

Full of flies and maggots, I bet you thought my next line was gonna be faggot.

Red faced and pulpits

Dilated pupils

 on the dead dear head.

In  bed with me, fuck you til you plead, me

to

stop.

Tie

you

up.

Ball gag in mouth, blind fold, hold on, leather bindings 

Master and slave, make me purr.

Stirring it.

Some where there’s a deer missing it’s head with red fur, reading Sunday papers, headlining Ozzy’s latest schtick.

I prefer Suicide Silence, while I bind your feet.

Feel the meat.

Red, white vertebra, black vacant jelly jewels, 

you mewl for me to let you go.

Sew your eyes and mouth shut.

Crisis cross stitching, I rape your consciousness.

Deny your arousal, her and I, 

fucking.

Ducking your eyes roll, 

like a dead deers head, brain spasms upon across.

Some kind of loss?

Chasms in your  mortality, or mortality.

Adorned in silk, drenched in blood of the deer, wandering dimensions between pleasure and pain.

Suck on you until you came.

Pray forgiveness.

Blindness I burn your eyes out, devote in your beliefs.

Or lies.

Tied to the electric chair, ripping out your hair, I spare myself the chore, 

cleaning up after your misconception of procreation.

Burning in hell, I shave my public hair, to share with sacrificed virgins.

Tied to your electric chair, share aborted philosophies on vasectomies.

Bleed pagan symbols to put in my soup or pre- minstrel discharge, from justice.

Pro life.

Premeditated murder, there’s a dead deer in my back alley.

Burning bitches at the stake, turn the spit.

Marinating for day, as you via for control.

Sacred apple from a sacred garden, pardon while I laugh.

In the face of fantasists, willing participants in,

repression, regression, expectable aggression.

Kick my association to the dead deer’s head.

In my back alley.

Vacant jellied eyes, masked as family planning, demanding, fear tactics, thumb holed.

Behold.

A dead deer’s head in your back alley.

Day 8

11.15.10

Love is so good, when your stealing it.

Biting on the lip, trippin, in it.

 Shifting through rift tides o’ time.

Upload binary, coronary hot chocolate and soya shakes, going raw, with the Beatles.

Lordy I hate the Beatles, many ask me why.

Sorry no explanation needed, 

transplanted, saved seeds, 

no weed on tv.

Monstrous project started out as a story, 

but the tories 

got a hold, of

this run away freight train. 

Loose leaf tea, blank stare, glazed eyes, poorly stitch ideas.

Twitch!

Butt cramp, leg cramp brain cramp, roll over, 

quilt over head.

Still in bed... 

I think, last time I looked ten pages ago.

So, 

maybe we can do something like this again.

Wonderful, joyous welcome, to this, and that.

This was going to be a poetic novel, instead it’s

hours of shoveling it.

Only thing about good intentions is, they all ways forget to mention it, to you.

Short skirts in crossed legs, what ever staged cheap bar, is needed.

Hoping for a break through, hand out far away, table and chair, phantoms of you and your dreams locked in excused of quotations.

Don’t know the answer to this issue.:

“Cuse me do you need a tissue.

On line child porn, is corn lodge in society’s shit.

Problems with email, traceable to suburban buses loads of tourist, visiting  sporting resorts.

Hey there’s no running hot water or flushable toilet.

Ass boils on the hairy ass of the inconvenient.

Spoiled and used to exploit, means to our end of excessive life styles.

Pile it high, uncollectitve capital.

Not supporting a meeting and greeting to disgust that must churn in the stomach of, such evil creatures posing as human.

Rubber balloon, cruising death row, in pink jump suits, pollute binary, one, zero, one, zero,

Nero’s red herring flies in spaces between,dirt under nails, cracks in walls and cockroaches asshole.

Watch him fiddle, diddle me while Rome, burns, turn left at the right sign.

Timed confuting made with spaghetti.

Hey I bought new shoes today!

Yea fuck I bought a new pair of shoes.

The old  shoes where givin me the Mississippi Blue.

Delta at best, canoeing down to river side Wolsly, opposed in a more positive light.

My huge feet mostly protest and confess, ugly coverings of condemned sense.

Fashion is far from my community of thought’s passion.

I bought a new pair of shoes today, watch me fly.

My old ones gave me grief, retreat from the front lines, behind the times.

Blinded by Mondragon’s cookies, while playing hooky giving you a blow job.

I bought new shoes today.

Wanna walk in my old ones.

See if they fit, then hit the concrete, and role play you are me, and see, if you can walk a mile in my old shoes.

Worn holes in my souls, tango and fandango, kleeshays.

I do try not to repeat myself, be interesting, investing time, to read all of this shit.

And count how many times I try to be profound and find, I cringed out the gutter and shutter at what, I find in the cup of my bra.

Bullshit, tits, ass and sex.

Does it always come down to sex.

I bet good food is in there some where.

Did I tell you I bought a new pair of shoes?

The old ones hurt my being at cheap, my left knee swollan with defeat.

My god most of this drivel is a river about me.

How boring.

Where was I.

Oh yea, doing it today, thinking it today, so proud about my new pair of shoes.

That you could careless, I confess, I am proud of my new shoes.

Reused the old shoes to house my plants, under my apple tree.

Where I sit and dream about my new pair of shoes.

GAG!!!!

Riverside - Reality Dream III (Live at Paradiso (Amsterdam 2008.12.10) T...

Riverside - Reality Dream II

9,438 words and still nowhere near half way...oh ya and day 7

Sweet is thine picnics of knee chaps, red and white little squares,

Reds ant, cant, for thee to me is a pain in the ass.

Race horse pace, over here sweet love, bake a pie and  explain t’ me why.

I am not good for you,

Is it not true, for thine is mine to keep?

In rich steep cells o’ ma modest breast.

Inhale pachouli, a scent of war.

I will find you.

Where ever thee chooseth to flee.

Stalk and mark chalk marks of the black body bags, big is the streets that stalk the Ripper’s zipper.

Jest me not fool!

I am capable of such cruelty, to me, thee shall see we are inevitable.

Hot sands of Africa’s deserts fill not thy heart? 

Come!

Slave to thy thirst, drenched in mine own depression.

Obsession you said to thee, for hath not thy stave off mine own entity?

Identity, me thinks not of you, as me.

Such bitches in black hole spotless ties of ribbon in  pathetic castles.

No. 

No.

Thy will be done, up me.

My nave.

I will feed up thy liver, deliver you unto thine mystery of independent misery.

Sleep with me, for thou hast not cast one word or swipe at the type of abuse used against the wall and halls of silk clad nobles.

Afraid?

Yes I see it.

Here the spirits in thy multi colored encoded braille.

Derail are you?

Suckle my tit for it shall be worse on the morn on the after mathematical, explosion of your  third eyeball.

Cry not!

Hath I not done all to comfort you.

Is it not true, t’was you?

Who chose to come down the trail of steep declination,

Tell me.

What did thy mind thinkest amongst the dirt filled balloons of time. That thy will fly away unharmed. unsoiled?

Surely tho must have some kind of intellect, to suspect obvious black roses in quartz vases.

You are an idiot.

Symbol of deaths vicious appetite, conceived in chests, hairless bodies.

This is the nightmares wail, black caped witches was the corn rows with crows, cawing thine name.

What is thy name.

Nay say not, you know it,, for I have taken it, your tongue. Speech defines us from the four legged creatures doomed to pull tricks of amusement. 

What doest that, me to you?

A beast!

Raw meat and half cooked flesh, the whites of your eyes encircle my arousal.

For sale, who said I could have my cake and eat it too?

You my little beast, chain to cinder blocks, steal around town for a  bit.

More games to play.

Well that was some kind of fucked.

Arty yea.

Arty farty.

Yea I can do it.

Super smart, shit this trip.

On the streets is where the heat is, down tempo biz makes my G spot.

Drizzle with

Artistic anal androgynous construction zones,

infrastructure sutured into surgical steel genital piercing, screams in the Plug In.

Yea I can do smart art.

Hold my nose, and swallow chase it down stream in a blur of magic in mushrooms, full  to you and your zooming in to close to the thrust I must trust at some point if I’m to be able to see.

The world as it could be, but not be.

But after any statement negates the  beginning point of an argument.

Augment my disappointment at understanding I wasn’t born with a dick.

I wish I was, cause, I could run around with it in my hand, shooting blanks and a have an excuse for it.

Bullshit!

I do it any way, transgendered hotties in pleather, send me running for clear skins. lip stick and lubricant.

Damn what a strap on!! 

Let me lick you belly button, turn on the disco ball and dance. dance. dance to non existent lines manufactured by, powers at be to control you and me.

Ceilings high as the sky, pink granite on cliffs of grant applications.

Sensation with stagnation, I hold onto a grudge, trudging through my resentment.

Deep contempt lives in tent like villages,

Refugees of reconciliation, veiled from day lilies, orange fire, sun yellow, black gold.

I hold bottles of pills, will some day free me of some kind of disease, weeks, days, years go by.

Who am I?

To question what it is that exists between you and I.

I don’t understand, can, it be possible  to feel with out and kind of panic.

Your hand on my back pushing me forward.

Towards what?

I could speculate, maybe articulate, frustration, emotional dehydration. 

Unplanned is the hand in the pie of my destiny, or close proxy to the boxes, four years later still unpacked begging for attention,

Much like the memories I covet, ignore and store, behind a black door, i my land mines of a mid might and tight locks of codes encrusted, greased meat, slide down polar ice caps.

Melting any kind of resistance to, what it is they want me to do.

High art.

Just what is that?

Kick...... Snare

Kick...... Snare

Kick...... Snare

Kick...... Snare..... WUB

Kick.kick...... Snare.... WUB 

WUB

Kick,kick...... Snare.Snare.Snare.

Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare.WUB

Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare. Snare....Wub, deep dub step. 

Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare.WUB

Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare. Snare....Wub, deep dub step.

High art.

What is that?

Not sure but. I did to time in art school.

Remember what I said about the word but?

A lot coming out, not much going in.

 Burn out, wipe out, burn out, cop out.

I wonder how many times I will repeat  what myself?

There’s is only so much in the shelf called garbage can brain jam.

Shake my dreads like a wet dog, rattled some marbles, ball barrings full frontal lobs of lobotomies, fried up in cast iron pans.

High art, high art, high art......well I think it starts with a conception, not particularly a deception. 

Execution a second thought. 

Maybe?

High art, ideas, idiocies?

Translation: extremely stupid behavior, well that’s kind of harsh, I mean swimming in a bog marsh of alphabet soup, with out shoes.

High art.

What is that?

Oh wait I got it wrong, shit maybe should get rid of the bong.

It’s High Culture.

What is that?

Hmmm maybe start with

Donno.

Kick...... Snare

Kick...... Snare

Kick...... Snare

Kick...... Snare..... WUB

Kick.kick...... Snare.... WUB 

WUB

Kick,kick...... Snare.Snare.Snare.

Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare.WUB

Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare. Snare....Wub, deep dub step. 

Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare.WUB

Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare. Snare....Wub, deep dub step.

Scamming out deeps beats, god I’m horny for something valid to say.

Ok Culture lets start with typing like a fool into google, the crazy slut must,

cut the grapes full of crap, while I strap myself silly.

Culture, culture, culture, you know if culture is spelled many times on the pin head of a fruit fly wearing, acid washed blue jean, and Betty Pages’s fish nets on it’s head.

The word starts to lose it’s meaning and ambiguity, toward nudity, invades high rationing, I mean reasoning, in, I  mean high art a fuck!

High  culture.

Fuck I’m horny for a good idea.

C.U.L.T.U.R.E.... let’s see if the internet knows what it means.

• a particular society at a particular time and place; "early Mayan civilization"

• the tastes in art and manners that are favored by a social group

• acculturation: all the knowledge and values shared by a society

• (biology) the growing of microorganisms in a nutrient medium (such as gelatin or agar); "the culture of cells in a Petri dish"

• polish: a highly developed state of perfection; having a flawless or impeccable quality; "they performed with great polish"; "I admired the exquisite refinement of his prose"; "almost an inspiration which gives to all work that finish which is almost art"--Joseph Conrad

• the attitudes and behavior that are characteristic of a particular social group or organization; "the developing drug culture"; "the reason that the agency is doomed to inaction has something to do with the FBI culture"

• grow in a special preparation; "the biologist grows microorganisms"

• the raising of plants or animals; "the culture of oysters"

oh.

Well that’s a lot of help, for fucksakes!

Take a look at the fucking book!!

Definitions, description, a prescription for Pros act.

Ha!

Did ja git it!!!

High Art, Culture, what ever.

The horny for a good idea just went limp, really really limp.

Sucking on my dying spliff.

Dimples in lower cheeks covered by flowered underwear, could care less about high culture.

Kind of like me, sitting here staring at the fucking screen trying not to scream.

Fuck I’m horny for a new idea.

Kick...... Snare

Kick...... Snare

Kick...... Snare

Kick...... Snare..... WUB

Kick.kick...... Snare.... WUB 

WUB

Kick,kick...... Snare.Snare.Snare.

Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare.WUB

Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare. Snare....Wub, deep dub step. 

Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare.WUB

Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare. Snare....Wub, deep dub step.

Wanna go for a run?

No not really my idea of fun.

All though running from this project. and let it be, to stave of ghosts that haunts the cat bowl.