Friday, July 20, 2007

Dast is big gabidge truck!

They've surrounded us now, but they are gone.......... smelly men everywere!

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

From the Lust of Heat 2

The bastards swimming in the back wouldn't you know... The liquid leather of beer drains like a mucus down the back of my throught. The Gonzo Royal Emporter swims in my veins heavy from an afternoon of deep loathing and sweat chills of random late afternoon inebreations. The sand sticks to me like an evangelical from his pecker, round about the ol' ankles resting up on a mutated palm. The seagulls are screaming and the ocean is pulsing with a rushing breath, and I swayed on the back of the bike tween them sandy sandy legs. But now the hour is late and we discuss the TV land traugh and observe the truths of talk shows. Think about it, some brilliant freak is set behind a counter ready to blast, with non of that que-card shit, puling the pud onto the face of some obscure vulnerable un fucking prepared celebrity. My neck is the very essence of wet nudle. This is a sick state my friends; the paranoa in the air strikes to an intence brilliance drenched in stupidity. The vegging has patheticly comenced and with all the shit in the air there is the hope for leasure....or some bullshit likr that. I hope Iam able to spell because Im blind. I just have sister avt to guid me.... oooooo this is true blue sloth right now. Cheese and all my friends. god it's like talking to an infant with a thom yorke eye. The smile is there but the mood sn't the same. Kinda like wanting to kill it becuse it just rubs you an earily obscene way. Drown it in it's own slimy mucus. Oopoh boy! That stuff slides down the throught like the blackest coffee. I'm fried my frineds an in need to doodle. Farewell from the sloth of sweat and the obscenity of insomnia. To all of you I send my deepest love, and to you angknowledge that the journey is never really done my fxriends. To you I love you all in thet truest from. SO I leave you with only this, my never dying love, which will return. My promise...
But now I doodle,for the love of living....streetlights and seasons bright....

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

From the Lust of Heat

That sucks you can't tab... well the maniquins hae descended upon me as of the current time. They are in the mist of a homiscidal smirk that screams Marsha.

Outside the thwapping rain of insects comes to melike a bitter grimace on new years day. Well i gues we can begin this tale from within the tale. I first located the preciouse Hunter S. Thompson beer, but then I was able to aprehend a few on the beach. Then that rgowjWOghjerophegr90grsn nbegruw90grwn stonedmiop'RGHWnSVnjimp'kSDGdd nI{Q@@Q

I just killed my bro's computer>...

Sunday, July 08, 2007

Suburban Lullaby

A fortnight into November, on a greased skillet left to dry; the glistening obsidian dance floor freshly waxed with twilight flurries stretched its two lanes down either end of the midnight neighborhood, vacant and ridden with nighttime specters. The inhabitance of dreams loomed humid in the mauve wind, and these drifting figments danced heavily on to the breeze as they seeped out of bedroom windows, occasionally kicking-up the debris of withered leaves; a heavy melody of typewriters producing a text of Tolstoy proportions. They fled like antelopes, prancing in violent graceful bounds, maple mammals on a concrete plain under siege, disoriented by panic. Given one’s presence, you would have been distracted from the sight by the melancholy sigh of wind; an exhalation of a fellow made desolate after his love was put to waste, suppressing memories with a surfeit of distilled spirits. The chill which made even the massive skeletal structures of autumn trees chatter there branches, like an elementary juvenile’s teeth after a bitter defeat in a snowball fight.
And in the midst of this sonic-vacancy, significant to those who desired rest, came a distant pitter-patter too quick to be replicated by a four-legged wonderer. An apparition, with strobe-like tendencies, an on-and-off rhythm as he passed under the illumination of streetlights, only to plunge quickly back in to shadow. Upon an ancient Schwinn he glided, with a wake of fallen flora, a sputtering V trailing close behind the back tire. Though only visible for seconds before passing back into the nebulous night, he remained visible by a constant unfiltered addiction, which made him resemble qualities of a particular red-nosed Christmas tale character. A locomotive, he left wisps of contaminated toxic breath, dissipating rapidly by his side.
As I gazed apathetically at him from the headache-gray curb some thirty feet beyond, I became aware of the dangling headphones draped around his tree trunk neck, blasting the poetry of Radiohead. They jovially swung in their makeshift glory, broken and bound carelessly with a series of duct-tape mounds and slipknots. The brilliant handyman of this exceptional repair was unquestionably riding upon the bike; for his jeans seemed to be a concoction of denim and the spare scraps discarded from an elderly man’s dresser. His gaunt Goodwill knit sweater billowed three sizes too large in the brisk wind, and remained mostly trailing like a parachute behind him. And as Nick, my friend’s unkempt face drifted into the illumination of a streetlight, I became ever aware of his nicotine stained “sulfury” whites glistening at me. Observing the corn-like teeth protruding from his gums I gave a drowsy halfway grin in salutation of his approaching presence.
The usual exchange of endearing insults soon followed, with the typical, “Lazy bastard-this,” and the classic “God took a shit and there was you.” This of course was accompanied by the aggressive game of who can simultaneously break the other’s hand while shaking it like it’s engulfed in flames; your typical manly greetings of the casual nature. Releasing the limp pulp that was once our hands, we went about our way. Strolling the pavement, a footloose mosey, we meandered off in to the chasm of night.
Along the thick uninhabited pavement we found sanctuary in presence of the other’s company. The open ear of a confidant used as a landfill for the anxiety of the previous week bore as bone-warming reminder of what good can be found in elementary leisure. And amongst the solitude of the twilight ether, shared only by the blue boob-tube light of fellow insomniacs behind glass, and the blissful air illuminated by the gospel of streetlights dwelling in midnight serenity, we came upon a secular salvation. The fat chewing of days gone bye was romanticized by the divinity of the simple. We basked in the fact that in the night air everything exceeds its own existence. Beneath the sifting blue veil over the starry skies we drifted in to a world of visual poetry, and found awe in the optical lyrics of this suburban lullaby.