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Part Human, Part Fraction
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 13th, 2009|09:54 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Machinefabriek + Soccer Committee - For I Have None | ] |
just your little bones |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 8th, 2009|05:53 pm] |
The waning green the staining sheen the part of it left thoroughly. A breadcrumb trail between each veil of lava flowing evenly. By this logic, clipped nails of kings on scale with queens and tipped-hat greetings. Elevated meetings in scenery marked by
The blood in the shed, the shape of sin in canister.
A parade down the banister.
Where the rope makes a shadow, mistook for a gallows.
The waning steam and staining gleans the partly lit camaraderie, from the clenching of fists and the trailing-off wisps letting in the hum of electricity.
Turquoise Hexagon Sun |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 2nd, 2009|10:51 pm] |
Stark, all stark. A certain moment ebbs. The streets these days appear to be doused in sweat.
Fervent motions yielding yet more, a toiling expose. She lived it out. Her lips only parted for three things, and she was getting monetary replacement for one of them. Her shoulders, though uneven, gave off her untimely disposition.
Out there, in the back, where the whispers dare to linger, and where every stop is partly not and feathers filtered by fingers. Docile was her enumeration, her legs made of brittle chalk. A trail of blood, a streaming tear, yet she could hardly talk.
Yet she was thirty dollars richer. Enough to sustain. And, well, it's only April now, there's plenty of time left to reach fame. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 14th, 2009|06:20 am] |
I think we're all on the mend a bit. To circumvent, admitting wrongs in the air vents. To circumscribe, ascribing faults as holy advent. Advertise your faith in one another, slogan for your love, your lust a part of speech. Testament, a test to all the others while as yourself you could hardly scant or teach.
Take a week off, stressful calisthenics
Blood-let with the diabetics
Dehydrate with the diuretics
Graffiti your physical aesthetics
Point out all of your positive characteristics
Connect the points to determine animalistic
Nature of the purported levy and wealth whispered 'ception. Carrying a gun with you, loaded with exceptions. An obstacle course for muted biology. Lost amongst the math of refuted praise. What is life without the maze? Expulsion of deprivation, the only diet is starvation. Corporeal can't deny the real. The torpor feel can't fit inside and heal.
Denigrate and decadence, and hand grenade for your malcontent. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 9th, 2009|10:43 pm] |
A shared embankment. It's like this every time.
Looking down is an off-kilter motion. The head peels back from the spine, tilting downward and trying to tongue the edge carefully. There it is, the spitting image of infinite with bowing sides filtering and fanning upward. A treacherous upheaval begins cloying at the base, trickling down every portion; as this moment settles right into another one. Perplexing, but staving it off, wondering why there's needles and other dirty instruments strewn at his feet, Malik bends down and picks one of the knives up. He examines it for just a fleeting second when the force of the nearby abyss rumbles a sedimentary gurgle, billowing mantle until it bubbles about at some halfway point between bliss and pure absurdity. The knife jumbles loose from his clutches, tumbling into the fray.
It pours over the embankments, shrouding every inch in molten discomfort. His pace can't be quick enough, nothing to latch onto, no tree, no building, scant shrubbery. A land barely arable to begin with being smothered with gelatin heat, globbing and sludging through as though there weren't friction or attrition. Malik feels his weight begin to shift as he desperately and pointlessly attempts to outrun the avalanche.
Three weeks ago he had been locked up for a grievance he'd apparently committed under what he claimed was duress. She'd been asking for it in all actuality, and he made sure she received due diligence on behalf of his moral compass and ill composure. This place was nothing but cinder blocks and steel. For miles. You'd think by now the minerals would be endangered. Echoes barely lingered in there, and thoughts escaped through air ducts only to be forcibly thrown back in to serve the rest of their sentence. And there he sat, clothed in tattered mishaps and counting years with deep welts on his forearms he would fashion from a shard of glass and two minutes of alone time.
And she had had her way, some say
The ink blots past
At stoic glance
A harmless priority in a pitless minority
Sans any floor or the
Lights
Always with the lights.
It was kept at 15 degrees centigrade. Off-white life in an off-white environment. He'll breathe soon enough. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 17th, 2009|11:23 am] |
Adjacent
Let's take rides and share our basements
Peaceful lights and youthful haste
All up and down Financial Street
Where walls are just walls and there's cracks in our feet
Thinking too much, overthinking not enough
Drinking too little, underfed snuff, malnourished flourishing
Yellowed sky, and edges of paper
Bellowing lightly
Her slick black confusion fusing
Strikes me to the core, striking cords
To be but floor boards
It's all flowing in a tested pace
Our blankets double as bomb shelters, the clouds are animals
And the grass is just as we've left it, an army at war with the pavement
The ant hill is a landslide, a desert, an afterthought
Oversexed and underplexed
But it better never get too complex
Pirouettes and vignettes, from the grocery store with baguettes
Instant rice and the bowl is a trough
Bubble tea and Trix
Let's move back to the Midwest, get gainfully employed
And painfully deployed |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 14th, 2009|10:10 pm] |
Sparsely lit, literature stains and memory strains.
Cough pavement, parsley with apple cores on timbre plates with discourse. Pallagria, bare chested on the palladium, breaking dishes and the fourth wall. For this is nurtured, futured, peppered, and sent to package. Frail wristlocks and lively candle light, the grain creaked in the background. Spackle and trough fed, mortar and pestle bred --
This can't commute this isn't
I'm not, this won't.
This won't. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 27th, 2009|09:18 pm] |
It's all clean by vantage point, and earthly to the end. Corporeal is coping real and bi-visive? Inventive. Mark and underwater, inhaling pungent steam and reminding each other to swim in each other's honesty and earnestness. Is palpable still portable? Bond in fortune's name but strain on the third syllable, and if they say it's cyclical we'll ask them to pardon us being cynical. Inundate or inculcate, it permeates in primate, no matter pretense or climate. It still gets ground up in the end.
Azure complexion and holiday warmth wrapped in joy sores and mild constipation. But this is only natural. Hegemonic parse field, my sweltered epoch, my fourth attempt at maintaining. Remaining.
Spending the rest of the day interior decorating. |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 19th, 2009|11:03 pm] |
And I can smell the sulfur breathing amber seething further than in December. Reaching back, spire parted, skin aligned in resigned before the merriweather. Create discord in a church dress, redress and press the abscess, almost time for a recess.
Get this, she wasn't even fifteen yet. And her complexion advertised misconception.
And he was bodily illiterate.
Three weeks before she was found, in an envelope form. Slumping back into his wicker, hair slightly askew, beads of sweat forming upon the brow like dew on grass when no one ever really notices; it's just suddenly there.
Inverted byproduct thought, admonish all sequestered, leave an abode for the molestors. Pay rent and dine in algorithm, say your spent with plight and partly because of Al Gore's rhythm. Quote Bible verse and severed contacts, letters from all forgotten acquaintances. Amounting to a mounting trepidation of inadvertent insulation. Scopolamine wedding vows amalgamated with calamine settings, how --
How?
She wasn't even fifteen yet?
No, no she wasn't. But her complexion advertised misconception and her blood didn't seem to carry any directions. Her youth but a blunder and her ribs aren't any blunter than the hammer she mistakenly wrapped her mind around. Deciphering and proliferating all the worst things thought in all the worst ways imaginable. Every breath she sucked in was unbearable pseudosynthesis I'm afraid as she wilted in the same way a door does when slammed far too harshly.
I think she'll come to, just give her placebo love commitments, it seems to make her lips change colors like a mood ring. Her eyes roll around in acceptance. I think. I think? No, try not to. It's best not to. That's only the air pressure trickling down, resting firmly upon the shoulders.
He owns a Caprice and a penchant for forgetfulness. Wish them the best of times. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 27th, 2008|12:32 pm] |
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Due to predatory nature and hereditary (m)alignment, ensue clairvoyant stature and a resolute resign. By design the candle, all wick and partial pine, gives peel for mandatory loss of innocence and the warping of the finite, right there on slabs of graphite. Sheets of glass and carnate para-clysms, drinking the ale of ignorance and eating the vitamins of cynicism. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 16th, 2008|06:42 pm] |
Something has always tugged at me whenever I hear the adage “Guns don’t kill people; people kill people”. No doubt, this is the cat-cry of NRA members, people fearful to relinquish control of their weapons under circumstance of their grasp going cold and dead. What bothers me the most is the bit of logic I see behind it. I, myself, do not own a gun, though through my upbringing I know how to use and maintain them just fine. Also through my upbringing, I know enough to shoot only when you intend to kill something and to only intend to kill when it’s absolutely necessary – a concept that seems to escape a rather stupid bulk of the nation in which I reside. But is culture truly to blame? Or is it only natural to use a tool as you see fit?
As I have grown older and traveled, it has, to say the least, dawned upon me that man is at best an animal and at worst… an animal. It seems to me that, to speak of nature, one must understand the very nature behind consumption; absorption. The most natural cycle of things is an inescapable proclivity to preserving one’s life through processing the life of another. Bacteria at their most basic level will merge to create a larger mass, capable and willing to process lesser bacteria – gang violence at its best. A pride of lions will sleep about the warmth and tactile comfort of one another, purring as the great and noble beasts we suppose them to be, but were it not for the limb-from-limb rending of an antelope, they would not exist to be so revered. That very same antelope gnaws and rends the leaves of a nearby bush [before it is processed by lions, of course], “killing” whatever cells comprised its victim in something we so callously dismiss as mere herbivorous-ness. 200 million red blood cells live and die in your body each day only to be reborn again – do we mourn their passing? What separates one life from another? I’m simply not convinced that self-imagined rights of “morality” amongst human beings result in anything different: death, processing, reproductive refinery – this is what is true, this is what is evident.
We, as apes, scavenged for whatever protein-meal we could find, later figuring through might we could outsmart prey through group tactics and that with proper oral developments could better rend flesh, no longer having to gather berries or guano, or whatever the fuck we used to eat to survive. Nature gave us the tools and nature told us to use them – those who refused or simply could not correlate this died, their genes ended, their contribution forfeit. The absorption of other creatures gave rise to developments in cognitive abilities – groupings became clans, clans became societies, cities sprang up and then came American Idol. Did we go wrong somewhere? How did peace and tranquility become the new standard for civilized lifestyles when the very nature behind consumer culture is that of consumption? Our tools are our minds – our ability to recognize an efficient course of action and hone the very instincts we find both pleasure and dominance in; Sex for numbers; entertainment and fertility training as leisurely exercises in our propensity for sentience – among this, weaponry to control the wilderness outside of our territory.
Weapons – tools as means to an end – an extension of willpower, or something more? The same apes we suppose we once were use sticks to gather ants from the inside of a log; an otter bashes an urchin with a rock in order to reach that gooey, digestible inside – you get the point. Rules of conventional warfare indicate that your gun or your sword or your stick are merely extensions of your will: you wish to kill something, the tool is only of use so far as its ability to achieve the bidding of this will. In this sense, the will to murder is the only corrupt thing in this dynamic, the gun being an aid in an act that the individual could supposedly reach by other tools. But wait – is that really true? Entire orders of the ancient world were founded upon the mastery of weapons and the control of their use as a tool for organization and societal imposition – the might of this order lending itself to control and assimilation of mentalities counter to its tenets, in short: consumption all over again. Might, as nature would have it, made right, whether the weapon was a sword or sex or secrets or philosophy – the willpower is the same throughout all walks of life, the weapon lending itself as a tool for change.
But has anything really changed?
Guns are a breach in the physical dominion of nature’s right. They are more than extension of will as they represent even a threat counter to individual will – they are as flinching a device as the twitchy, childlike finger which grasps a trigger and points the barrel at somebody located hundreds of yards away. They require only minimal coordination and almost no expertise to end the life of another. Nature grants little might in their utility, nor does empathy lend itself to the control of such a machine, at least not at the moment it matters. They are a betrayal, if there ever was one, as they represent change without consumption, without derivation. In essence, guns are evolution because they represent a new dawn in the cognitive nature of mankind’s progressive will to cull himself on a massive and accelerated scale remiss of the physical capabilities that genetics hinge upon. And in the end, nothing is truly gained - merely tribal squabbling elevated to destructive proportions, an imperative only necessary as the invention, as it would be.
Am I saying that guns are evil in the traditional sense? No. Should they be taken away from everyone in an effort to regress humans back to some peaceful state? Hah. All I am saying is they are far more than tools to an end – they are irresponsibility incarnate. They are chaos at its most influential state, and their accelerated destructive capabilities in the hands of anyone who has a will to use them against another human being is fear enough to arm oneself the same, the cycle of bloodshed continued, our individuality giving rise merely to the boundaries by which our relative mortality and contribution can stand up to a hollow point. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 13th, 2008|10:51 pm] |
also, lol at the firefox for blacks.
http://www.blackbirdhome.com/index.html
Quote:
About Us
Blackbird was developed on the simple proposition that we, as the African American community, can make the Internet experience better for ourselves and, in doing so, make it better for everyone. Primarily we believe that the Blackbird application can make it easier to find African American related content on the Internet and to interact with other members of the African American community online by sharing stories, news, comments and videos via Blackbird.
In turn, we can provide you with up-to-date information about what's hot in our community as well as news and user recommendations related to all things African American. So, we encourage you to download and try Blackbird now that it's available! (Better than 9 out of 10 of the users that downloaded the alpha version the Blackbird Browser continued to use Blackbird as their main browser).
Blackbird is operated by 40A, Inc., a company founded by three African American entrepreneurs, Arnold Brown II, Frank Washington, and H. Edward Young, Jr.
For Press inquires please email info[at]blackbirdhome.com
For website feedback or to report a problem with the Blackbird Browser please email support[at]blackbirdhome.com
aheh aheh ahooo |
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| Hoi polloi and severeance |
[Dec. 13th, 2008|09:38 pm] |
Thoroughfare and thoroughly fair, a timepiece written, stricken, spoken, smitten.
Croaken?
Fuck, where are my mittens?
I almost hit a pony the other day. Shit was cash. I was driving back from work in the boonies of Georgia one some two-lane road. There's this Christmas tree shop kinda set back from the road and they had this pony there for pony rides. Mind you, the pony was also painted pink. Anyways, on this particular inconsequential afternoon, the pony had escaped. It darted into the middle of the road whilst I was aimlessly dawdling down in my Focus. I swerved out of the way (in retrospect a mistake because how epicwinface would it have been had I actually taken part in the sordid murder of a rosy pony) and came to rest on the side of the road opposite the tree shop. I spent a good twenty minutes stationary afterward simply laughing. Not merely at the fact of what had just taken place, but also at the sight of three stalwart, blue-collar individuals, clad in overalls and with a giant blue tarp chasing after a pink pony in the middle of the Georgia boonies.
There was a tacky church with a big ol' painted Jesus on it in the background too. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 8th, 2008|06:46 am] |
This country seems to be running under a two-party system any more. Any third party, no matter how "viable" they appear to be deemed, never seems to have a chance against the two major parties: Republican and Democrat. I'm beginning to think that this is because of the fact that the third parties have such strict constraints on being able to attend in the debates (along with funding of course for them to invest in advertising and other methods of vote-buying or coercion).
Seems like every year there are a substantial amount of people who complain that the candidate from either party doesn't suit their ideals so they vote for the lesser of two evils. This doesn't really seem to be a true democratic process any more. We essentially have one more option than the Soviets had. It's under this premise that I am becoming all for loosening constraints against third-party candidates for office. Sure, it would make the hour and a half presidential debates probably three hours. But it would give third parties a platform to spout their ideas and rhetoric to many people who have yet to really hear it or be engaged whatsoever with it.
Some people know of the option of third-parties and choose to say it's a waste to look into them, but there are others more vigilant who simply haven't been exposed to them or taken the time to elucidate themselves with their party platforms.
Just an idea, but we have to do something instead of being just a two party Republic. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 29th, 2008|09:49 am] |
One misconception that has been pushed this election (mainly by Democrats) is that the lack of regulation on Wall Street is the crux of the credit crisis. Point being, it couldn't be further from the truth. The sub-prime mortgage problem began in the late 90's when Bill Clinton and many Democrats of the time wanted to make it easier for people to get mortgages and own a home. The mortgage lenders didn't want to make these loans as they saw it as inherently dangerous. Looking at the loans now (no money down on a house and minuscule payments for the first four years with gargantuan ballooned payments afterward) one could easily determine why the mortgage lenders didn't want to give these loans out to people who were on food stamps and other forms of government welfare.
But the Federal government told the mortgage lenders that they MUST provide these people loans. There was not one iota of a thought from the mortgage lenders, initially, that this could turn out well, but the government forced their hands. So for the few years after, when George Bush had taken office, the government was able to say "home ownership is up again". Everyone dances around the maypole. Due to our short-term memory, when all of this came crumbling down, have we blamed Bill Clinton? Have we blamed the government intervention some ten years ago? No. We blame the C.E.O.'s and George Bush.
I will never absolve them from some of the blame, but the problem began 10 years ago, by Democrats. Government was the problem 10 years ago, but now we think government will fix the problem ten years later. How thick can we all be? |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 24th, 2008|06:50 pm] |
I'm getting a bit tired of political campaigns beleaguering us with this "middle class" tripe. I've always understood the American ideal was to want more. To want more than to be just "middle class", to want more than to be "just skating by". It was always more, more, more, and to be as successful as you can possibly be, bolstering the entrepreneurial spirit. Any more it seems as though being "middle class" is something to be completely satiated with and to not strive for more as it makes you "more fortunate". Tax the entrepreneurs, because "they can afford it". "They don't need that money". Who are you to decide what someone else "needs"? What in the gonorrhea fuck is that about? It's all about bringing up a festering proletariat. And it seems that the idea of middle class any more is people on welfare, food stamps, and in many other government programs. I was under the assumption that that was the lower class. I got the impression that the middle class was able to pay their own way through life, but they weren't exactly in mansions.
"Let's help the people that build our buildings and plow our fields!"
Why not help the people that actually create the fucking jobs? |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 16th, 2008|09:22 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | School of Seven Bells - Sempiternal-Amaranth | ] |
Due to my deservedly earned thrice-a-week structured meetings I am continuously confounded and awed by the feebleness of people. How emaciated they can make their self-will become. The fact that they must imagine a higher power to sublimate for their own lack of drive or ability to fix their mistakes. Predicating everything with either their imagined deity or personal addiction/"affliction", as though cowering in some fetal position towards their own control.
Conscientious bandages. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 6th, 2008|06:35 pm] |
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Let's lose our lives in a vacuum. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 5th, 2008|08:53 pm] |
Rubber circuits phalanx joints, assuage the grip at certain points. A sage he once was with feet of butter and deeds from others he made his own accolades. This was all due to some deep-seeded idea that he had a place, a need from the world to be something.
Can't displace it all at once
Can't deny it splendour
Since Sherry isn't living off of food or glass and ember
Sherry lives off syllables,
She lives off flavoured assonance
Sherry lives off barbed red wine
She lives off of all of us
She's not a parasite, she's not even a paradox
Sherry dies at 3:45 just like we told her to do
Can't rebuild it all for once
Can't redo its labour
Can't benchmark its earmarks
Can't retrace its paper
Dime a dozen bare back circus, set this kindle kinder catching bacteria in a butterfly net. Sort it out when needed. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 4th, 2008|04:38 pm] |
Better know a blister. Fake accounts to falsify birthright, the vows include assertions of "management material". Imperial flatware bundled with a Declaration of Subsistence. Elbow to the lower back is welfare assistance. Preclude resistance with sun-dried persistence. Make the recital a stage show on denial and be reminded of the place in line designed without prejudice. By Lynard and Bernstein, played in harmony with a Velvet Underground pledging group. Strumming in the background to actually make the background sink more into -- the background.
Imperial flatware, tuning spork in the salad. Vagrant vacuum palace; a buttress affair in the east ward. She's speaking Dutch into the cupboards and dancing with a crutch on the creaking floorboards. Wisps of cobwebs amidst her Jonathan Swift dialect.
Better know a whisper, complain of slight pollution. Aware that the result is merely half of the solution. Promise not to sell the entire infestation but only the expendable in an irreversible situation. Can't float upstream, drain the ocean. Make stars by shooting a rifle in the air.
On a tribune plantation making tribute salvation vicariously through scriptural menstruations. Vomit me the bottom seat and I'll convert it to a bottom rung; eventually there will be enough to create a ladder of partial betterment. Marshall cement.
A capricorn arrangement and acid porn derangement. Marry me. |
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