Hot Brand

I’ve been munching on worried ‘dream wisdom’, it’s been a hot hot summer waiting for that ‘kiss kiss’ of shaken death cool off cool down sack of accomplishment to burst open like looted necessities product of some heartless pillaging… though i know, much like the fab four on the yellow brick road, that sack of treasure, albeit enticing, contains no heart and soul, no mind (mine left hours ago). I decided when kiss kiss didn’t to instead seek a new voice of presentation, to serve as precedent to unaskedfor presence of presents, voluminously wicked (o sweet One), carry on gracefully, I don’t need that sack of shit, kiss kiss, don’t need your lengthy xplanations or xpositions, not in this time of garbo art or lonely copulation or traded wisdoms, not know way know how. Crappy investment, stinks of bile n piss, still hot as shit, still no kiss,- and o? it’s started to rain now. Still hot as a spring, as promised like an empty gesture. No use in this, baby glam. Clamor on.

The Backup Plan

Sifting through aftermath, many peoples gone and counting all the indecent propositions, cumming all the way through the rubber like a gruesome consensual murder. If you’re not floating you’re sinking in the sapphire lake and if you’re not burning you’re adding gas to the flame and if you’re not a rock you’re ground up into sand … How’s that for building things from the sky down, Icarus? And tell the midsommar poles they can burn or be locked up until next year. And don’t flatter me too much with those wings, Shirley - fluttering, mind melting, goes without saying that these days are not-hot iron-branded, stomped on by chicken feet …  Not resembling relentless decay feasting on mushrooms and dead relatives.

Giant penis in the sky, impregnate the bellies of the rich, the social workers, the police, and the immigrants. THAT would be a proper use of resources.

The Sting

We pissed in our own cups, and the no-badgers used our pen and paper to fabricate the verdict.

Yes, bohemians are hard to come by in these parts. Hopefully we don’t find ourselves in this mess again, but there’s no telling when I may stick a magnum in my mouth and pray to kingdum cum (hopefully he doesn’t have any diseases) (deceased desires, deceased emotions) (dead like a deceived time clock) (exit through the gift shop). Tell me boy, do I sound like a small boy in a big lake? [sic]


“And everyone knows that there isn’t any use thinking any other way.” -Death.


Sorry, Satan. Can’t be pandering your trite grasp anymore. It feels good, real good, but it’s getting old.

Where did the green old days of my yesteryouth go, when such irresponsibility could be pardoned.

Satan, you’ve been plaguing my ancestors for centuries. I’m starting to take this personally.

Recessive genes are flashing before my eyes like a dentist’s reflection as he’s brushing his teeth.

This isn’t my divine order. This isn’t my bread and butter. This isn’t J. Christ’s body and blood. What the fuck.

And this isn’t the second cumming, either. The real sicknesses of the universe are only pretending to strike now.

Imagining that beer and cigarettes are keeping me alive. Imagining that my legs feel like noodles. Imagining that the pain in my head is imaginary.

Star of the Forest

Integrating inner buddhist with outer chach there comes a time of grievance and o how it must have been so great potentially getting so much closer to the death suburb cafe they call hell but over there in Canada there isn’t much sympathy for outsiders and it’s always fun when you find yourself leading a conversation in the dirt with a fire blaring and when a tripping creature comes confessing over the smoke... Drenches all enthusiasm, eh? And when the next day comes eventually the day will diddle on like rapture at a hookah bar.


So there developed a 3rd stage in evolution and it was fantastic. It went like this:


“First trip. Whooa saw a snake and a squirrel altar swirly swirls.”


What a synopsis! Spells it out pretty thoroughly, eh? Wouldn’t you say?

I read this on a bathroom wall

Je suis fatigué. Je ne sens rien. Bientôt tout sera clair; j’écris ceci pour moi-même. Et quand choses changent je vais lire ceci et rire. Nous voulons du divertissement. Amusement. Je parle à la a troisième personne pour changer ma perspective. Nous voulons de l’argent. Il est temps de voler. Ç’est la vie. The cowboy. Tout le monde est le même. Comment savez-vous sur l’eau gelée si vous êtes du désert.

Stupid motherfucker.

Margin of Error

margin of error.jpg

Getting into it. Rushing into it. Arriving. Saving himself. He didn’t know quite exactly which day of the week it was. He didn’t need to. He just winged it. In old angel form. Having a drink at a bar. With a cigarette. That was his solace. He was gone from the last place. Looking back over his shoulder here and there. Slumped over a drink. With a cigarette. Time and time again, beer and beer again, he knew what he was doing and, His past was too-much illuminating him. His virtues morose. Driving slowly down a gravel road. Marveling over his potential. His possibilities. His disposition. And the clock read brazenly in bartime, 15 minutes in the future, 15 minutes past happy hour. The smoke sat in the middle of the room like a serpent in disguise. The old chaps on the other side of the bar slumped over too. Disposed, he felt. Deplorable, that too. Drunk, not so. That don’t happen, sugar. Gambling with himself, not familiar with any of his hands. Vulnerable to the inanimate threat of discontinuation. Mad at the world, mad at nobody. The shit, the flies, the culture, the atmosphere. Nobody wanted to talk to him. At least nobody that he wanted to talk to. Jesus on a pogo stick. Dying milkmen. Fierce invalids. Money for hardboiled eggs. Squatting in the back of a smoke shop, taking a knife hit. Tough decisions in delusional states of mind. Marketable research. Mountainous intercourse. Geriatric discourse. Proven dysfunction. Mysterious diseases. These are some of the things that were on his mind. And you can’t always bury the hatchet. Sometimes it simply stays at ease.

The Sea is an Algorithm

I’ve been rounding up the fallen bricks, taking them down, rather, from the wall of the alley on the side of my house. I’ve chalked tallies into the nose ends of the bricks - counting the amount of days I think I’ve suffered, the times I’ve bought cocaine for everybody at the bar, the possibilities I’ve mulled over, the first punches I’ve thrown, the total number of deities humans have chosen to worship since fire was first crafted, etc - and slipped them back into where they came from.

The Interval

Interchanges at everybody’s feet, watch gliding in migration, gilded movement, or the wet-lipped interpretive reed, signing off on winter sign in road. Took many a bloke hit observing it. And tranced by the horizon, blinded by the ground ‘neath feet. Flowered in shriveled defeat, writhing arousal from the naked brittle ass found on ground: your ass. And skid marks; can’t smell em but once you’ve been there you’ll always be there. Then again you can always be you with your morning coffee… Drank hot or steaming off the cold sidewalk next to sleepy tramp. And in which way can you be the eyes of the world. You can be a passionate man, speaking in pidgin warfare, ‘cause that’s what most folks do anyway, in the manner of “get off my lawn” or “why are you on my lawn”. Hear my body splashing around through time - “Maybe he’s drowning” or maybe just having a fun time. There is nothing attached. In the manner of the crowd, “The least mistaken woe is that of feigned happiness” and “with angular features one is in constant noir” and “fickle matters only make matters worse,” I said with a grin and reread the latest Peter Mantras. Now nobody will finally realize that it’s just me, and not only with feigned fickle features, I do maintain constant ease in this latest manufacture.



Sitting smoking tobacco and the clock ticks and I look out the window. There’s an umbrella-postured man waiting at the stoop that doesn’t feel right to me. I let it pass.
Sitting smoking tobacco and the clock ticks and I look out the window. The umbrella-postured man is gone. It looks like a very pleasant midnight evening. But I feel like disciplining myself for having not let the umbrella-postured man in earlier. So I stay in.
Sitting smoking tobacco and the clock ticks and I just sit there. I’m never looking out the window again.
That was 20 years ago.



I suffer obligatorily. I breathe because I was told to. I am Peter Pyramid because I chose to be. The greatest risks bear the greatest yield. I'm no malevolent man. I am part of the government. I rule just as many people of the government rule, through manipulation and demonstration and not getting caught. I need no guns, nor a constituency. Nor a fortified HQ. All I need is you.

I work for you. I suffer for you. And I want you to have me too.